Throne yanked the tarpaulin off the crate without a word.
Pale, ghostly hands writhed inside, thrashing against the forearm-thick steel bars. The metal groaned, bending under their fury. Arnor stumbled back, face pale, while the nearby soldiers shivered like leaves in a storm.
These Fingercreepers had gone feral since leaving the capital, attacking anything that moved. They were wilder now, more frenzied than they'd ever been in the city.
Arnor licked his lips, excitement flickering in his eyes. "You're going to toss these monsters into the Cuckoo camp?"
"Throw them first," Throne said, pulling something from his ring—a thin, golden veil that shimmered like liquid light.
"Then send me in too."
Arnor blinked, jaw dropping. "What? You want to be launched by the catapult?"
Throne draped the veil over himself. In an instant, his form shifted, compressing into a smooth, spherical stone projectile. "Exactly. This is called an aerial assault."
......
The battle raged on both sides. Stone projectiles and fire pots arced through the air, slamming into targets hundreds of meters away. Yet, the front lines remained stagnant.
Small boats pushed into the lake only to be smashed to splinters. Unless the Carians swam across, they weren't getting anywhere.
The Cuckoo Knights exchanged wary glances. Were the Carians trying to wear them down with long-range attacks? It was possible.
That damned Troll had tilted the exchange ratio in the enemy's favor. They could hold out for two days at most before needing reinforcements.
"Two days is enough," Matthews muttered, shaking his head.
He was about to order the left camp to evacuate, cautioning them to prepare for a night raid, when a shrill whistling cut through the air.
His head snapped up. A dozen black dots hurtled toward them.
"Scatter! Take cover!"
The men on the walls scrambled, diving for safety. Stone projectiles could crush flesh and bone in an instant, but some of the seasoned knights hesitated. Something felt off. This sound wasn't right.
Before they could raise the alarm, a series of dull thuds echoed across the camp.
Dark shadows soared over the lake and the wooden wall, landing dead center in the camp with bone-shaking force. Shallow craters formed where they hit. The iron cages twisted and deformed, and unease spread like a plague.
Then they saw it.
Th-this is…
The festering Fingercreepers crawled out.
They came in all shapes and sizes, but they weren't fragile like humans. None of them died from the violent impact. They shook themselves off, their pale, ghostly forms turning toward the stunned Cuckoos.
Time froze.
Then, in a burst of violent killing intent, the Fingercreepers lunged. Some leapt onto faces, crushing skulls. Others grabbed bodies, armor crumpling, flesh spraying.
Fear exploded through the camp like wildfire.
The Fingercreepers weren't efficient killers, but their methods were horrifying. Not everyone could stomach the sight. Screams and orders rang out, chaos consuming the camp.
The Cuckoo Knights who managed to keep their heads began slaughtering retreating soldiers while rallying forces to counterattack. Matthews even used magic to blast a Fingercreeper to death, proving the creatures weren't invincible.
The flesh-and-blood monsters weren't terrifying—just mad enough to throw everything into disarray.
In the panic, who would notice a stone ball that had been tossed in at the same time?
In a quiet corner of the camp, light and shadow shimmered.
Throne deactivated his mimicry veil and crouched in a shallow crater. He inhaled the fear-soaked air, a slow smile spreading across his face.
The scent was sweet, familiar—like the old man swinging from the gallows in the church village, like the young girl they'd humiliated in the town.
The arrogant Cuckoos were scrambling to survive, but their efforts were pitifully insufficient.
His gaze locked onto Matthews, frantically barking orders atop the wooden wall. Throne drew his blade with deliberate ease, its edge scraping the ground as he began to walk.
"The Grim Reaper has come to settle the score."
In The Lands Between, Throne's list of targets was short, but the Cuckoos had earned their place on it. Back then, he'd been weak, forced to rely on wits to reason with them. Now, he preferred to discuss life—and death—with his blade.
Unmasked, violent killing intent radiated from him.
Matthews's eyelid twitched. He spun around and froze.
A Carian Knight stood in the heart of his camp.
