Chapter 60
Protecting as many soldiers as possible, feeding them well, and achieving victory—these were the virtues and morals of a commander. That was what Pheon had been taught, and he strove to live by it.
“Bring arrows!”
“Don’t stop shooting!”
“Aaah! Gillun’s been hit!”
“You bastards, eat this!”
Even in this hell, he believed one could only call oneself human by upholding noble chivalry and morality without fail.
He had been called a lowly mongrel born of filth and degradation, yet he still struggled to act human. But how could a non-human pretend to be human?
“Your Highness, the left flank…!”
“There are four experienced commanders over there. I’ll trust them.”
Pheon had singled out those provincial nobles and shoved them straight into the most dangerous melee. Morality was irrelevant to him. Mercy was a dream he couldn’t even entertain.
Today, Pheon had waited for the battle to erupt and, the moment the spot for death unfolded, pushed those who belonged there right into it.
Legally, their crimes were ambiguous, and those provincial nobles held too much sway over the witnesses to be proven guilty.
Even if they were brought before a Kline court on charges of insulting royalty, they’d receive only a light punishment at most. That was how the world worked. If one wanted true justice, they had to deliver it with their own hands.
Pheon forgot nothing.
“Kraaaah!”
“Fire arrows! Burn the siege rams!”
No, in truth, he couldn’t forget even if he tried. Forgetting was impossible now.
The cacophony of noise flew straight into his ears, letting him grasp every event without reports. His swift commands had kept the Immigrant Alliance—who had come with full intent to overwhelm—from breaching even Pueten Fortress.
They wouldn’t break through Pueten, but they would inflict massive casualties before leaving.
It would take days just to recover the bodies from Pueten, and Lüsenford would plunge into mourning, paralyzed. Even an emperor’s investigator would have no choice but to scale back the inquiry.
And the ones who deserved to die would perish here. War, in a way, was a remarkably simple means of disposal.
“Ack! Help me!”
Screams rained down from all sides. But Pheon had to survive this place. Those dying today had committed exactly the sins warranting death today.
He was different. His sins weren’t for him to judge. So he had to live and return. He had to face the guilt he’d desperately ignored—the guilt he wanted to flee.
Did Kaella know? If she did, how much did she remember? If he apologized with all his heart, would she forgive him?
Was it a sin that could even be forgiven?
The lord of the north confronted the terror he’d buried amid the downpour on a battlefield where fire blazed, boiling oil poured, and humans fought most desperately for survival.
He’d barely reached her, only to be discarded this time for certain.
Just as he had wretchedly abandoned her when she couldn’t even reach him.
“Your Highness!”
Pheon paid no mind to arrows aimed at him or hooks clawing the walls. With ears and eyes wide open, he simply dodged shafts or batted them away with his sword.
The battle stirred no sense of peril in him anymore. Knight Wilberg rushed toward him in alarm, but Pheon deflected an arrow with his blade before the man could close in. Far off, an enemy commander lowered his bow, displeasure evident.
Pheon feared the tiny wife he’d left behind more than the black masses filling the field before Pueten Fortress.
And he was disgusted with himself for daring to fear her. Hadn’t he steeled himself for this from the moment he’d belittled her, ignored her, silenced her, left her gasping for breath?
He’d planned to sever ties with Kaella forever, to earn only her contempt.
Because the feelings he’d unwittingly harbored for her could never come to pass.
Don’t betray me, Pheon.
It would be immoral.
He’d abandoned human decency and even the chivalry he’d clung to, yet the consequences of his actions dogged him relentlessly, finally granting him a void as black as hell itself.
The surface of his cold, soaked armor began to freeze. It was cold. Bitterly so. But he had to endure it all and return.
Back in Lüsenford waited Beatrice, who knew not what she might do to Kaella. He’d assigned Renar to watch her, but it didn’t ease his mind. The thought of hurrying back to protect Kaella made Pheon smile bitterly.
The only one he could safeguard her from was himself—truly, he was the deadliest poison to her.
