Chapter 401
A silent night, with nothing but stillness filling the air.
Damon pressed his tired hand to his forehead. Eriphoni was like a serpent—dangerous and unpredictable—so it was wise to treat her as if his Achilles’ heel could be struck at any moment. Even in their brief encounters, he had to remain on edge. Well, at least it was less tense than with Ian.
Just as Damon was rifling through the table, searching for a cigarette, a voice broke the silence.
“Your Majesty.”
The unfamiliar voice called out to him, shattering the quiet.
Whenever this happened, Damon always thought of Timothy—because it was always him who called from that spot. The one who had fled under the pretense of exile, yet dared to leave traces in Damon’s life. Damon frowned and lit his cigarette.
“The necromancers wish to report.”
“Let them in.”
With Damon’s permission, the tent flap was pulled aside.
The northern warriors who had come were strikingly distinct. Some had large eyes, others had unusually prominent foreheads, and some were recognizable by their build alone, marking them as from different tribes.
The northern heirs conscripted for this war stood in a line before the king.
“So, what’s the harvest?”
“Apologies, Your Majesty. No matter what we try, the corpses of the mages cannot be utilized.”
Damon exhaled sharply, unable to hide his frustration. But what could he do? If it couldn’t be done, it couldn’t.
The most powerful necromancer among them bowed his head and added:
“We can move them along with other corpses, but that’s the limit. We cannot grasp the flow of their magic. The activation itself fails, so using them in this war is impossible. If you were to entrust the corpses to us, we would conduct research and surely—”
“No. Give them to our tribe. Since we’re closest to Burgos, we can study them before they decay too much. The weather’s been getting warmer lately, hasn’t it?”
“One of the mages was captured by my synthetic beast. That should count as a merit, not be measured by distance.”
“Merit? You speak well. When you were on the right flank, you couldn’t even catch a single magic swordsman, and it was chaos. And yet you dare speak of merit?”
“What did you just say?”
Bang!
As the necromancers’ voices rose, Damon slammed his hand on the table in irritation. At a time when his plans were already facing serious setbacks, all this fuss over a single mage’s corpse was maddening.
Damon chewed on his cigarette, and the necromancers fell silent.
“Setting aside the corpses, what about the other mages?”
“They’re still breathing. The military doctors are treating them.”
“Will they need magic? We might be able to borrow mages from Luswena. It’s better to keep the living alive, so prioritize saving them.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Understood.”
“Your Majesty.”
At that moment, one of the necromancers spoke up quietly. He was from a tribe hostile to Astana. Since Hasha had betrayed them and returned to Cliford, a fitting punishment was necessary. If his tribe took the lead in that, it could mean dominance over the region.
“What are your plans for dealing with Astana? If you have no other thoughts, we will take the heads of all Astanians in the name of Burgos.”
Ssshh.
Everything about this was irritating. Damon leaned back, exhaling smoke, and took a moment of silence to gather his thoughts.
Astana. Yes, they deserved some form of punishment. But dividing forces during wartime was out of the question.
Damon snapped his fingers and pulled a small pendant from his pocket. It was rusty, worn from use, etched with a magic circle.
Click.
Inside, the Idgal glowed faintly.
It was brighter than when the war began, but still far from enough. It needed a flow of magic so intense it could shatter from the strain. Without that, even a massive earthquake wouldn’t cause a fissure.
As Damon toyed with the pendant, a voice interrupted.
“Your Majesty, a messenger has arrived from Cliford.”
Cliford had sent word first. The necromancers exchanged glances, and Damon tilted his head thoughtfully. A messenger?
“Only accept the letter. Have the messenger wait outside. And summon the generals.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Damon recalled the mages who had fallen from the sky. Surely, Cliford’s message concerned their safety.
If his guess was right, Bariel had prioritized the mages’ safety over the alliance with Cliford. A wise and natural choice.
The immediate problem was Cliford. Without Bariel’s reinforcements yet arrived, if the mages withdrew their power, Cliford would be like a candle flickering in the wind.
‘I can’t know Ian’s condition. That’s the biggest variable.’
“Your Majesty, the generals have arrived.”
“We will read the letter.”
At Damon’s nod, one general slowly read the letter aloud in a strong hand. The gist was clear:
Withdraw from Cliford immediately. Compensate for damages. If you have the mages, return them. Otherwise, there will be retribution.
Everyone in the tent listened intently, not wanting to miss a single word.
“Your Majesty, doesn’t this suggest a problem between Cliford and Bariel?”
“Is that how you interpret it? I see no problem. The mages belong to Bariel, so if harm comes to them, Cliford is signaling they will intervene.”
“It’s the same thing. Why would Cliford intervene? Because if they don’t, they can’t hold Bariel. Your Majesty, this is good. Announce that we have mages here and lead negotiations.”
“If Bariel chose the mages’ safety over Cliford, we can be firm. If Bariel refuses neutrality, we’ll kill them all.”
“That’s too provocative. Such words are unacceptable.”
Even among the generals, opinions were divided. But the consensus was that Bariel prioritized the mages’ safe return.
Damon examined the handwriting and muttered:
“It’s definitely Prince Noah’s writing, but the content feels off.”
