Chapter 160

“You won’t be the one pulling the savages’ heads off yourself, Marquis,” Rezette said coolly.

Marquis Titas narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Rezette didn’t look up from the map. “Taro, Quinoa, Urs, Sapa, and North. Five cities in the Ugel Wastes. Pick one.”

Titas stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you serious?” he asked, voice dripping with disbelief.

Rezette’s expression didn’t change. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

After a beat, Titas muttered, “Fine. I’ll take Quinoa.”

A wise choice. Quinoa was rich in untapped underground minerals—second only to the capital in wealth within the Ugel Kingdom. The other four cities weren’t insignificant either, each a strategic hub in its own region.

Rezette gave a curt nod. “Take it, then.”

“I said I’ll ta—wait, what?” Titas’s voice hitched as he realized Rezette was already planting a small flag over Quinoa on the map.

Without waiting for further questions, Rezette picked up another flag and swept his cold gaze across the room.

“Next?” he asked.

There was a tense silence, then—

“Th-then the Tertan Kingdom will take Urs,” one of the commanders offered hesitantly.

“We’ll take Sapa,” said another.

“Nihil Kingdom here. We’ll take Taro,” a third added quickly.

One by one, the remaining knights followed suit. Soon, five flags marked five cities.

“We’ll capture the five cities over the course of twenty days,” Rezette said evenly, “taking one every four days.”

He said it the way someone might list errands for the week.

“You’ll each garrison your assigned city and remain stationed there for two months,” he continued. “We’ll clean up beforehand, so feel free to mine, dig up ruins, or ship whatever spoils you like back home.”

The room went still. Titas blinked, his jaw slack. Around him, the other commanders looked equally stunned.

“You mean…” Titas began slowly, “you’re giving us entire cities?”

Rezette didn’t blink. “There’s no need for you to fight. Your pitiful armies would only get in the way.”

“Pitiful?” Titas repeated, his voice rising in outrage.

Rezette ignored the tone. “More importantly, if you get caught in my crossfire, I won’t be able to save you. Best to stay out of the way while I sweep through the cities.”

There it was. Brutal, direct, and impossible to argue with.

The insult stung—but the message was clear: I’ll win the cities. All you have to do is show up and look important.

Rezette added, almost as an afterthought, “Just one condition: no word must spread to the other cities that the allied army has broken its pact and seized Ugel’s lands. I don’t take kindly to knives at my back.”

His warning was quiet, but it landed like a blade across the table.

Ugel, after all, was a kingdom forged by the union of nomadic tribes—people who had wandered the vast deserts and plains for generations. Despite its expansive territory, the kingdom suffered from a chronic lack of intercity connectivity due to its scattered population and harsh terrain.

Even so, if word spread that their supposed allies had betrayed them, the Ugel tribes wouldn’t take it lying down. They’d rally. That’s why the first step—the next two months of garrison duty—was critical. The allied forces would need to completely seal off each of the five cities and contain the unrest.

“And after the two months?” asked one of the commanders cautiously.

Rezette didn’t blink. “After we finish sweeping away the Ugel army in the south, we’ll send word. Follow the orders when they arrive.”

Marquis Titas frowned. “What kind of orders? Explain the operation in more detail.”

Rezette’s eyes didn’t even lift. “It’s not complicated.”

With that, he picked up the command baton—recently passed to him from Ruben—and jabbed a point on the map.

Marquis Titas leaned in to see where the baton had landed. His breath caught in his throat. “The capital…?”

Looking again, he realized something worse.

The five cities that each allied kingdom had chosen—Quinoa, Taro, Urs, Sapa, and North—were arranged in a crescent. A curve that surrounded the heart of Ugel: Regal, the capital.

A chill swept across the table. No one spoke, but the realization rippled from man to man like a silent wave of dread.

Rezette, still impassive, moved the baton again.

“Once the five cities are secured, the rest of the allied forces, led by the Rotiara army, will head straight for Regal,” he said.

He guided the flags of Rotiara and the remaining reinforcements southwest toward the capital. Then, without ceremony, he struck down the black flag of Ugel standing before Regal.

“Once we take care of this place,” he added flatly.

