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Argeus the Paladin -> RE: Seisen Engi - Romance of the Holy War (2/5/2009 23:39:50)
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Chapter 36
The Moonlit Battlefield
The alarming warning struck the commander of the regiment barely on time to take proper action. Zaelro's instinctive order to withdraw from the gateway following that frantic came to his soldiers barely on time. No sooner than the detachment of Valhallan soldiers left their current ground and moved towards the interior of the schoolyard to hold ground there than hostile contact revealed itself, streaming through the broken gate like a cataract of savagery and devastation. A red-black clad army of inhumanly looking creatures it was revealed, with uniformly jet black hair, deathly pale complexion, flaring red eyes that told of blood, as well as an aura of darkness so deeply entrenched in each and every member of the swarm that the presence of the contingent alone was likely the incarnation of darkness – evil darkness – in the eyes of the beholders. They marched swiftly across the blood-hued field, trampling on the already deformed corpses of the most unfortunate with the added spite of an overproud race as they walked, before assembling, in an extremely orderly manner, battle-ready, before the Valhallan Regiment detachment.
Vampires. And a lot of them.
Even before the uniform Nightshade armaments of the same kind as those Florine had shown him came into his conscience, the air of devastation around the enemy was felt without objection. It was as though their primary purpose, wherever they were and whoever they answered to, was to kill, burn, destroy, annihilate, and bask in the sheer terror that they unleashed upon the unknowing world of everyday people. Each was godly and demonic at the same time, in their own, twisted way of deriving such malevolent pleasure, their eyes ever flaring in a thirst to kill and destroy more, as well as to strike as much fear in the hearts of those not yet annihilated. Perhaps that was the reason why their march into the inner yard was highly noisy and intimidating, heels trampling the ground like a full-fledged company of ceremonial soldiers, while their kind were innately blessed with the ability to walk seemingly soundless steps.
Only when the first impression had passed that Zaelro realized what a dire situation he and his comrades had gotten into. The black-red banner at the center of the enemy block of troops revealed a highly disciplined, well-trained detachment, a full-fledged, proper army, completely unlike the haphazard behavior of the stray ones he had encountered in recent days. Even worse, a quick glance at the battlefield revealed a number of foes anywhere from five to ten times his own men. The dire shade of dark red filled up to half of the schoolyard, covering up every possible corner of the now devastated garden, overwhelming the assorted Valhallan soldiers by an almost insurmountable odd.
Zaelro was not allowed time to take a closer look, for no sooner had the contingent of malevolent vampires taken root in the schoolyard than their ranks split into two, making up a path, upon which a shadow walked, with all due sarcastic malice, the heavy metal armor he wore making loud, but purposeful, intimidating clatters as he tread slowly along the line, as if taking great interest in the moment's drama.
“Well, well, well, let's see what we have here,” he spoke up when he had walked about two-third through the shaft-like line of troops, in a voice that instantly sent a tremble along Zaelro's spines, a voice associated with an incident best described as a thorough sacrilege of human lives, one that he had participated in, and barely made it out with his life. As he spoke in the same, doomsday tone having seen dozens of unfortunate innocents to their gruesome death at Sankaku no Uta, Zaelro found himself clenching his sweaty fists in an inseparable mixture of anger, disgust and terror. The distorted, mouthless and noseless visage of the speaker in question only served as a belated confirmation of his identity, adding a further touch of nasty monstrosity to his appearance.
“So, the Black and the White Princesses are all here, huh?” he remarked with a devilish grin as he tossed a haphazard glance of satisfaction across the yard, fixing his beastly gaze of adamant interest at the two women in the group, his eyes rolling in a self-pleased manner of accomplishment. “Now then, the reward for this double discovery would be more succulent than I could ever imagine...”
“You'll not live to receive that reward, Faceless One!” Florine spontaneously reacted. “This time the Moon is on our side!”
“Oh, really, Your Highness?” sneered the wicked foe. “Look at yourself again before drawing such a rock-hard conclusion!”
He was right once more, as he had been a week ago. Whether it was luck or cunningness that had helped the faceless Chaos Vampire find an extremely advantageous time to strike, Zaelro did not know. But he had always been blessed with the right opportunity. This time, for instance, even though the moon was at its peak, there was no way Florine could unleash her full potential, judging from the extreme exertion just now, and her tell-tale fatigue-ridden face more than sufficiently reinforcing that notion. Mina would not be of much help herself with a broken weapon and a body still enfeebled by injury, the best she could do at the moment was to give a disparaging, enraged glance at the Chaos Vampire.
“Let's make a deal,” the Faceless snorted, with a highly amusing tone. “Give yourselves up, and nobody gets hurt.”
“That shall be the last thing I do,” Mina snapped. “You'll have to walk over my cold, bloody corpse.”
“Quite a disappointment, I must say, but not surprising. After all, His Majesty’s daughter is famed for her diehard stubbornness, and the White Knight Lord’s girl no less well known,” the Faceless replied. “Your men shall make an excellent dessert for my thirsty soldiers then, I guess.”
“They are my soldiers, beast!” corrected Zaelro, as he stepped to the front line. “And you'll be harming no one any more when they are at it!”
“You?” The Faceless rolled his eyes at Zaelro, first with disdain, which gave way as soon as the golden shimmer of the One Archangel’s legendary weapon caught his eye. At that realization, the Faceless’ reaction changed instantly, as his eyes opened in a more and more fiercely manner, glaring at the commander of the Valhallan Regiment from top to toe. “Wait a second, how can I forget you and your little... minions? You still owe me a friggin’ victory, a full set of golden armor, and my goddamn SHIELD!”
His enraged roar was reasonable to some extent. Had it not been for Zaelro and the regiment's intervention, all would have been resolved for the monster far before that day. And had it not been for the Prime Clash Zaelro unleashed, there was no way he could mislaid his much treasured shield. The Gespenst-clad monstrosity still hadn't gotten a replacement for his lost wall at arm's length, clearly enough, for his prized apparel was now conveniently in Mina's keep. The creature's calm sarcasm dried up as quickly as his eyes turned for the more enraged, staring at Zaelro and his armor, as if wishing to smash both to bits in short notice. As his calmness broke down, in its place now instead lay a serial killer's senseless craze for blood and carnage, a feature not at all useful in leading an army. In just a second, his mental integrity had seemingly collapsed, as if giving rise to a whole new creature, whose only care was carnage and murder, and noting else.
