Ishmael didn't like Azadin one bit.
The boys and girls of the Herald Clan were driven into harsh competition from childhood. Especially for those who had nothing, no family background to rely on—if they failed to prove their abilities in the herald selection process, they were doomed to live as losers for the rest of their lives.
Yet someone who should have failed that selection process, someone who should have been a lifelong failure, had become a herald. No matter how much backing he had from an elder, such an unprecedented appointment naturally stirred resentment. And yet, the man in question had the audacity to speak of honoring the title of the Emperor's Herald?
Those people of Hubris outright declared that the Aragasa had no souls, so what honor was there in protecting such creatures?
The entire Aragasa people would reject this. And why was it Azadin, an outcast who had failed the herald selection and couldn't even use magic, who had the authority to decide this?
'Well, I can't deny his skills….'
Recalling Azadin's battle against Count Salasma, Ishmael had no choice but to acknowledge his strength. Even so, whenever he looked at Azadin, he felt a deep, crawling revulsion, as if insects were skittering over his skin.
"Azadin is speaking the truth. We are the Emperor's Heralds, and our mission was once a truly honorable one. We've simply forgotten that, buried under persecution."
What irritated Ishmael even more was that Midiam had begun to take Azadin's side. There was an unmistakable warmth in her voice when she defended his words and actions. That, in particular, he could not stand.
Why was it Azadin, someone she had only just met, who drew her attention, instead of him, the one always by her side, attending to her needs? Even worse, Azadin didn't even have eyes!
"Is there really any reason to cling to honor that no one recognizes? Hmm?"
Ishmael sneered, but just then, his connection to the spirit was suddenly severed.
"Huh?!"
Something had attacked and destroyed it. But how?
The scouting spell sent an artificial spirit into the sky, allowing the caster to share its senses for reconnaissance. That artificial spirit was a barely visible, translucent wind spirit—almost impossible to detect from the ground.
And yet, someone had found it and struck it down… which meant they weren't dealing with an ordinary enemy.
"This is bad! Everyone, get up!"
Midiam roused the exhausted women.
"What's going on?"
Delmere asked.
"The enemy is coming!"
"Ah, damn."
Even the Naga woman, Shati, furrowed her brow at the ominous presence creeping toward them.
"Everyone, follow the stream!"
Brand called out to the group.
"But won't that make it obvious where we're going…?"
The thick bushes left them with little choice. If they wanted to move through the night without torches, the only clear path was along the stream. But the same would apply to their pursuers, wouldn't it?
"Those who can fight, stay behind and delay them!"
Brand declared, swinging his crowbar through the air.
'He's lost his mind. Ah, right, he was already insane.'
Ishmael found all of this deeply displeasing.
***
The escaped slaves scrambled to prepare for their flight, but even just reclaiming their belongings and organizing their loads took a considerable amount of time. Just as they had finally picked up their things, arrows flew from the bushes. One struck the crowbar in Brand's hand, skidding off and splitting a brass wash basin in two.
"Guh!"
Blood poured from Brand's forehead as he staggered back. The force rivaled that of the Herald Clan's archery—a shot fired from an Ashwood Longbow.
'But Azadin cut off the fingers of the man who used that bow… was there another archer?'
Ishmael ducked low, caught off guard.
"Kyah!"
The women, seeing Brand bleed, shrieked and instinctively stood up—making themselves perfect targets for the enemy archers.
'How infuriating!'
Ishmael seethed at the sight.
'Pathetic, helpless fools. Instead of running, they panic at the sight of a little blood? An Aragasa boy of twelve… even if stabbed in the gut, would first escape and then stitch himself up with a fishing hook!'
As Ishmael glared at them in anger, Midiam grabbed his arm and shook him.
"Ishmael, don't lose your cool—into the bushes!"
"A-ah, right!"
Realizing he had let his emotions get the better of him, Ishmael felt ashamed. He had let his hatred for the weak overcome him. And wasn't that exactly what he despised in them? Then why couldn't he help but loathe them so much?
As Brand collapsed and the escaped slaves fell into disarray, the bandits emerged from the bushes.
"You dare set fire to our den?"
"We treated you like honored guests, and this is how you repay us?"
They grinned like a pack of wolves in the forest. Even in the darkness, their eyes gleamed with violence and greed, burning like an untamed fire.
"Doneor… how much more wickedness must you commit before you're satisfied?"
"Well, well, Sir Brand. I always thought you were just running your mouth. Didn't think you were serious. Guess we failed to recognize a true knight among us."
The bandit leader, Doneor, let out a hearty laugh as he stepped from the forest's shadows. Under the faint starlight, his face gleamed like a gilded bronze mask.
"So, you actually thought you could escape? Where exactly did you plan on going? Lantarik? And what would you do there?"
Doneor sneered.
"Sir Brand, you must know—I am here on the orders of Count Lantarik. Every action I have taken was under his command. Do you really think fleeing to Lantarik's territory will save you?"
"W-what?!"
The escaped slaves gasped in horror.
Count Lantarik was backing these bandits? If that was true, then no matter where they ran within his domain, there would be no salvation for them.