His tone never shifted. No passion, no fury. Only certainty.

Then he moved the flags again—back north this time—forming a vast crescent that enclosed another point.

The table seemed to freeze. No one dared breathe as they stared at the silent formation taking shape on the map. Rezette didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to.

One by one, he tapped the flags forward. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Each fell into position with deliberate precision.

At last, all nine flags stood at a single location.

Pahan.

The heart of Ugel. Its weakest point. And the place where the faceless barbarian king was said to be hidden.

“…So what you mean is…” Marquis Titas murmured, his voice trailing off as if he couldn’t quite believe the words forming in his mouth. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “You intend to completely… wipe Ugel off the map of Grandel, Your Grace?”

The Grand Duke gave a slow, deliberate nod. “There is a way to dismantle them methodically—from top to bottom, one city at a time,” he said, his tone flat with disinterest. “But I don’t quite have the patience for that.”

His gaze drifted across the map spread before them, eventually settling on the Kingdom of Regal. A flicker of savagery flashed in his usually impassive eyes. The faintest tension tightened his lips, as if restraining something darker beneath the surface.

He muttered, dry and disdainful, “There are far too many buzzing around my wife. I need to be in Regal within three weeks—at the latest.”

A heavy silence descended upon the war council.

Everyone seated around the table had heard the rumors—whispers that had started in Norella, snaked their way through the Tentaluna Peninsula, and now echoed back northward. Speculation surrounded the Arganian princess… and the child she carried. Was it the blood of a dragon that ran in its veins? 

The Grand Duke scoffed, sharp and derisive. The sound sliced through the silence like a blade. A chill swept the room, crawling up the spines of even the most hardened commanders.

“And now…” he said, voice low and calm, though no less terrifying for it, “does anyone else have anything to say?”

No one spoke. No one dared.

With a glance colder than steel, he swept his eyes around the round table—daring anyone to challenge him.

“You march for three weeks,” he continued, “and in return, you earn three months of peace and abundance. Fair compensation for a hard campaign, wouldn’t you agree?”

The unspoken threat in his gaze was unmistakable: dissent, no matter how mild, would be punished without hesitation.

***

Later.

Once the war council had dispersed, Rezette stepped out of the command tent without a backward glance. His armor—worn for the first time in weeks—groaned and clanked with a weighty resonance at every stride. The cold metal gleamed under the overcast sky, a quiet warning to anyone who might cross his path.

With a flick of his gloved fingers, he summoned his black warhorse from where it had been resting beyond the outer camp. The steed answered immediately, cantering toward him with a rumble of hooves.

Ruben and Isaac were quick to catch up behind him, boots crunching on frostbitten earth.

“Will you head to Quinoa first, Your Grace?” Ruben asked, his breath fogging in the winter air. “Should we form a separate raiding party?”

Rezette didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained forward, unblinking. He had never had much tolerance for large armies—too slow, too noisy, too clumsy. He preferred precision and silence. Strikes that left no time for retaliation. Small, mobile units designed for swift raids and psychological warfare.

It was the reason the elite soldiers of Rotiara had been trained for guerrilla combat.

After a moment, he responded curtly. “No need. Just ten for the strike force. That’s all.”

“Ten, for the strike—sir?” Isaac echoed in disbelief. “You mean the purge unit?”

The term hung heavy in the air.

In Rotiara, knights were routinely dispatched for monster hunts every quarter. Officially, the purpose was pest control. In truth, those hunts served a darker function: they were meant to help their lord keep his condition in check.

Ruben’s expression shifted as realization dawned. “Ah… It’s that time again, isn’t it?”

The last purge had been in late September. Now it was January. The coldest month. The cruelest. And the beginning of the season when Rezette’s madness began to take root in earnest.

This time, there would be no monsters. Only human prey—barbarian warbands scattered near Quinoa.

No medicine to dull the sensory chaos. No woman to ground the storm inside him.

Just days of violent tremors and blood-soaked clarity. The frenzy would claim him, as it always did—until his body gave out or his mind clawed its way back to lucidity.

And yet, in his own brutal way, he welcomed it.