“Girls, the deal is off,” in a very undiplomatic tone and a crazed bloodlust he growled. “I'll have your heads! All of yours!”
His madness was infectious of sort. A bloodthirsty glare filled the already blood-red eyes of his Nightshade-clad minions, unconsciously causing the Aurora-clad commander to step back. Judging from his ferocious tone and his vengeful glare he tossed about, it would be no surprise if he sent the entire stream of soldiers down the garden to flush away every single Valhallan soldier or vampire hunter right there and then. In response, the Valhallan soldiers readied their defensive stances as well – shields up, spears in line, reins in hand, swords unsheathed, longbows stringed and stretched, ready to ward off any vampire foolish enough to approach.
But the situation was dire. Even the most amateur of generals would know that any head-on clash with an army around eight times bigger than his own would be only slightly better than suicide. And with the participation of Faceless One, the very same one-man-army responsible for the death of twenty Greek Hoplites and maiming of another four dozens a week ago all by himself, even a mild envision of victory in that case sounded like an overly expensive luxury. The marked look of shaken morale could be seen all over the six-dozen-men-strong company of men under Zaelro, even the mighty English cavaliers returned Zaelro’s questioning look with some degree of fright, though not crippling. The notion of defeat spread at lightspeed across the lines, infecting even the highest in the chains of command.
“Sire, this is… we are at a clear disadvantage,” Oredin’s voice sounded, bearing with it the same hesitation as his men. “Let us bring in the reinforcement!”
“Thankfully that is already part of the plan,” Zaelro said, eyes not leaving the bloodlusted rank of enemies. “Mr. Kaledon, please summon the rest of the Regiment at once!”
Oredin nodded as he retreated to his line, presumably to start the summoning of the remaining units of the Regiment still located at home. And then came the bad news. The next thing Zaelro realized was a gasp, one that lingered in the air as if further reinforced and amplified by the Hoplite’s horse-hair helmet. To follow it up, utter, frozen silence ensued from his side of the battlezone, something that could mean anything but good in a case of emergency.
“What’s the problem, Mr. Kaledon?” Zaelro turned back in bewilderment. “What’s wrong with the reinforcement?”
“My apologies, sire… there’s not going to be any reinforcement in at least an hour,” Oredin said, with bent head, in an apologetic tone for something apparently not his doing, as visible sweat drop ran down the bridge of his nose. “Our communication with base had been… jammed for unknown reasons, and until it is fixed there is no way we can teleport to and from headquarters.”
“What? Of all times, why now?” it was Zaelro’s turn to give out a gasp, as he asked back, as if in denial. “Are you sure that is the case?”
“Sire, as far as I know this kind of jams takes at least an hour to fix,” Oredin said, before trying to pull out a reassuring comment. “But Sieur de l’Aquitaine and General Peshkov know what they are doing. I trust they will be here with the rest of the regiment as soon as possible!”
One hour. As if time was on their side, which it was not. Zaelro’s quick turn to the enemies showed nothing too bright considering that prospect – the degree of violence their dire eyes suggested would mean that the detachment would be much unlikely to stand there for even half an hour, let alone a full hour. Oredin’s assurance would be as good as wasted if they didn’t make it.
“Sire, their number cannot be resisted head-on!” Count Schwagger finally remarked with all the urgency he could muster, after he himself took a full glance across the totally biased battlefield. “We must find another way! If we can hole up in that building behind us and engage in suppress fire, we can hold them back for long enough for reinforcement to arrive!”
Zaelro looked back at the school building the general pointed to. His solution did have creditable merit – the thick door and wall provided ample shelter from their melee rank, while providing an excellent archery range for the squad of English longbow to lay down suppress fire. With no siege weapon of their own, their enemies would be forced to engage them through the narrow main entrance, already half-blocked by piles of in-use construction materials. It would take just a small number of troops to maintain that single pass, and with the continual support fire from above, it would certainly cost their enemies a lot of manpower and time, not to mention casualties, to actually break through. A perfect solution for a battle in urban setting.
But Zaelro had other thoughts. His next order, owing to those other thoughts, as headstrong and valiant as it sounded, seemed to be the epitome of military blunder in that concept of war.
“No. We won’t hole up anywhere,” he said, stamping his feet decisively, in the charismatic tone he owed to both his parents, as he looked around his ranks. “We will stand and fight right here!”
“Sire?” the German stared at his commander, his astonishment knowing no end. “But… that is… that is suicide!”
“If we retreat now, we are leaving Takashi, Mina and Florine at their mercy, which is none at all,” Zaelro said, as he tossed a glance back at his three friends, none too healthy to even stand up. “That counts as grand murder to me. I’ll not allow that.”
A short silence ensued as the three commanders of the regiment bent their neck in evaluation, while the troops held position, in their best attempt to daunt any vampire soldier bold enough to meet an impaling death by the hoplite’s spears. In due time, all of them, one after another, gave an approving nod, being the noble and fearless soldiers they had always been.
“Well said, Lord Zaelro!” the English knight was the first to voice his agreement. “There is, after all, no sin greater than leaving a damsel in distress at the claw of a vicious dragon!”
“If that is what you think, sire, and a noble deed it is, I will follow your command,” Count Schwagger also had his word. “We shall stand ground here until death like the children of steel we are!”
“Then it is decided,” Oredin’s words were final, as he turned back to the assorted ranks and spoke loudly, a rallying cry distinctive of the born leaders of Sparta. “O noble soldiers! Let us stand here and fight our foes, let our spears be the barricades to protect the meek and wounded, let our enemies cower in fear of our unyieldingness! For history to remember, His Highness King Leonidas’ successors still follow his path of righteousness until this date!”
Oredin’s words couldn’t have been more rallying. The presence of the Spartan Hoplite alone among the rank was a symbol of the steel heart of his kind, ever since the regiment was founded. His tone, thundering across the field like an order of encouragement, subliminally ordering each and every soldier to hold their weapons up high, stand in formation, and ready themselves for combat. In less than a minute after his last word was uttered, the detachment of the Valhallan Regiment had been revved up, arranging themselves in a proper defensive semi-circle. Cavaliers at the front, spearmen and swordsmen of multiple nationalities stood side-by-side, their weapons, like Oredin said, forming a barbed wall of spikes pointing outward, and finally archers, Peltasts and longbowmen at the back, arrows and javelins ready for action.
