Velin's tactic was, at its core, simple and brutal: use the Magical Beast's own greatest weapon against it.
'Your bite is powerful, isn't it? Good. Then help me drive this arrow in deeper.'
"Brothers, hold the line!" a Mercenary roared, a dozen militiamen behind him straining on the same rope.
On the other end of the rope, a Gray Swamp Giant Crocodile thrashed in a frenzy. The barbed crossbow bolt was lodged deep in its lower jaw; each time the beast snapped its mouth shut, each time it tore at the line, the wound gaped wider.
It was like a great fish speared by a harpoon, rolling and thrashing in the mud to no avail as blood and saliva streamed from the corners of its mouth.
A fierce light ignited in Barrett's single eye. He felt like he was back on the fever-pitched battlefields of the Empire's frontier.
"Brilliant! Everyone, watch and learn! This is how it's done!" He pumped his arm, his roar drowning out the Magical Beast's own shrieks. "Don't you dare save your fucking bolts! I want every last one of these long-snouted bastards hanging from the walls!"
Velin's strategy had completely turned the tide of what had been a purely defensive battle.
It was a shot in the arm for the Mercenaries and militiamen. Their movements grew sharp and efficient. They no longer wasted shots on the crocodiles' flanks, but waited patiently for the right moment—the instant one of the monsters opened its maw, exposing a vulnerability.
SWOOSH! SWOOSH! SWOOSH!
Volley after volley of roped crossbow bolts whistled out.
A sound defensive strategy required no favor from Lady Luck. Once the attempts reached a certain threshold, what was once chance became an inevitability.
Before long, two more crossbow bolts found their marks inside the jaws of the giant crocodiles.
The hooked crocodiles became living targets. The more they struggled, the tighter the ropes connected to the parapets pulled, and the more gruesomely their wounds tore open.
In agony, one giant crocodile tried to paw at the bolt in its mouth, only to be struck by a companion's death roll. The two behemoths became a tangled, bloody, chaotic mess.
The pressure on the walls lessened in an instant.
The remaining giant crocodiles finally sensed something was wrong. They slowed their assault on the walls, a trace of fear showing in their vertical, amber pupils.
The pressure emanating from this wall of vines was nearly as intense as whatever had driven them out of the Gray Swamp in the first place.
"Now!" Velin's voice rang out. "Second group, rotate! Fire at will! Turn them into pincushions!"
The order was given, and in that moment, all their long-suppressed fury transformed into a vengeful rain of bolts.
HUMMM—
The ceaseless thrum of crossbow strings blended into a symphony of death. Having lost their momentum, the Gray Swamp Giant Crocodiles were now nothing more than stationary targets at the foot of the wall.
Thanks to the bastion's angular design, armor-piercing bolts assailed them from all sides. While most still glanced off their thick hides and Scale Armor with sharp CLINKs and CLANGs...
...there were always a few that managed to find an eye socket, a joint, or a pre-existing wound from their earlier charges against the wall.
ROAR—!
Agonized roars echoed one after another.
The tide of battle had reversed; the defense had become a one-sided slaughter.
Finally, the instinct for survival overwhelmed their hunger.
The lead crocodile let out an indignant roar. It took one last look at the impregnable wall, at the companions hung from it who were gradually ceasing their struggles, and was the first to turn, dragging its battered body back into the turbid floodwaters.
Once their leader retreated, the morale of the "pack" instantly collapsed. The remaining crocodiles turned and fled as if granted a general amnesty.
Two crocodiles that still had some strength left recklessly ripped the bolts free and scrambled to escape the killing field.
Within a matter of seconds, the clamorous battlefield fell once more into a deathly silence.
Only the first crocodile remained, dangling from the wall by the ropes, its body swinging limply like the trophy of some master angler.
At some point, the downpour had stopped.
Atop the wall, as the adrenaline slowly faded, everyone collapsed to the ground, drained of all strength, gasping for air.
The mixture of mud, sweat, and the stench of blood—an odor that would normally be sickening—was now incredibly reassuring.