*
Lüsenford lay on the border, a place where battles erupted frequently. But frequency didn’t make it familiar or acceptable.
People died. Those who had lived shoulder-to-shoulder perished. Survival instincts born of terror drove the living, while the dead cast long shadows over the survivors’ lives.
The sobs of women who had lost husbands and sons echoed faintly from the corners, clinging to everyone’s backs like a shroud.
Kaella, like any Lüsenford resident, bore that weeping on her back as she hurriedly loaded oil barrels onto wagons, gripping her dress skirts. Brutal, endless days of horror dragged on for all.
“How dreadful.”
It truly was. Beatrice scowled at her persistent cough and yanked the ugly curtain aside as if to tear it down.
The wailing from below was annoying, and at night, the torches flickering by the windows and ceaseless clamor made sleep impossible. On top of that, her cold lingered.
Ah, of course, Beatrice knew Lüsenford was always like this. That was why she hated it. She was sick of slippery roads after a downpour, weary of the bone-deep chill.
Chilly weather! Back in Kline, spring had bloomed into early summer heat. Roses and peonies already peeked from streets, rich lilacs lured bees, and harbors brimmed with freshly imported tulips.
She’d forsaken tea parties, balls, and outdoor plays to rot here, accomplishing little. The emperor’s casual words as he’d dumped her here echoed in her ears.
Do your role properly. Isn’t fulfilling your duties the prerequisite to claiming rights?
Beatrice’s role couldn’t be fulfilled by her alone.
She chewed her lip, then cautiously locked the door. No one paid her any mind now, annoyingly enough, but from here on, she needed to be more careful.
Beatrice hadn’t brought half her luggage, but from what had arrived safely, she retrieved the hidden Cheongungdo. She placed water on a map charting all the stars and drew in the darkness.
Her only light was a single ember from the hearth. Thin white smoke danced delicately before vanishing into the gloom.
Beneath darkness, fire, water, and smoke, the Cheongungdo—hand-drawn by Beatrice herself, marked with tiny diamonds—began to shimmer.
“And blood.”
Human blood was easy to obtain anywhere. Unlike cheap fortune-tellers with their chicken blood, Beatrice used only the blood of gasping humans—higher beings. Red blood seeped into the water, spreading.
“Finally… something stolen.”
Or an object stained with sin would do. A knife or pin that had stabbed someone, a comb or handkerchief wet with tears, or a brooch slyly taken from a home after a night with a married man.
Beatrice acquired such items with ease.
She’d shame fresh young ladies from the provinces until they wept, then lend them her handkerchief “generously”; stab a ruthless moneylender with scissors; or spend the night with an infatuated wealthy noble and rummage his wife’s vanity for something appealing.
But stealing from women connected to Pheon was never easy. Even after tumbling with the emperor, she couldn’t pilfer a single pearl from the empress.
By the time Pheon married, the Duchess of Monde had barred her entry, preventing further access to him—and thus, anything of Kaella’s. Stolen items had to be admired briefly, used for divination, then disposed of cleanly.
For that reason, Beatrice pulled out the object she’d found rifling through the grand duke’s bedroom.
“How cute, the little thing you kept, Kaella.”
She’d taken the whole crystal vial of suspicious liquid.
What was this? She dripped a bit into the bowl of blood-mixed water. The Cheongungdo flashed, and strangely, the blood that hadn’t dispersed in the water floated in a circle—then blue flames erupted across the surface.
A smile finally curved Beatrice’s twisted lips for the first time.
“…Truly adorable?”
Predictably boring, Kaella de Shasser—she’d hollowed out a book’s inner pages to hide a vial of poison.
“Carrying something this vicious around… you’ve grown, haven’t you?”
At last. Finally, in Lüsenford, she’d uncovered a real secret. Beatrice, who could kill with even the smallest secret, peered into the basin where blue fire and red blood drifted.
What would appear? What future would unfold? Veins bulged in her whites, her pink irises roved the basin, straining to read anything.
