The Burning Village (3)
“Nice shot.”
In front of the inn, now reduced to rubble by explosives, Dalen dusted off his hands and muttered to himself.
Flames roared up from all directions, and thick smoke obscured his vision as buildings crumbled around him.
In such chaos, even he couldn’t rely on his eyes to spot his target. Instead, he had traced the magical connection of the crystal orb and hurled his weapon, and it seemed to have hit its mark.
“The artifact weapon from Geumgang Palace seems to work well enough.”
The hand axe he received as a reward for dealing with the Witch of the Vines had been lying dormant in the palace’s armory for ages.
It remained perpetually sharp without maintenance and could withstand the crushing force of a dragon’s jaw.
Moreover, it was imbued with a special magic that caused it to explode upon impact.
Judging by the chaotic noise he heard at the end, it seemed the enemy forces had been caught in his explosion.
It was less a simple axe throw and more akin to marking a target for a missile strike.
Creak. Rumble…
The inn’s surviving framework, unable to withstand the raging flames, began to collapse.
Bjorn watched the scene and chuckled.
“If it weren’t for you, we’d be in big trouble. I couldn’t even smell the gunpowder.”
Perhaps the barrels of gunpowder had been magically sealed. Even Bjorn, who could sniff out gunpowder like a ghost in Revivach, hadn’t detected this ambush.
They had been resting on the inn’s second floor, unharmed thanks to a wind barrier spell Dalen had recently learned.
“Fields’ Wind Barrier.”
One of the spells from the Delos Tower, it enveloped the caster’s surroundings with various effects.
Since it used air as a medium, it was not only efficient but also versatile in disguise and application.
Dalen had been practicing it every night to improve his skill, and it had served as a crucial defense at the right moment.
“Damn those evil gods.”
A moment’s carelessness could cost him his life.
This simple truth remained valid even with his superhuman body.
After weeks of uneventful travel, perhaps he had let his guard down a bit.
A little caution is always necessary, but it should never turn into recklessness.
As he cleared his mind and stepped away from the burning inn, Bjorn and Akasha were waiting for him on the street.
Around them lay the bodies of several villagers. Bjorn frowned.
“Just as the agent feared. These people are completely tainted by hellish magic.”
The bodies, kicked lightly by his foot, were clearly no longer ordinary humans.
Their eyes were bloodshot, and their teeth had grown unnaturally sharp. Some even had horns, shells, or spikes beginning to sprout.
Considering the agent’s report of the villagers’ suspicious behavior, these were people who had chosen to submit to the evil god.
Of course, the rebels’ sweet talk and cunning persuasion must have played a part. But ultimately, the choice was theirs.
“What do we do now?” the dwarf asked.
The village was beyond saving. That left two options.
Let the village, which had chosen to side with the evil god, destroy itself.
Or intervene to deal with the hell-tainted villagers and rescue any potential survivors.
“Let’s find the special agent and save the survivors. Those who can be saved should be.”
There was no need for lengthy deliberation. The current state of the Tsar’s kingdom was precarious.
Beyond the frozen plains, demon armies were gathering, and the unrest from the Night of the Restless Spirits had yet to be quelled.
If the rebels struck now, it would inevitably weaken the Tsarina and the royal family’s influence.
And if the Tsar’s kingdom fell, the city-states and Falcion would be next.
“While an empire in the south might swallow neighboring countries, the fall of the Tsar’s kingdom, which has long served as a northern bulwark, would be disastrous.”
In several late-game scenarios, the Tsar’s kingdom had held back the forces of Suum, buying significant time.
If they could overcome this crisis, they might hope for such a performance again.
“The agent was supposed to be at the town hall with the elder tonight.”
Dalen drew his spear and walked down the street. It had been a while since he faced a proper battle.
Though he never neglected his mental training and visualization, testing his skills in real combat was a different matter.
“Suum’s minions are known for their tough bodies.”
“Ordinary explosives might not be enough. I’ll try to combine rune magic as much as possible.”
“This is a chance to get used to fighting humanoids. I’ll focus on support and firepower.”
The dragon and the dwarf followed him, quickly exchanging plans.
On either side of them, flames devoured buildings, reaching for the night sky with their fiery dance.
Sizzle—
The sound of a fuse igniting. A fist-sized, dark mass soared through the air.
The short fuse burned out, and the grenade exploded two meters above the ground.
Boom!
The deafening roar and the shrapnel scattering in all directions caused some of the gathered villagers to collapse.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Craig fired his pistol rapidly and immediately ducked down.
Arrows, knives, and hunting spears rained down on the rooftop of the town hall where he had poked his head out.
“Ugh!”
A knife pierced his forearm in that brief moment.
He quickly tore his sleeve to bind the wound and poured a healing potion to stop the bleeding.
“Damn it.”
Craig Bidroff, a special agent of the Tsar’s royal task force, gritted his teeth.
‘I suspected a rebellion might be brewing, but I didn’t expect this many.’
The timing and numbers were both unexpected.
In a single night, over seventy percent of the village had sided with the rebels. Worse, they had willingly embraced hellish magic.
The rebels’ sweet talk might have incited the villagers, but that wasn’t the root cause.