"Only I can save you. I'll sell you as slaves. You'll end up as servants to wealthy households, but who knows? If you're lucky, you might become a concubine. It wouldn't be a good life, but wasn't your existence miserable even before all this?"
Doneor said, his lips curling into a bitter smile.
"Unless you're a noble, everyone in this damned Hubris is miserable. And you… you're monsters who ate your own families. Cannibalism is a grave sin, you know. If the Holy Knights find out, you'll be burned alive at the stake."
The escaped slaves trembled at his cruelty. He had forced them to kill and eat their own kin, destroying their humanity—and now he used that crime to blackmail them?
"C-cannibalism?"
Brand recoiled in horror at the word. It seemed he had forcibly suppressed those memories, but now they were clawing their way back.
"A-ah…."
The crowbar slipped from his hand.
"Yes, looks like you finally remember. Every single one of you here has committed the sin of cannibalism—eating your own family. And you, Sir Brand, are no exception. Some knight you are."
"Aah… n-no, that's a lie! I…."
"Hehehe, I just couldn't hold back. I kept you alive because it was too amusing to watch."
Doneor burst into laughter as he looked at Brand, who was trembling. At that moment, an arrow tore through the bushes, flying straight for Doneor's head.
***
The arrows had been loosed simultaneously by Midiam and Ishmael, who had been hiding among the foliage.
"Tch…."
Doneor raised his sword, deflecting one arrow and dodging the other. To handle two incoming arrows in a single motion—his swordsmanship was no joke. It was no surprise that he had been chosen as the leader of Count Lantarik's operatives.
However, after deflecting the arrows, Doneor groaned.
"Ugh!"
Another arrow was already lodged in his head.
The Dual Immortal Bow, an archery technique of the Herald Clan.
One arrow's shadow concealed another—an attack difficult to defend against even in broad daylight, let alone in the pitch-dark night. It was no wonder he had been caught off guard.
Thud!
As Doneor collapsed, the bandits gasped.
"Wha—?! B-boss?!"
"This can't be!"
Arrows once again began to fly from the bushes.
Thwack!
Bandits fell helplessly, struck by the arrows. But then….
"Huh?"
"That… didn't really hurt?"
"W-wait! This one's stuck in my head!"
The bandits gawked at the arrows embedded in their bodies. Strangely, they felt no pain. Even more disturbingly, tiny worm-like creatures wriggled from their wounds, knitting the injuries shut, allowing only a trickle of blood to escape before sealing them entirely.
"You idiots."
Doneor rose to his feet.
"Do you fools not realize I was putting on a show? You completely ruined my act."
He reached up and pulled the arrow from his own head. Worms, similar to those healing the bandits, squirmed in his wound, mending the gaping hole.
An arrow lodged in his skull, yet he stood unfazed—a monster whose wounds were sealed by writhing parasites!
"Boss!"
"You morons failed to lure out the real targets. Those brats—they must be the young ones that the herald was traveling with."
Doneor recalled the time he had met Azadin. The young boys and girls who had followed the herald—there was no doubt they were responsible for the ambush.
"What should we do?"
"You, you."
"Y-yes?!"
"Get into the bushes and find them. Just two kids."
"Ah, yes!"
"Understood!"
The bandits followed Doneor's orders and rushed into the undergrowth.
"Ugh… despicable!"
Brand, regaining his senses, struggled to rise, but Doneor strode forward and struck him down with the hilt of his sword.
"Kahaha! What a knight we have here! A brass knight!"
Brand tumbled to the ground. As Doneor lifted his foot to kick the fallen man, Delmere suddenly sprang forward, driving her sword at him. Yet Doneor easily parried the attack and seized her by the throat.
"Ugh!"
"Hey, Delmere. It's not your turn yet. No matter how bored you are, you should've stayed put."
"Y-you bastard! Doneor!"
Delmere struggled, but Doneor effortlessly hoisted her into the air with one hand—inhuman strength.
Then, his eyes caught sight of an unfamiliar bag at Delmere's side.
"Hm? What's this bag? The Naga woman's bag?"
Doneor opened it. A brilliant light poured from within.
"Hmm. Is this the item that knight was looking for? A paper that emits light on its own?"
Doneor pulled out the glowing pages, puzzled.
"Could it be…?"
"Yes, it's a copy of the Book of the Divine King!"
The Naga woman, Shati, emerged from among the escaped slaves.
"A copy of the Book of the Divine King?"
Of course, Doneor knew what that was.
The king's grimoire.
The source of the Yaegas Divine Clan's power.
And this was it? Seeing the self-illuminating pages, it was easy to believe.
"Yes, if you offer that to Queen Cobra, she will bestow her grace upon you. Otherwise, you will all die."
At Shati's words, the bandits bristled with anger.
"What? You think you can threaten us?"
"I'm not saying I'll kill you. But do you really think that knight will let you live?"
The bandits were enraged, but Doneor held them back.
"Alright, alright, Naga woman. Interesting. So, what do you have to say? Go on, tell your story. If it's amusing, I'll listen."
Doneor showed an amused interest in Shati's words. But then….
"Yes, I'd like to hear it too."
A new figure emerged from the bushes.