At last, amid the fire, smoke, blood, and water, something distorted began to emerge.
*
Mystical power beyond human capability. People called it magic or sorcery.
Legends said mages were scholars too, creating magical tools so ordinary folk could use magic easily.
The wisest being—an ancient dragon still alive—had helped craft those tools, but no one believed such tales anymore. They only hated the dragon’s magic.
Humans kept seeking miracles, unleashing natural disasters, craving glimpses of the future. Thus, prophets and sorcerers endlessly appeared, with the wealthy and nobles as their patrons.
Despised as base, sorcerers still amassed fortunes. The emperor owning most legendary magical tools alone hinted at the demand.
Yet no true mage had ever properly wielded magic.
Since the dragon swore never to use magic against the empire—and that oath held with iron force—it proved magic’s terror. Even the dragon couldn’t break it.
If a mage as mighty as the dragon emerged, every nation would see them as both threat and opportunity.
“Aaah…!”
A sudden blaze swallowed even screams in its flames. Another drenched siege ram ignited.
Rain poured, air thick with moisture, yet the oil was so potent that every fire arrow sparked flames without fail. The fire swelled instantly, devouring people.
Day three of battle. Both sides suffered heavy losses, still deadlocked at Pueten Fortress. But as time passed, the side holding the fortress’s formidable advantage would prevail.
“Even the fires catch well. Truly fortunate that the duchess sent so much oil.”
Exhausted Knight Wilberg muttered while gulping water. Unseen by all, Pheon had flicked a finger just before the blaze—then smiled faintly.
“The duchess is doing her utmost as well.”
“Impressive. I thought she’d be shocked coming from peaceful south lands, but sending water too? Unexpected.”
Wagons shuttled ceaselessly between Lüsenford and Pueten. All feared ambushes, but Kaella bravely kept them coming.
She sent clean water to quench soldiers’ thirst, gathered arrows from each fortress, and shipped food, bandages—even doctors at times. Such solid rear support naturally boosted morale.
Moreover, Lüsenford’s losses were solely the provincial magnates Pheon had summoned and sacrificed one by one.
Though the pillars upholding Lüsenford fell, Pheon personally charged the crumbled left wall, forcing the Immigrant Alliance to retreat.
“At this rate, they’ll give up. If their spring musters couldn’t do more, honestly, even if Volga beheads Halfdan, I’d understand.”
Meaning he’d get their infighting too.
“You’ve a talent for turning personal hopes into plausible tales.”
“Not plausible?”
“It is. But Halfdan’s not one to lose his head easily.”
“Pity.”
If they tore each other apart and all collapsed, perfect. Even in this curse-worthy mess, Knight Wilberg admirably held his tongue.
They must be cursing too.
They’d come fully prepared to smash a twenty-eight-year-old newlywed grand duke lost in sweet dreams—only to find him refusing retreat from Lüsenford, sacrificing his native noble base like chaff at Pueten.
It differed utterly from Pheon’s usual tactics. He always minimized sacrifices, preserved commanders. Sometimes a weakness, but this battle saw him ruthlessly cold, utterly unlike himself.
“Even the Evil Dragon was easier to face.”
“Why?”
“Dragons always give up quickly.”
If he learned it was to spare the vanguard son, Wilberg would faint standing.
“Humans never give up.”
They wouldn’t turn back until they got what they wanted: food to survive a spring harsher than winter, land for seeds, ice-free ports. The more, the better.
“Then make them.”
We’re desperate too. Pheon’s fingers twitched. Flames burst from the siege ram he rode, devouring even Immigrant Alliance soldiers scrambling to save it.
Even Knight Wilberg startled, but given the oil dumped at the gate for three days, it wasn’t impossibly fierce.
“How? Only if they fracture internally.”
“Won’t they?”
Knight Wilberg stared at Pheon, murmuring idly amid blasts and screams, utterly baffled.
Two days later, the Immigrant Alliance disintegrated when Delgard rebelled and departed first.