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” Zaelro recited. “Let’s make them regret this day!”
“That should be enough drama,” sullenly spoke the Faceless One, having been apparently annoyed by the preparation. “Time to die.”
“You wish,” Zaelro drew his Paladin Sword and pointed at the mass murderer. “As I said, you are not taking anyone else any more!”
With a smirk the vampire waved his hand, a signal for full assault. The next thing Zaelro knew, was a stream of red-black crazed killer-soldiers rushing at full speed at his own troops. And in the context of vampires, full speed meant lightning-fast. Before he knew it, sounds of weapons clashing and battle cries were already dominating the battlefield, as a full-scale battle rolled in.
******
As suggested, the battle went badly for the Regiment. As swords crossed, spears thrust and shields locked, the numerical disadvantage was working against Zaelro’s soldiers in about the worst way possible. The limited number of archers as well as the swift pace at which the vampires closed in on them meant that any comparison to the famed Agincourt was fallaciously ridiculous. In fact, the archers couldn’t even fire properly with the front line being constantly pushed behind by the scores of vampires alone. At first the arched frontlines could still stand rather well, many a vampire falling prey to the famous Spartan wall of spears, impaled sharply through their hearts as they strayed too near the deadly edges of the formation. But things started to fall apart as soon as the first of Lord Jonathan’s armored knights fell prey to the salvos of Nightshade weaponries, leaving a large flaw at the respective flank, and the speedy vampires were just too eager to take advantage of that.
It didn’t take too long for the well-held formation to quickly fall apart, like a popped balloon, and the battle boiled down to a messy, uncontrollable melee as every men fought for his own survival. Still the Valhallan soldiers stood firm where they were, only to be cut down one after the other as the enemies closed in on. Even the archers fought bravely at melee range, their short daggers piercing heart not much worse than their steel arrows. Whatever they had done, though, was in itself a feat to be boasted – the body count on the field was kept steadily at the rate of one Valhallan fallen warrior to every beheaded, impaled, disemboweled or severed vampire corpse. Still, the glint of Nightshade weaponries in the shimmering moon dictated a dark victory, an omen difficult to break.
In due time, only the three commanders were left standing, over their own piles of slaughtered enemies. But even they would not last for too long if the battle kept going that way. Oredin’s shield was cracking up under the relentless slashes and thrusts at him, his spear on the brink of shattering and his gladius in no better shape. Sir Jonathan and his horse both seemed highly worn out by the all-too-often maneuvers, his lance feeling heavier and heavier as he waved it about. As for the German Count Schwagger, his 1800-built handgun was running out of ammo, after a full score or so headshots. Had the vampires got some archers with them, their standoff would have bore a spitting resemblance to the same fate that had befallen Oredin Kaledon and his three hundred comrades two millennia earlier. Still, they stood there, their weapons still ready to cut, slice, stab, or whatever they could afford to maintain the standoff. For how long they could stand, though, they weren’t certain themselves. And for as long as they stood, Takashi and Florine would stay safe – there was no way their enemies could pry towards them without risking their heads at Oredin and his comrades’ blades.
Not that Zaelro had time to actually care about his soldiers. Keeping up with the Faceless One himself was already a difficult task, even more so than the last duel, now that there were no more looming hoplites at his back to aid him should things go wrong, nor would Takashi and Florine be there to slip in a couple of attacks to disrupt the bloodthirsty Chaos Vampire’s constant onslaught. The fact that he himself was not in the best of shapes, having inevitably draining a large portion of his strength with the duel against Mina earlier, was working in conjunction with the blitzing combos of his adversary against him far better than he thought. Largely the battle was no less one-sided than his clash with Mina just now – all he could do was to shield himself, with major difficulty, against the ever-changing attack patterns of his adversary, and what few attacks he threw out, if not deflected by the legendary Gespenst, was wholly parried with utter ease.
If nothing changed, it would only be a matter of time before the shield slipped off his hand and he had to suffer the painful consequences once and for all. And it seemed to have been the case when the faceless monster actually ripped the shield from his hand with a mighty uppercut, leaving him out of momentum and extremely vulnerable for a final blow, and he was intending to deliver one as well, to Zaelro’s sudden horror.
But aid did come for him, albeit in a largely unexpected form, with a shadow dashing from behind the battlezone, gliding towards the Faceless one at vampire-like speed, slicing swiftly across Zaelro’s face, before slamming straight at the faceless monster’s chest, glancing off almost instantly, nevertheless providing the needed push to cancel his attack, before another closed in, with the same speed, but much greater accuracy and skill, cutting right under his neck, this time slightly denting his armor as it threw him staggering behind. The Aurora-clad combatant had once again been rescued, this time by the very vampire hunters he had fought against earlier. Mina and Suuichi, each fashioning a particular piece of weapon from the fallen enemies, had now had enough rest to rejoin the battle, albeit not at a hundred percent efficiency. Still, that was all it needed to knock the Chaos Vampire back.
“It’s dangerous out here,” Mina’s soft, gentle voice brushed against Zaelro’s ears as she landed after concluding the perfectly executed collaboration. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
Zaelro gave a nod of reassurance, and it was all what was necessary – the battle was still on the way.
“So you’ve joined, Your Highness,” mocked the Faceless One as he stood up, his lower chin having been scratched somewhat by the last attack, bleeding – black blood. “My pleasure to see you to the other world.”
“You wish.”
Mina replied with a smirk, as she lunged at him once more, followed closely behind by Zaelro and Suuichi, their combined effort turning the table as they clashed. Even though none could lay more than a dent to the legendary surface of the Gespenst set just yet, the impacts of their blows and the fact that the faceless could no longer parry them all was giving the trio an edge over their adversary. The clash went on and off, blades flew around the four combatants like a flock of sparrows, with no one being particularly advantageous for a good deal of time.