How? The confusion lasted only a moment. It didn't matter. The knight's blade glinted coldly, his intent unmistakable.
A handful of soldiers charged forward. Throne's blade flashed—swish, swish, swish—and they fell in pieces, armor cleaved like paper.
The blood-soaked knight advanced, his pace unhurried, deliberate. He wasn't just killing; he was making a statement. Run if you dare.
Some of Matthews's men had been sent to the left camp, others tangled with the Fingercreepers. The timing of this attack was no coincidence.
"You've come to assassinate me?!"
Throne didn't answer.
A dozen soldiers surged forward, led by a Cuckoo Knight. Throne bent down, grabbed a shield, his toes digging into the earth. His eyes burned gold.
"No. I've come to kill you openly."
Dragon-Crush Dash.
Bang—
A low, resonant sonic boom shook the camp. A pale shockwave erupted from its center.
The soldiers who'd tried to intercept him were hurled into the air like ragdolls. They crashed to the ground, blood spewing from their mouths, their spinning vision catching Throne trampling corpses as he charged forward.
Unstoppable.
Throne bulldozed through the defensive line, crushing enemies underfoot until several large shields rose to block his path.
Thud!!
He slammed into them head-on. The three Cuckoo Knights staggered back, their ankles sinking into the dirt. The force was staggering.
Horror twisted their faces. This man was stronger than any Carian Knight they'd faced before.
Before the second row of spears could thrust through the gaps, a young girl materialized gracefully behind them. Her short blade flashed, gray mist swirling as golden flames engulfed a dozen men.
As the screaming soldiers fled, she reached out, gripped the neck of the knight behind her, and twisted her waist. The heavily armored knight crumpled to the ground, creating an opening in the shield formation.
Throne slipped through, unleashed a Crystal Burst that riddled several knights with holes, and caught the greatsword spinning in the air.
He twisted his waist, turned, and hurled it.
Swish, swish, swish…
The greatsword swept through the air like a chainsaw, cutting several mages—just crawling out of their tents—in half.
Throne didn't spare a glance for the burning soldiers, bending his waist again, ready to dash.
"Cover my back."
"Okay."
Melina, who had been standing in front, nimbly darted behind him.
The sonic boom shattered the air. Her short hair whipped sideways in the sudden storm. A pale shockwave erupted as Throne surged forward in a straight line, leaving the volley of arrows trailing uselessly behind him.
He's coming.
Matthews gripped his scythe, every muscle trembling. How much time had passed? The man had already closed the gap from four or five hundred meters to less than two hundred.
"Stop him!"
The command was unnecessary. The knights stationed at the wooden wall surged forward. The first three were hurled into the air, blood spewing from their mouths before they hit the ground.
Spears thrust out in unison.
Crack, crack, crack.
The sound of hardwood snapping blended into a single, brutal note.
The knights' palms split open, blood dripping. Not a single spear remained steady. They looked up just as a shield spun through the air.
Thud!!
Throne's back-spin kick launched it like a massive projectile, scattering the group as they scrambled to evade. His left hand rose silently.
Dark Star Barrage.
The shield was followed by a storm of firepower. Limbs flew. Amid the chaos, Throne scanned the battlefield. Knights rushed to aid their comrades, but in their haste, they stumbled into the grasp of Fingercreepers.
Screams echoed as bodies were crushed into pulp. Soldiers pouring from the tents found themselves blocked by Melina.
The girl moved like a silent reaper, each swing of her short blade claiming another life.
"I told you," Throne said, his voice calm as he saw soldiers on the wall raising crossbows again. He kicked up a round shield with his toes, bending his waist for the third time. "You can't stop me."
"Damn it, stop him!!"
Matthews's voice cracked with hysteria. If he'd been calm the first time and shocked the second, now he was unraveling. He watched his subordinates crushed like ants. Corpses littered the ground, yet nothing slowed the enemy's advance.
A barrage of Cuckoo glintstones flew, paired with crossbow fire, sealing off Throne's path completely.
