"By the projections of the Arkflame High Command... those hundreds of Crawlers, wedded to their million-strong undeads, possess an aggregate lethality that eclipses the hundred thousand Raffblooms you have just purged," Mordant stated, his voice hushed yet penetrating.
His expression was pained, as if every word regarding the reality of the front line was a bitter draught he was forced to swallow.
The assembly drew a collective, icy breath, plunging the hall into a momentary, shivering silence. Then, the outcry erupted with renewed violence.
"More dangerous than a hundred thousand Raffblooms combined?!!"
"This is madness!!"
"You are sending us to the slaughterhouse—plain and simple!"
"If a hundred thousand Ragguard soldiers are in retreat, what in the name of hell are nine hundred of us supposed to do against that swarm?!!"
Captain Mordant raised a clenched fist above his shoulder, a military signal to quell the rising tide of terror. The voices died down once more, stifled by the grim authority of his gesture.
"The Ragguard garrison is currently prioritising the evacuation of innocent civilians and merchant caravans from the fortress and the surrounding combat sectors. The Northwest frontier has officially transitioned into an active war zone—but a vast number of non-combatants remain trapped within Ragguard, their escape routes choked," Mordant explained, his voice low and heavy with the burden of command.
He fixed each soul with a piercing, unwavering stare—a desperate communion that bordered on a plea.
"It falls to you, every one of you, to execute the second phase of this Bloody Hunting. Your objective is the total eradication of the demonic swarm and the absolute protection of every civilian, ensuring their safe passage from the combat sector!" Mordant declared, his voice heavy with the gravity of the mandate.
The moment the mission's true purpose was laid bare, the hall fractured. Chaos, no longer a simmering undercurrent, erupted into a violent conflagration of resentment. The collective fury of the survivors detonated.
"I will not go! Not for all the gold in Arkflame!"
"Let the Arkflame punish us as they see fit—I care not!"
"I did not crawl out of the Darkwood just to be butchered by Crawlers!"
A frantic wave of contenders bellowed their desertion, turning their backs on the dais. A desperate few lunged toward the heavy bulkhead doors, intent on clawing their way out of this flying cage. Yet, their path was barred. A hundred Bloody Hunting wardens snapped into formation, their mageia spears levelled in a bristling, lethal thicket that forced the crowd back into the hall.
The air grew stagnant, frozen in a volatile standoff. The cumulative trauma of the past month—the sleepless vigils against the Raffbloom stalkers and the constant, gnawing dread—had finally breached their mental ramparts. Their resolve was not merely frayed; it was atomised.
Exhaustion hung over them like a shroud; some teetered on the verge of collapse even as they stood, their eyes glazed and hollow. They possessed no further reserves of strength, no embers of martial spirit to cast into another furnace of war. In this heartbeat, they were a powder keg of repressed rage, waiting for a single spark.
The wardens flanking the threshold, staring into the bloodshot eyes of a thousand elite killers, felt a primal tremor rattle their very marrow. A single high-ranking warrior could dismantle ten standard Arkflame soldiers with a flick of a finger; levelling spears against them was akin to prodding a pack of rabid wolves. Several demon hunters slowly unsheathed their mageia steel, the rasp of blades echoing through the hall. The situation teetered on a precipice from which there was no retreat.
Captain Mordant did not bellow. He showed no flicker of rage as he watched the contenders prepare to slaughter his guards. Instead, he spoke with a cadence so frigid it seemed to frost the air.
"Do not presume to forget! Every soul among you... has bound themselves to the Blood Covenant. That pact is anchored in supreme martial law and ancient mageia."
He tapped a singular, rhythmic beat upon the dais.
[Clack!]
A grand projection of the Blood Covenant, bearing the jagged signatures of every hunter, manifested in the centre of the hall, its mageia glyphs pulsing with a rhythmic, incriminating light.
"Any who repudiate the Bloody Hunting will be prosecuted as deserters of the Great Demon War. Your kin and all associated houses will forfeit every right and title within the realm. Furthermore, your entire lineage face the full weight of Arkflame's judiciary!" Mordant declared, each word a searing lash.
The laws governing demonic warfare across the human kingdoms were absolute and merciless. If they permitted terror to govern the blade—if every soldier were allowed to retreat from the slaughter at a whim—every fortress and township would crumble into ash in a heartbeat.
Without the iron grip of the law to anchor those who stood against the Demon Legion, the realm would fracture. No man stands at the vanguard without trepidation; yet without the mandate, there is only the collapse of civilisation.
The Great Hall plummeted into a silence as absolute as a traitor's grave. Those who had been mid-stride toward the exit froze, their boots hovering over the floor. The weight of the crown and the gallows now sat heavier upon their shoulders than the fear of the Crawlers.
"I do not speak to intimidate... I speak because this is the unvarnished truth. I know you are terrified—for I am consumed by a profound terror myself!" Mordant confessed, his voice fraying with raw emotion.
With a sharp flick of his fingers, the observation crystal flared. The cartographic projection surged, magnifying the desolate expanse of the ancient battlefields.
"The second phase of the Bloody Hunting..." Mordant proceeded, ignoring the volatile tension simmering in the air. "Your mandate is the absolute extermination of all five hundred Crawlers. Should the undead legion or other demonic reinforcements bolster their ranks, you are to engage and hold the line. You must buy enough time for the surrounding garrisons to mobilise support before Ragguard is breached!"
He paused, his next words the most sincere he had uttered since stepping onto the dais.
"Those who survive... I count as paragons of valour."
"Those who fall... I count as having settled their debt to Arkflame."
There were no gilded lies.
No hollow comforts for fragile souls.
Only the brutal, jagged reality of the front.
Dant scanned the hall one last time, his gaze harbouring a desperate flicker of hope.
"Prepare yourselves within the next twelve hours. The airship charts a direct course for the Northwest Fortress immediately. A new theatre of war awaits you," Mordant stated flatly, turning to depart.
As he strode past the line of Bloody Hunting wardens toward the threshold—
"WAIT!" Seraph's voice rang out.
Dant's boots caught against the floor, frozen at the threshold.
The young magis did not shout with the volume of the Captain Mordant, yet within the sepulchral silence of the hall, his words possessed a weight that dragged every eye back toward the shadows.
Aboard this airship, Mordant held an authority that was, in any legal sense, absolute. Yet, the survivors knew that the true pinnacle of power—a strength so formidable that even Captain Mordant bowed his head in deference—was the magis, Seraph.
If there remained a singular soul capable of uttering a word that could shatter the resolve of the Bloody Hunting's commander, it was the young magis from the Sanctus.