The long war had burdened the outlying villages, and the Night of the Restless Spirits had fueled their anger against the state.
Unlike other evil gods who offered power in exchange for greed and thirst for wealth or strength, Suum demanded only one thing from his followers.
’…An unquenchable rage.’
The villagers, driven mad by their fury, were perfect candidates to accept his hellish magic.
‘At least the town hall is still intact.’
In the Tsar’s kingdom, which had long endured foreign invasions, even the smallest villages were fortified.
In areas like this, threatened by orcs and barbarians, the town hall was built like a fortress.
Thanks to that, he and the few remaining militia and survivors could hold out.
But for how long?
The rebels clearly understood the town hall’s strategic importance.
When the tavern owner had suspiciously tried to bring in a barrel of new beer, Craig had stopped him and found it filled with gunpowder.
Now, with explosives planted everywhere and the village ablaze, the rebels had surrounded the town hall, ensuring no one could escape.
While the main rebel force outside the village slowly wiped out the survivors, those who had taken refuge in the town hall were trapped.
‘If we stay put, we’re dead. We might handle the mutated villagers, but if the rebels attack directly, we’re finished.’
Should he risk breaking through the siege now, or stay to protect the villagers who hadn’t joined the rebellion?
For someone who had lived as a villager for over a decade, it was a cruel dilemma.
But the harsh training of the special task force included making decisions in such extreme situations.
“Ugh…”
Everything was for the Tsarina and the royal family. Sacrificing the few for the greater good was painful but necessary.
Just as Craig resolved to stand up—
Flash!
In the clear night sky, a sudden bolt of lightning struck from a lone cloud.
And from the wide street extending from the town hall, the sound of explosions began to echo.
Screech!
A villager charged with a scream. Dalen thrust his spear lightly, piercing the heart.
Crunch!
Despite the tough skin more akin to a monster’s than a human’s, and even with a torn heart and lungs, the villager didn’t die and flailed his arms.
Grr… Gurgle!
Dalen ignored it and slashed horizontally. The spear blade cleaved through the chests of three mutated villagers, leaving a trail of dark red blood.
The spear Dalen had ordered from Reberon Ahakim had a long, wide blade. It was suitable for slashing and cleaving, not just thrusting.
It was a weapon well-matched with one of his newly learned skills, “Flame Spear Technique.”
Against the mutated humans charging like moths to a flame, Dalen steadily honed his spear skills.
Screech! Roar!
A gaping maw lunged forward, only to be met with a swift strike from a spear. Skulls shattered, contents scattered, as the spearhead danced through ribs and necks, felling yet another foe.
Thwack!
In a heartbeat, three thrusts and two slashes unfolded, sketching a blossom with three wide points and two sweeping curves.
A crimson flower bloomed as the spear’s shadow met the spurting blood.
Though the technique was easily retrieved from the fallen, its origins from across the sea lent it a brutal yet graceful beauty, akin to a deadly dance.
“Hahaha! This is it! Beautiful explosions and flames! Come at me, you wretched spawn of the dark god!”
Meanwhile, the explosions and shockwaves erupting nearby were far from beautiful, unless one had a particularly twisted sense of aesthetics.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A warrior wove through enemy lines with a single spear, while a dwarf generously distributed explosives.
Lightning struck the ground intermittently, and icy shards of unknown origin rained down.
The siege surrounding the village hall was soon broken. The mutated villagers surged toward Daelon and Bjorn.
Moments later, the doors of the village hall burst open, and the militia and survivors charged out, weapons in hand.
“Heroes! Let’s fight with the heroes!”
“Kill the traitors who sold their souls to the devil!”
The mutated villagers were quickly surrounded.
The militia and survivors numbered only about thirty, but it was enough to divide the enemy’s attention, allowing Daelon and his companions to dispatch the rebels even faster.
Splat!
Before long, the last mutant’s head fell. As Daelon shook the blood from his spear, an agent approached him.
“Thank you… thank you so much.”
The voice was almost a sob, laden with emotions and conflicts that were hard to decipher.
“It’s not over yet.”
Instead of offering comfort, Daelon gently pushed the agent aside and strode forward.
He headed back down the street he had come from.
Amidst the rubble of collapsed buildings, something flew through the flickering flames.
Thud!
A hand axe, gripped tightly, trembled in a thick hand. Runes on its head glowed faintly, but no explosion followed.
An old man emerged from the flames, frowning at the sight.
“Why didn’t it explode?”
Daelon raised an eyebrow. The man’s face was mottled with burns, and his long beard was singed and curled from the heat.
It was clear this man was the mastermind behind the chaos and had been caught in the axe’s blast. Daelon chuckled and replied.
“You should’ve read the manual before using it.”
“What?”
“It only explodes if it travels a certain distance.”
In a blur, Daelon’s hand moved. The next moment, the axe was embedded in the old man’s forearm.
Having experienced the axe throw once before, the man had been on guard and barely managed to raise his arm in defense.
As the man gritted his teeth in pain, Daelon added.
“By the way, the distance is cumulative.”
“Moos—!”
Boom!
A golden explosion swept through the street.