But then, the impact of an army lost was starting to roll in. With no more protection from their troops, it became harder and harder for the trio to effectively pull out offensive maneuvers, having to instead fend off the more and more constant barging in of the Faceless’ minions, retroactively shifting the balance back to the vampire chief, who, with the signature smirk, tossed his attacks back with increasing ferocity, gradually cornering his three adversaries into a wall of his minions, forming a full encirclement. The psychological pressure alone was already daunting for the group, let alone the constant thrusts at almost completely random directions, in a completely unfathomable method, as chaotic in nature as the creature himself is.
It was not long before damage was realized, in the form of a powerful, disarming kick at the vampire huntress’ shoulder, knocking her rolling backwards, the Nightshade short claw she put on in short notice falling off her grip, as she fell on the ground, grimacing in pain. Zaelro’s quick turn back revealed even worse – the struck-down shoulder was barely moving, if at all, as if her shoulder bone had been smashed to pieces with that swift bludgeon. And Mina falling down gave more than ample chance for the Black Vampire soldiers surrounding them to immediately apprehend her with a multitude of blades pointed to her neck. Their leader, at that sight, was only too glad to drop in a disparaging look at his new prisoner.
“Well, well, well,” he clapped mockingly as he advanced towards his downed prisoner. “The traitorous Princess Mina von Gendamme, captured by the faceless and nameless hero of the Emperor, who then promptly brought the Black’s justice upon her at the edge of the sword. That would make a fine song for the bards to sing, don’t you think?”
Realization of the newest development stun-struck her two comrades for a second, as they stared at the current happening, their faces in utter terror and disbelief. Although, judging from the present situation, there was squat they both could do to help her – the nines of blades around her neck would remove her head in the slightest provocation, and it was likely they had no qualms against it.
“Get off her.” Zaelro gritted his teeth as he stared at the villain, his sword in tight grip. “Now!”
“I haven’t talked about you yet,” the villain tossed an intimidating stare at the surrounded two. “Worry and impatient not – you’ll follow her soon enough. So now,” he turned to his prisoner, a sarcastic smirk to the epitome of sadism stretching across his face, “any last word, Princess?”
“Unfortunately for you,” sneered the captured huntress, realizing, and accepting, the worst possible. “There are hundreds and thousands of those more talented than myself who will stop at nothing to topple your so-called Black Empire. Mark my words.”
“Time’s up,” maniacally laughed the Chaos Vampire, gazing at the gleaming edge of the Sword of Darkness. “I’ll carry out the punishment with the Emperor’s gift – nice sword, isn’t it?”
“Stop right there!” as if having previously agreed with each other, the Valhallan commander and the vampire hunter both exclaimed in resolute, as they simultaneously rushed at the mass of enemies above. There was no use, apparently, for a quick wave of the Faceless’ palm, unleashing whatever dark magic he withheld within the depth of Gespenst at them, in the form of an invisible push, knocking both combatants backwards and crawling on the ground, at which point he gave out another of his signature laughter – cruel, sadistic and filled to the brim with mocking sardonism.
“You can do squat, imbeciles,” he spoke, in a laughter-distorted, maniacal voice. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the execution.”
The dark Vjaya in his hand glared an evil gleam. Or was it the beastly murderer that had tainted the sacred treasure of the followers of Solus? In any case, he was all too pleased to sink the blade into her neck in the most gruesome way imaginable. With utter helplessness the two of them could but gazed on, their weapons clutched so tightly that their hands could bleed. There was absolutely nothing they could do, after all…
Or maybe there was.
“Here I come!” a large, low, but hearty voice signature of an old, spirited cavalier sounded right behind the mass of black vampire soldiers holding Mina captive, followed by a loud, clear, heavenly, yet strangely familiar to the demigod, marking something dramatic to come in short notice.
The next thing Zaelro knew and the last thing that the vampire soldiers in question realized was a huge column of golden sunlight tearing through the dark sky above and collapsing on their head, one of such purity and intensity that they were charred to ash in no time, leaving nothing but their Nightshade armors and weapons falling on the ground around the captive with loud, resounding series of soulless, empty clatters signifying a thorough annihilation. Before the rest of the vampire guards around the Chaos vampire could react, either by fleeing or jumping in to take their incinerated comrades’ seat to secure the prisoner, the golden visage of a celestial steed had engulfed their darkness-affined eyes, blinding them in a mix of panic and daze. By the time they recovered from the stunning splendid appearance, they were already powerless. Their prisoner had been snatched from their grips, and was now comfortably sitting on the back saddle of the offending creature, a golden warhorse all too familiar to the Valhallan Regiment’s supreme commander, behind a full-plated Frankish horseman of exquisite skills and unmatched battle prowess.
“Sire, my apologies for having arrived late!” the warrior shouted, drawing the attention of the still-astonished supreme regimental commander. “There’s been some… problem at HQ, but it’s all done now – nicely settled.”
“Sieur de l’Aquitaine!” realization burst out with a positive exclamation of astonishment from the Englishman. “You made it on time!”
“That is not all the astonishment, sire,” remarked the Frankish Paladin in question. “I’ve got a delivery for you as a further commemoration, sire!”
The French knight then patted symbolically on his warhorse’s golden mane, a set of mane so exquisitely unique that only gods, demigods and archangels could afford one.
“And… Steedy!” Zaelro exclaimed as he stared at the wondrous steed. “You are alright after all!”
“So it seemed that Kombus Grungedale is as good a healer as he is a destroyer, sire,” hummed the horse with clear pleasure. “His administration healed me to perfect health in just a mere five days. The only thing he was unable to do is to regrow my tail hair, but I suppose it is not needed right now.”
He was right. All the scars, discolored patches, as well as a large number of bone-deep burns had been removed from Steedy’s body, and the horse was now standing before him, as splendidly looking as when he was delivered, not mentioning the burnt tail, which would take anything from weeks to months to grow back to its fluffy, blissful length. And if any more doubt was cast upon his health, the intensity and sheer power of the sunlight column he summoned just now was enough to convince everyone still uncertain of his full recovery. His healing aura was back in action, reinvigorating the wounded vampire huntress perched on his back visibly, returning a healthy, rosy shade to her cheeks as she bathed in his radiant light.