Before setting foot in the southern front, he needed to burn the wildness out of himself. He needed to blunt the knife-edge of his nerves and reset his balance.

Ever since he had sent Elise away with his own hands, the taste of regret had lingered—sharp and endless.

Would she have arrived in Regal by now?

What is she doing there? Is she safe?

Her belly must be quite round… Is she struggling to bear the weight alone?

And that cursed little dragon…

Is it still stuck to her like gum on her heel?

Longing and resentment coiled and snapped in his chest, one devouring the other in a relentless cycle. It would only be a matter of time before these fragile, flickering thoughts gave way to the fury of madness.

And if he failed to contain it—

If he lost control again—

If he repeated that sin in her presence—

Grinding his teeth, Rezette swung onto his horse in one smooth motion and dug in his heels.

“Keep your distance,” he ordered coldly. “I don’t have the luxury to look after you right now.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” came the simultaneous reply from both men, their tones measured and obedient.

They fell back, giving him space.

Only once their lord had become a shrinking figure ahead of them did they pull their reins and speak— bantering about how he had barely lasted a month before falling apart, and what kind of fool’s confidence led him to send her away in the first place.

***

Time flew like an arrow loosed from a taut bow.

From the day Elise entered Riosa, the days had blurred into one breathless rush. Each moment slipped through her fingers like sand. The once-quiet fortress had transformed into an impenetrable stronghold.

Duke Bellator and Commander Barnon moved like clockwork—repositioning troops, reinforcing defenses, and preparing for the inevitable descent of the enemy. Along the fortress walls, soldiers oiled cannons until they gleamed and packed hardened earth behind the ramparts to absorb impact from bombardments. War hung thick in the air.

Across the Kingdom of Regal, Arganian remnants emerged from the shadows like ghosts. Hidden caches were unearthed, and men who had once thrown down their swords now took up arms again—hauling carts of supplies across treacherous mountain paths toward Riosa.

On the morning the final supply wagon rolled through the gorge, Duke Bellator led the vanguard down into the valley.

Elise rode with them.

Veiled and dressed in the uniform of a southern officer, she remained silent in the saddle, her presence disguised but her purpose clear. In her gloved hand, she clutched a folded parchment—thin, worn, and pulsing faintly with magic. The very same spell she had once cast in Norella.

She had memorized every stroke, every line of the technique Sameshita had shown her.

“I’ve adjusted it,” Andrei had said quietly, handing her the restructured incantation days ago. “This version is lighter. It won’t drain your core.”

Elise had only nodded. “This time, I don’t need to pour in everything. Just a sliver of mana will be enough.”

As the vanguard reached the cliffs, she dismounted.

The stone beneath her boots was ancient, carved by time and wind. With calm hands, she drew the magic circle on the parchment, breath held steady. Then, channeling the barest thread of her mana, she activated the spell.

A sharp, cracking sound split the silence—loud enough to make the soldiers nearby flinch.

“What was that?” someone muttered, eyes scanning the terrain.

The ground trembled. High above them, the massive stone outcrop quivered, a long fracture snaking across its base like a wound reopening.

Elise exhaled.

The rock gave way with a thunderous groan.

It sheared off cleanly—like a blade slicing through flesh—and plummeted into the valley below.

Ugel soldiers, stationed along the ravine, turned as the shadow fell across them. Their torches flickered, some raised their heads.

Too late.

The boulder hit the earth like a god’s hammer. The explosion was instant—deafening, brutal. Stone collided with stone, and a dust storm erupted, drowning the gorge in choking gray.

“Elise!” someone shouted in the chaos.

But she didn’t answer. She stood motionless, eyes locked on the devastation she had unleashed.

The Arganian knights moved without hesitation, their charge erupting from the smoke like phantoms. Blades gleamed. Screams of panic and pain echoed across the battlefield.

Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed against scorched rock.

In that smoke-filled valley, the Arganian remnants struck like lightning.

By the time dawn finally broke—delayed by the haze—it cast a wan, silver light over a broken landscape. Bodies lay scattered in heaps, the red of spilled blood stark against the pale snow.

No trumpet sounded. No flag was raised. But from that day forward, the name of the Arganian survivors would be whispered across the continent.