“Off?”
“The choice of words includes many from Bariel’s common tongue. Since the mages’ safety is at stake, it must have been drafted in agreement with Bariel.”
“So you think there’s no problem with that alliance?”
“Not yet. But who knows what’s next? They’re asking even before the message arrives. A thirsty man digs a well—Cliford’s land is drying up, and I can feel it all the way here.”
Damon chuckled softly and tossed the letter onto the table. Then he asked the necromancers:
“Answer me clearly, one last time.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Is it truly impossible to use the mages’ corpses?”
“Yes. It’s beyond our ability.”
“Very well.”
There was no choice. Damon nodded as if acknowledging their limits.
Eriphoni hadn’t handed over Jean, but as a gesture of alliance, she had given the mage’s robe. This would be useful in deceiving Bariel and Cliford.
“Prepare the boxes.”
“Boxes?”
“Combine them with ours—five robes soaked in blood—and pack them.”
It would be wise to inform Eriphoni of this situation. The Cliford messenger likely went to Luswena as well.
“Cut off the heads of the dead mages and send them along.”
The war was just beginning, and the safe return of the mages they hoped for would not come. Those mighty mages, revered as close to gods, had been slain by Burgos’ sword. Could magic dare to stand against Burgos’ great march? Let Cliford and Bariel squabble and glare at each other. This was the meaning behind the reply.
One general stepped outside to sever the heads, and soon returned carrying five robes soaked in blood.
There was no need to find other blood. The blood of their fallen comrades was enough to soak them thoroughly.
“Ha, this—”
The Cliford generals muttered, pressing their foreheads. This was serious. Whoever it was, the circumstances made it clear it was the mage’s head.
Samobo grabbed Noah’s arm and closed the lid.
“Prince, you must not show this to Sir Ian.”
“Yes. This is a disaster. It’s only been a few hours since the order for the mages’ safe return. The sun has just risen. And yet Burgos has made such a provocation? We can’t predict the consequences.”
“Let’s buy time until Bariel’s reinforcements arrive. We’ll bring it onto the battlefield and see.”
They say it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If Bariel’s reinforcements arrive during the mage search, they’ll join the war without question.
But if the mage’s death is revealed, that will be a matter for later. Above all, Ian’s side effects would fade with time.
Still, Noah hesitated.
“Damn it, damn it!”
He had seen the bond between Ian and the Mage Department firsthand. What if hiding this now only made things worse later? Could he handle the fallout? His mind was torn. Avoid or endure. Escape or face it. The future of Cliford hung in the balance.
The generals watched Noah anxiously as he gripped the edge of the table in silence. Time passed. Finally, Noah made his decision.
“Bring Sir Ian to me.”
“Prince!”
“Bring him!”
When a few generals tried to voice their opposition, Noah snapped at them. “Don’t waver. I’ve already made my decision. Even if my future self calls it a foolish choice, there’s nothing I can do about it. The best I can do now is to be fully loyal to the alliance, without hiding anything.”
Samo bowed deeply and sighed before stepping out of the war room on behalf of the others.
“I opposed this to the very end.”
“Listen, it’s the prince’s decision. Don’t argue.”
“Prince, I support you. I believe this is the right choice. Trying to deceive them will only bring greater disaster.”
As the debate dragged on endlessly, Ian arrived. The room fell instantly silent. He walked slowly inside, and soon his eyes landed on the bloodstained robe.
“…”
Without a word, he approached and picked it up.
One, two, three, four, five. The sizes varied, the sleeves were worn to different degrees—each robe bore the unmistakable marks of its owner’s habits. As Ian lifted the garments, drops of blood fell from the hem.
“…Where did this come from?”
His voice was low, cold, and tightly restrained. Noah instinctively took a step back.
“It’s a reply from Burgos.”
“…Five robes.”
Jean was in Luswena, so five robes? Ian calmly folded the robes and set them aside.
His gaze then fell on the box. Noah quickly covered the top with his hand, as if warning him.
“Open the box.”
“Sir Ian, there’s a human head inside.”
“…Open it.”
Click.
Noah slowly lifted the lid. Ian immediately recognized the corpse. It was Selena—one of the five missing.
Her empty eyes stared as if gazing into a distant, unreachable world. Her hair was a tangled mess, wounds marked her skin, and her neck was cleanly severed without hesitation.
Ian gripped the box tightly and leaned forward. A fierce, cold, thorn-filled rage surged within him.
Unaware, tears streamed down his face again. They traced his jawline and dripped into the bloodstained table below.
“Sir Ian, are you… alright?” Noah asked anxiously, but Ian didn’t respond. Instead, he gently closed Selena’s eyes with his own hands.
His long, pale fingers brushed over the cold eyelids, offering a silent prayer for her peace. May the path to that distant world be gentle, and may she no longer see the light of this one.
“…I swear.”
Ian murmured as he looked down at his fallen comrade.
His voice was firm, resolute, as if making a vow, engraving it into his soul.
“I will take Damon’s life. No matter what happens, Damon will never find peace in death. I will tear his body to shreds beneath the feet of everything in this world. So, at Clifford, do not lay a single greedy eye on Damon.”