The commander rubbed his eyes once more, fearing that the fatigue of the night had been playing tricks with his eyes. But the joyful, gladly spirited hail from a nameless soldier behind the enemy lines struck him right at that instance, clearing out Zaelro’s doubt, if any at all.
“Reinforcement has arrived!” the soldier’s voice boomed like a solid thunder break. “Victory is ours! Kill them all!”
Zaelro nodded with all due gratefulness and relieve as the joy of the moments realization came to his notice in full swing. Behind them, from the broken school gate, forth poured a full twenty-scores-strong unit of mounted Frankish Paladins, their crusader shields and legendary long lance led the way as they ripped their own path through the mass of still astonished enemies, impaling them indiscriminately. Perfect heart-shots were scored along with deafening screeches of tearing pains as the cavaliers glided along, giving their enemies no time to properly retaliate. As if that was not enough, the next moment was marked by a standard, eighteenth-century-era volley of musket and matchlock fire, shredding through the night with their distinctive thundering booms and barrel-mouth smoke stubs, equally tearing through the Nightshade armors of those unfortunate enough to stand in the way of lead. To further reinforce the overkill, the elite-trained shock troopers of the plains by the name Don Cossacks and their lesser, but still nevertheless elite compatriots, the Muscovy Partisan Pikemen, had charged into the battlefield in droves, cutting down anyone bearing the red-black uniform still alive after the gunfire and the Frankish cavalier ride.
The five minutes that followed showed how rapidly the table could turn, with the vampires being wiped out at an incredible rate, with every possible style of death derived straight from the history textbook to cater to all possible tastes – trampled, impaled, shot, crushed, beheaded, bashed to death, sliced by cavalry sabers, multi-pierced by heavy infantry… you name it. Their total unawareness of the impending deaths and their overconfidence in a promised victory meant that they could barely react when the thunder came rolling all over them. In no more than seven and a half minutes, the field was cleared of the majority of the red-black figures, with their too little and too late attempts to resist doing almost no damage at all to the reinforcement. The bloodied field became even bloodier when the blitz was over, being filled up to the brim with hundreds of the Black Emperor’s dark crimson-clad soldiers’ lifeless bodies, in the finest example of what a military disaster meant.
So swiftly and without warning the instance of defeat slammed into the Chaos Vampire’s conscience that he was thoroughly stunned while his troops was being annihilated. His inhuman, featureless face was frozen in place, helplessly fixed on the scene of carnage he never expected, not even understanding what was happening, let alone react to his mass of defenseless troops being slaughtered by the seconds. It was only when a vampire soldier – effectively the last – was shot right through the skull by a well-aimed shot credited to Count Schwagger and collapsed right before him that he realized that his entire detachment had been utterly annihilated by the meddling army.
His eyes rolled, his eyebrows raised and his entire face trembled in a fit of heightened rage as the next notion became obvious. He was surrounded many times over by the victors, their spears, lances, muskets, flintlocks and whatever weapon they brandished unanimously pointing at him – weapons that the age-old vampire had never thought could harm him, let alone dealing such a crippling, humiliating blow. In his savage, half-crazed eyes like a caged beast he tossed around his conquerors, Zaelro could readily read a complicated combination of denying disbelief and consummate madness, a dangerous, lethal instance that racked up some turbulence of uneasiness in his guts as he glanced at the cornered beast. His uneasiness was well-grounded – for there is no beast more dangerous than a cornered one.
His anxiety was proved just the minute later, as the Chaos Vampire’s next action thoroughly startled even his would-be captors, rendering them helpless. With a dull, wicked, yet desperate grin of a wounded proud animal not at all willing to give up the cause, the Faceless One suddenly sprang up into the air, at a height that even the long pikes of the Hoplites could not reach, pushing himself up to the same height as the building’s third storey, to the astonishment of all those surrounding him. The maneuver was not magical in nature, but rather a product of extreme agility, bypassing the spears and swords pointed at him with utter impunity. But his purpose was not to run away. He then somersaulted in the air, maneuvering his bulky, armored form airborne as flexibly as if weightless, before gliding diagonally downward at a well aimed angle, right at the most vulnerable spot in the entire Valhallan formation at the current battle setting.
There was the sharp, piercing, morbid sound of Vjaya running through and severing the necks of two unfortunate, unknowing Frankish Paladins stationed at his destination, their cleaved, pot-helmed head freefalling on the ground as their body lost balance and slid off horseback in the same, nonchalant manner.
“Ah!”
As Zaelro turned back instinctively to catch a glimpse of what was happening, he instantly understood the purpose behind the vampire’s seemingly foolish landing. Florine’s horrified and startled exclamation from behind the two unfortunate paladins’ location at once brought forth the sense of logic behind the Chaos Vampire’s action to the Regiment’s commanding circle. He didn’t plan on a suicidal charge as previously thought. What he had in mind was a hold-up in its most basic form, as practiced by terrorists and bank robbers all over the world.
“Look what I have here,” the defeated creature chuckled, as if having turned the table. “I dearly wish you would forgive me for this rude resolution, Princess.”
He sounded as if his excuse was sincere enough – being held from behind with the deadly Vjaya held to the throat was not something anyone could easily stand. So swiftly he acted that the White Princess could do squat to defend herself, beside stepping backward a single step, an useless resistance anyway. And now she stood there, with a blade pressed against one side of her neck and a trembling, enraged arm of a madden beast with nothing to lose strangling the other, in a classic reenactment of a much documented hostage crisis throughout history, a dilemmatic situation as old as history itself with few standard procedures for relief.
“Forget about the traitor,” the crazed vampire smirked with a savage amusement as he glanced at his captive with some degree of enlightenment. “As long as I can bring you back to the Emperor I’d still get my share of reward.”
“Don’t even think about that!” scowled the prisoner. “I won’t perish that easily!’
“Oh, no, pretty lass. His Majesty will not even harm you a little bit!” the Faceless stated. “He’ll just… give you to the man who desired you the most – it was high time General Entgegen got his paycheck as well!”
“You…” for some reason Florine’s face went pale as soon as she heard the name, a paleness not derived from fear, but from utter disgust, a sheer repugnant thought that repelled all her other words.
“Oh yes, yes, Princess. For numerous times His Majesty has promised the unrelenting genius your hand in marriage – It is unlikely that a monarch can lie, can he?”