They stared blankly beyond the wall, watching the receding flood and the distant crocodiles. Then they turned to look back at the vine rampart, completely unscathed. The dazed look of survivors slowly morphed into disbelief, then shock, and finally, into feverish adoration.
As one, their gazes converged on the young Knight who had remained perfectly calm from start to finish.
An uncontrollable, deafening cheer erupted from everyone!
「Night fell.」
Flames licked at the skinned hind leg of a giant crocodile. Fat dripped onto the red-hot logs, making a SIZZLING sound.
The Maillard reaction produced an irresistible aroma from the crocodile leg, chasing away the damp chill and metallic scent of the swamp.
A massive bonfire blazed in the camp's central clearing.
Pioneers and villagers, two groups that had been hostile to one another just a short while ago, now sat shoulder-to-shoulder around it. One pioneer laughed heartily, sharing his mug of ale with a Gray Mist Village villager beside him.
The villager, in turn, speared a piece of golden-brown roasted crocodile meat with a wooden skewer and offered it back.
One boisterous Mercenary even broke into a crude war dance, earning rousing cheers.
In a quiet corner, Xiaolan was dressing the wound of a villager who'd scraped his arm carrying crossbow bolts.
She was as timid as ever, but her hands were incredibly deft as she bandaged the wound. The firelight danced in her long, flaxen hair, casting a soft halo around her.
The injured villager had long since forgotten his pain. He stared, entranced, at the lovely Angel glowing before him, his mind racing.
'I wonder if there'll be more bolts to carry tomorrow.'
Once the bandage was tied, she hurried off to the wall to bring food to the soldiers standing the night watch.
Velin did not join the celebration. Holding a mug of ale the villagers had presented to him, he stood quietly in the shadows, observing the joyful scene.
He didn't feel much joy, but rather the satisfaction of seeing a theory perfectly validated.
Just then, a stumbling figure made its way through the celebrating crowd and stopped before him.
It was Old Walker.
Emotions churned in the old man's murky eyes. His lips trembled, but in the end, all his words dissolved into a single action.
He held his wooden staff in both hands, and his knees gave way as he prepared to kneel.
But Velin reached out a hand and stopped him.
Old Walker looked up, stunned, and met a pair of eyes that were almost cold.
"Old Walker," Velin's voice cut through the crackle of the bonfire. "Stop this useless display. Your repentance is worthless—to me, and to everyone else."
His cold words silenced the area in an instant. All eyes turned toward them.
"You guarded that worthless, poisoned well and that ridiculous 'Spirit of the Swamp,' and you nearly got everyone killed. That is a fact." Velin's words pierced the old man's heart like a dagger.
"However," he continued, his tone shifting, "at the most critical moment, you didn't lead the charge to flee and wail. You shouted down the cowards and held the line. That is also a fact."
He released his grip, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the villagers.
"I don't need your tears or your kneeling. I need ears that listen, hands that work, and the courage to hold your weapons tight when the next crisis comes, not drop them and run. Can you do that, Walker?"
Old Walker understood. This lord didn't want cheap loyalty. He demanded obedience and utility.
He straightened his stooped back with a jolt and roared with all his might, "I can, my Lord!"
Old Walker's answer spoke for them all.
One by one, the villagers of Gray Mist Village rose to their feet, then silently knelt.
Then a second, and a third… Soon, all the original inhabitants of the village were kneeling, prostrating themselves before the savior who had pulled them back from the jaws of death time and again.
The pioneers exchanged glances, then stood ramrod straight in unison. Placing their right hands over their left breasts, they bowed deeply to Velin—the most sincere gesture of respect from a follower to their guide.
CLANG! With a single, muffled report, Barrett and his band of unruly Mercenaries showed their respect in their own fashion. They dropped to one knee, clenched their right fists, and slammed them against their breastplates.
Three different gestures from three different groups, all directed at one man.
Velin motioned for them to rise, then raised his mug.
"To a new beginning!"
After a brief silence, a thunderous, tsunami-like response roared back.
"To a new beginning! To our Lord!"