And then—
He charged straight into the storm of projectiles, his body dissipating into starlight.
Who said I only know how to dash?
The Cuckoo Soldiers froze, stunned. Their enemy, a brute force incarnate, had suddenly shifted to finesse.
Someone with sharp eyes spotted a figure on the nearby watchtower. One hundred and twenty meters away.
Throne raised his left hand, lifting Moonveil.
Magic sigils flickered and vanished. Spells alternated between his left and right hands, raining destruction down on the Cuckoos.
Cannon of Haima!
The arc of magic projectiles exploded with a deafening roar, cracking a gap in the wooden wall. Before anyone could react, another wave of magic blanketed the area.
Matthews watched his men torn apart, veins bulging on his forehead.
Is this torture?
"Magic defense! Crossbow suppression! Forget the damn Fingercreepers!"
Academy mages began casting protective spells for the Cuckoo Knights, while crossbows resumed firing.
Unfortunately, the Fingercreepers were too frenzied. The two or three hundred soldiers couldn't break free.
Throne retreated into the watchtower, arrows thudding against the wooden boards. Expressionless, he pulled out a flask of crimson tears and drank.
The sky darkened abruptly.
The Glintstone Dragon Smarag spread its wings against the sky, blotting out the sun as it dove. Reinforcements poured in from both camps, a tide of steel meant to drown him through sheer numbers.
Throne vanished from the watchtower an instant before Smarag's breath reduced it to smoldering rubble.
Chaos ruled the battlefield. Throne moved like a ghost between the screams and clashing steel. Smarag's talons scraped empty air where Melina had stood moments before.
Then Adula's roar shook the lake as the Carian forces surged forward.
"Advance." Bolls's voice rumbled like distant thunder as he waded into the shallows, water sloshing around his armored thighs. His greatsword carved a path through the retreating Cuckoos. "Kill!"
Allen and Moongrum struck like twin lightning bolts from the flanks. Their elite soldiers followed, crashing into the disorganized Cuckoos with brutal efficiency.
The power of heroes made them unstoppable—each swing of their weapons sent bodies flying.
Matthews watched from the command post, his stomach turning to lead.
Carian Knights cut through the leaderless Cuckoos like scythes through wheat. Without formation, without discipline, the mercenaries broke. This close-quarters slaughter favored individual skill, and the Cuckoos had none to match the knights who should have been holding the reserve line.
The main camp had become a charnel house. Cuckoo Knights fought in isolated pockets while the two dragons thrashed in the shallows, sending geysers of water skyward.
Matthews knew he should be leading the counterattack—only he stood a chance against a Carian Knight in single combat.
But he couldn't move. That killing intent pressed against his spine like a blade's edge.
His head snapped around just in time to see a sword materialize above his bodyguard. The azure blade sheared through plate armor like parchment, bisecting the knight in a spray of viscera.
"He's here!"
The surviving guards scattered like roaches from sudden light.
A blood-slicked figure emerged from the carnage. "Nice to meet you, Commander Matthews." Throne's smile didn't reach his eyes as he let the illusion fade. "Now, let's settle the score."
Purple energy pulsed outward, lifting every discarded weapon within twenty paces. Swords and spears quivered like compass needles pointing at doom.
The Cuckoos charged.
Metal screamed as the floating arsenal launched itself.
Clang—clang—clang—
Sparks erupted in a continuous fusillade. The attackers stumbled back under the hail of steel, their heavy armor the only thing keeping them alive. Matthews found himself backed against the palisade, his elite guards forming a shrinking circle around him.
Throne sprinted along the wall's length, greatsword in one hand, scythe in the other. Dozens of Cuckoos converged from both sides, spears leveled for a killing thrust.
He inhaled sharply and raised his boot.
"Futile struggle!"
With one stomp, the sturdy wooden wall shattered instantly. Splinters became shrapnel, punching through armor and flesh alike. The Cuckoos collapsed like puppets with severed strings.
Matthews's mouth went dry.
What kind of monster had Liurnia unleashed?