Florine did not say a word, her expression showed the signs of reprisal in the highest form, as if she was allergic to the name the Chaos Vampire had just muttered even more so than the Black Emperor’s name itself – her teeth clenched, her eyes glowing in a fit of disgust and anger unknown before, the same one that her adversary was now regarding with utmost, twisted amusement.
“As if you can get away with her,” Mina exclaimed as she dismounted and faced the beast. “You are surrounded ten times over!”
“Oh? Is that so?” he asked back. “Why should I care? To His Majesty, delivering her head is as great an accomplishment as delivering her whole. Now, if you don’t want the worst to happen, why don’t you step aside?”
“Coward! Oathbreaker!” Sir Jonathan reacted rather violently, his knight sword waved into the sky in a challenging manner as he briskly walked to face the beast. “Leave the girl alone and fight me like a man!”
“Nice job demonstrating that edge, knight,” remarked the hostage holder. “But hey, in battle efficiency should be held above all else – including your trashy sense of honor. So… would you like to retreat, or would you want me to resort to delivering her head in a golden case to His Majesty?”
There was a brief moment of silence as the leaders of the Valhallan regiment stared at one another blankly, not being able to come up with any sound solution. Zaelro could not blame them though – in their entire military lives, never had they encountered enemies so repugnantly dastardly to resort to hostage holding to resolve a military failure – other than for ransom, of course.
“Sire, this…” Oredin hesitated.
“I know. We can either press the attack or let him leave with Florine Silverlance,” Zaelro propped his chin, sweat running don his forehead in a fit of anxiety. “Either way the result is undesirable – Florine will suffer regardless.”
“So, what’s your final choice?” the ever-irritating tone of the mass murderer was starting to get on everyone’s nerve as his sarcasm escalated. “I am waiting – our generosity in terms of time is limitless…”
“Maybe we really don’t have another choice,” Zaelro mumbled as he gazed at his lieutenants, before turning to the terrorist. “Keep in mind that we’ll have her back whenever we can!”
Florine’s desperate shook of pleas and Sir Jonathan’s obvious objection at Zaelro’s words was well seen – and devoured by the vampire’s sadistic smile.
“A wise choice, a wise choice,” victoriously laughed the beast. “Five hundred cannon fodders for a grand prize – what a bargain…”
“Or maybe it is not necessary, Master Fastoff…”
The echoing, celestial voice in the horizon was the last thing that everyone, apart from Zaelro, could hear after that. As the shimmering column of light accompanying it collapsed on the gathering, breaking the dark night, a feeling of numbness ran across the flesh of all those present, freezing both their bodies and time as a whole to a complete standstill. When the column had finished its round and subsided, everything turned back to normal again – or maybe, not everything. There, the distortion in time and space had taken its fullest effect, encasing all those present in a dark blackish shade of disablement, as well as the ground, the grass, the constructs, and everything about them. Before long, the entire garden had become an exhibition of living statues, trapped in the stagnation of time beyond the conventional.
The Demigod commander of the Valhallan regiment was the only exception to it. When the English teen was aware of the current event, he was standing among a space discolored and stopped to the point of unrecognizability, in a gap of time so created by an unknown entity he had yet to see. The moment’s confusion as a result of a sudden resolution was enough to override any fear or panic that it would usually strike into one’s heart.
“Who’s there?” Zaelro found himself asking the shadow on impulse. “What is this all about?”
“Master Fastoff, my apologies for having interrupted,” a warm, solemn, and scholarly voice of relative familiarity echoed in the frozen space as Zaelro looked around. The source was soon identified as the teen looked upward. Suspending over his head, hanging a dozen feet above was a golden, wisp-like, ethereal sphere, with a human face, looking upon him with utmost sincerity and ceremony, as he slowly descended on him.
“Illus Grungedale?” Zaelro asked in revelation.
“Indeed, Master Fastoff,” the Chief Spirit of the Grungedale Paladinian Cross spoke, as he descended. When he had declined to a certain attitude, his form began to morph, as his wisp-like structure began to bend, shape, and expand, like a blobbing mass of malleable material being molded into a recognizable shape. The strange ceremony ended when the mass of ethereal material had fully cast its shape into a human form – a standing, golden, glowing Illus Grungedale as Zaelro knew, with the pious look of faith signature of a worshipper of the Light, stationed right before the demigod, separated from him by just a narrow patch of discolored grass.
“Well… I… I kind of didn’t expect to see you twice in the same night, let alone with all this… fanfare,” Zaelro remarked, trying to conceal his climaxing astonishment as he gazed around the field, and then back to the spirit in question. “So what did you come here for?”
“This isn’t usually the time for us to declare this, Master Fastoff,” the spirit said, a glint of joy visible in his eyes. “Still, I am here today to inform you of the result of your final Sword’s Honor test.”
Stopping for a moment, as if to gather up the needed suspense, the spirit then declared in full ceremony, his voice heightened in terms of both loudness and importance.
“Lord Zaelro Samuel Fastoff, you have passed the final Sword’s Honor challenge with flying colors. As a result, coupled with the prior results of the other individual tests, I hereby declare you to be the next, official wielder of the Grungedale Paladinian Cross. May Justice be with the Light and all its believers!”
“Master, let me also inform you that your score in my test is much higher than that of Prince Argeus when he took the challenge,” the spirit lowered his voice as he translated the official wording into a more easily understandable version for his new master. “And which means from now on, you are our undisputed master and lord, and we and our powers will serve you without any hesitation on your noble quest!”
Even when the echo of the official speech and the declaration that followed had faded, Zaelro was not sure if he had heard the right thing, being totally seized by a fit of astonishment like no other, and in conjunction with the rapidly developing situation, the best he could do was to stop himself, albeit barely, from total confusion.
“What… what did you say again, Illus?” Zaelro asked, not being sure of his question any more. “How could I have passed? It... It is not like I expected to fail, but… how could I have passed an exam that I have hardly taken? And… how could I have scored higher than Argeus? He’s an invincible powerhouse!”
“I see that you are rather confused, master. Let me explain to you this inconsistency,” Illus replied. “The reason why the final test’s content was hidden away from you is because it is not a test of battle merit, but a test of morality.”
“Test of morality?” Zaelro raised his eyebrow as he propped his chin. “Exactly what is it?”
“This morality comes in many forms. Friendship. Humanity. Hospitality. Philanthropy. Altruism. There are many names for what I have assessed you, Master Fastoff,” the spirit said. “This is what sets it apart from the rest of the Sword’s Honor trial, and what makes it highly difficult, if not the most difficult, to the standard Paladin Lords of Hadrius.”
“I still don’t understand,” Zaelro shook. “Again, please?”
“For example, what you would do when you see a child being bullied, or a house on fire with an infant stuck in the second floor, or a traffic accident with many wounded,” stated Illus. “To such situations, some people would immediately turn tail and run, others stand trembled as the victim is claimed, still more gather around with a lot of curiosity but no will to help. But there are people who will do everything in their power to save lives in such situations. That, Master Fastoff, is what I assess in the final test, which you have done wondrously where many Paladins have failed, and others struggled with it, including Prince Argeus Sunrise.”
“What have I done?” Zaelro’s confusion seemed lessened, but nowhere near settlement.
“What you have done just now, as the battle commenced, Master,” Illus calmly restated. “Had you abandoned your friends behind and, like Count Schwagger suggested, garrison yourself in the school building, you would have rightfully scored your first decisive victory as a general at the likely expense of your friends’ lives. You didn’t do that, and in doing so risked your very life against an enemy many times more powerful. This action of yours effectively placed you even higher than the Prince in this assessment.”
“But why exactly was this?” Zaelro asked back. “The Paladin Order is supposed to be made of the kindest and most benevolent people of the realms, isn’t it? How could they have had difficulty with this test of morality?”
“Because they are not just paladins, Master,” answered the spirit. They are also generals. Commanders. Those in charge of leading their brethrens into battle and wrest victory from the jaws of defeat as efficiently as possible. Their faith in the Light is unswayable, yet they primarily think like generals, ruthless, calculating players in the theatre of war who must do everything and anything to secure victory for their side. A great strength and a great weakness, all in one.”
“But you, sir, you are not a born general. Your mindset is that of an innocent teenager raised with love from those around you, having learnt to reciprocate that love and affection throughout your life, who finds any political and military maneuver placing those you love repugnant and unacceptable. That is why you passed where others either failed or passed with great difficulties.”
Zaelro stood stunned for a moment as he digested all the information. The news struck him with such suddenness and thorough unexpectedness that his confusion was nowhere near solved.
“I... still don’t get it too well,” admitted the demigod.
“You’ll find out about it all later on, Master Fastoff,” Illus replied. “As for now, we still have work to do, don’t we?”
At the spontaneous clap on behalf of the Chief Spirit, a tricolored bolt of light poured forth from the sky, illuminating the ground with such intensity that Zaelro thought it was going to burn. As the column subsided, so did three corresponding colored figure emerged before him, two familiar faces led by an even more acquainted visage, grinning victoriously at him as he appeared.
“Master Fastoff! I know you can do it!” cried Kombus Grungedale joyously as he stared at his brothers, with his loud, mischievous grin. “See, brothers, I know a master when I see him!”
“Yeah, thanks for the congratulations,” smiled Zaelro. “And another big thank-you for healing Steedy to good health in such godspeed!”
“That’s just along the lines of duty, Master Fastoff!” replied the pyromaniac. “Do you have anything I can set fire to now, Master?”
“Later, Kombus,” mildly disciplined the golden spirit. “We have work to do now,” Illus then turned to Zaelro. “Master Fastoff, I would request that you give us the Paladin Sword of yours for the ceremony.”
“So what is being done?” Zaelro asked, but still handing over his weapon anyway.
“As you have seen before, Master, Grungedale has no shape and no body of its own,” explained the Chief Spirit as he ceremoniously received the longsword-rapier hybrid. “It is directly manifested into the context of the weapon of our master at our consent. In short, from now on, our place is with your weapon. We will become one with it, to give it the power you need to conquer your enemies.”
As soon as he spoke the last word of his explanation, Illus raised the blade high into the sky, as his three brothers began to chant in an unclear, presumably ancient language, silently giving rise to a respectively colored column of light churning up from their very origin. The columns of light bended at a certain altitude, at which point they joined together, before descending straight up to the sky, as if notifying the deities of the advent of a new wielder of the Paladinian Cross Grungedale. The combined, white pillar of aura pierced the night, and as it penetrated beyond Zaelro’s visibility, a response came in the form of a reciprocating column, albeit a much larger and more intense one, closing onto Zaelro and his spirits with such velocity that he could barely cover his eyes when the dazzle took him over.
Zaelro then opened his eyes to find that, amidst the mysterious ceremony, the four brothers have disappeared, leaving but a specter of their previous chromatic shades behind. As the teen gradually recovered, he realized where they could have gone. There, pinned on the ground was his weapon, only that it looked no more like the Paladin Sword that he had known of. The Paladin Sword’s rapier-like guardpiece had disappeared, in its place a four-pronged double guardpiece akin to that of Argeus’ sword just now, bearing the same multicolored shade around each edge. From its origin, the blade had changed thoroughly, generating an aura of pure power, as the runes on its remodeled blade shone, encasing the golden-glared masterpiece with a tubular layer of pure light. Whatever was there, it was no longer the meager Paladin Sword that had been providing him with the needed defense in the past few days. It was the Paladinian Cross Grungedale, the pride of the Hadrian paladins, reserved only for the most highly esteemed of champions of Light.
With hands still trembling from the moment’s awe and nervousness, Zaelro approached the blade now rightfully his, drawing it off the ground with one hand. He could have done so with one finger – the weapon felt as if it had no weight of its own. No sooner than the demigod grabbed the weapon and raised it into the air than a strong, powerfully tingling, but otherwise harmless current passed through his every muscle, as his hair stood on ends. As the current ran through the course of his body, so did his muscles become empowered, his own weight lightened, as if the weight of his own body no longer a significant load to his newfound power. He felt as if provided he wanted to, he could easily uproot a large tree in the schoolyard, with bare hand now.
“Excellent,” the familiar voice of Illus Grungedale sounded within the shaft of the blade. “Master Fastoff, you have accepted the blessing of the Paladinian Cross. It is high time you take care of the business at hand.”
“But how? That monster has Florine captive you know?” Zaelro’s thought flashed back to the White Vampire maiden being held captive. “Any brass action now can get her killed!”
“Worry not, Master Fastoff,” came Illus’ answer. “Now that you have been chosen as the rightful master of Grungedale, we are now allowed to unleash our full power to aid you!”
“Are you sure you can?” Zaelro asked back nervously. “Remember that Florine’s life is at stake here!”
“I promise with the honor of a two-thousand-year-old spirit, Master Fastoff,” reassured Illus. “My brother and I have with us exactly the tools for hunting down such turbulence as this.”
“Alright, I’ll trust you,” Zaelro said, after mulling over the offer. “What should I do next then?”
“The flow of time in this place is now yours to command, Master Fastoff. Whenever you wish, time will flow back on its course again. Do so when you feel ready. And then we shall unleash our full power at the offending monster.”
Zaelro nodded in agreement as he glanced at the edge with due approval.
“So let time be back on its course then,” Zaelro declared.
All at once, the space of the schoolyard was relieved of its spell – color returned primarily to the many objects in the yard, giving rise to a sudden, abrupt resuscitation of the surrounding as a whole. As the seal of time broke, so did his soldiers, his friends, and even his enemies returned to the routinely breathing, signifying their existence. It was as if the latest development had never happened, as if Grungedale had never been in place.
And as time resumed its flow, so did the moment’s tension returned, with the Faceless still holding up the White Princess, with the annoying, triumphant smile of a villainous rogue, much to the Valhallan Regiment’s annoyance.
“What are you waiting for then?” demanded the monster, still pressing his edge on Florine’s neck. “Get out of the way!”
Zaelro smirked. In the minutes that the Faceless was unaware, a dramatic change in strategic comparison had taken place, to the point that the table has turned completely.
“The deal is off, demon,” Zaelro declared loudly, to everyone else’s gasp of terror and lack of understanding, including the monster in question. “You are not going anywhere, and neither is Florine Silverlance!”
“S… sire?” trembled Sir Jonathan as he asked back, his eyes of disbelief staring at his leader from top to toe in a rather rude manner. “What… what do you mean?”
Oredin and the other members of the regiment’s commanding circle were similarly staring at Zaelro with the same eyes of disbelief, as if their benevolent commander had changed thoroughly for no reason. So did the vampire hunters, their stares at their new ally knew no limit of astonishment
“I said the deal is off,” Zaelro ignored the multitude of piercing stares at him from all directions, and repeated, with an increasingly threatening voice, drawing even more gasps and awes from all over his ranks. “Release Florine now, and you may have a chance to return home safely. Otherwise…”
“Well then,” the monster said after his share of astonishment, which didn’t last too long. “I suppose I’d have to rip her cold, bloody head right from the scene now…”
A flick of terror glanced over Florine’s beautiful expression. She, after all, was not yet prepared for such an untimely demise, and the glare of the imminent Vjaya below her neck was not at all a pleasant sight to behold. However, that was the last thing Zaelro intended to see.
“Grungedale Brothers! Now!” exclaimed Zaelro as he flashed his blade forward, waiting for Illus to fulfill his promise.
And so obeyed the Chief Spirit. The cross-sword in Zaelro’s hand began to shine in a divinely eerie light, radiating in all directions, with slim, but blinding beams, like tiny daggers of light slicing through the darkness as well as the eyes of all those unfortunate enough to look straight at the source. To the Chaos Vampire, that performance was even more harmful, the intensive radiant beams thoroughly blinding the beast, stopping him from any possible reaction, even one as simple as shifting the edge a bit to sever Florine’s head. Had it not been for the light-deflecting Gespenst Set he wore, that kind of light would have easily pierced his dark magic-ridden body like laser beams slicing through ice.
And then, all of a sudden, the sword flew out of his hand, blasting upwards, as if on its own will. When it was at a certain height, around the equivalent of the fourth floor, out of its edge flew four chromatic spheres, the essence of the Grungedale Brothers’ existence, as they circled around the weapon a few time, before, unlike Argeus’ own performance, suddenly colluded with one another, joining themselves into a singular, undistinguishable mass of ethereal energy, pure white in color. And then the mass began to mold and shape themselves, this time resulting in, after a cloud-like bending, molding and self-reshaping airborne, an unknown entity, of majestic appearance and untold power.
Zaelro’s first impression of the arrival of this new entity was via the impression of imposition in its existence alone. The newcomer arrived in the form of a winged entity, much alike and yet wholly different from a Terran angel, as his wing was metallic in look and draconic in construct, with scaly, shredding sharpness at its every edge. An equally shining, bulky, and similarly imposing armor – heavy plate armor – covered his entire body, the kind of armor weighing as much as the fighter himself, heavily decorated with a multitude of symbols and emblems. The heavy lion shield and the large, supposedly two-handed claymore he held in one hand only helped to make the heavy load of armor more and more cumbersome to the eyes of the beholders. It was wondrous how he could even stay in the air with that kind of equipment, let alone gliding down to ground level with as much skill and accuracy as he did.
“I am the Grungedale Devastator Spirit,” introduced the newcomer, in a celestial tone of voice not unlike that of Argeus himself as he landed on the ground just before the astonished vampire. “My mission is to purge evil from the lands by the honorable commands of the Master.”
The being then stopped for a second to look at the offending creature, still not understanding what was happening, when he raised his eyebrows in a harsh, judgemental tone, akin to his tone of voice.
“You are the sinner,” he stared at the monster. “Thy sins shall be purged.”
The next thing Zaelro realized was the best performance of martial art he had ever seen since birth, as the Devastator Spirit launched himself at the Faceless One, throwing a deadly accurate slash at the arm holding up Florine, causing the vampire to jerk back. The opportunity was slim, but Florine managed to duck below her captor’s other arm as it tried to grasp her back to his control, rolling out of the way, and back towards the lines of Valhallan soldiers.
Her luck came at the expense of the Faceless’, as the creature was now open for the next full three-scores of the Devastator Spirit’s relentless attacks, as colorful as it was deadly and lethal, one going as close as almost severing his head had the blacksteel collar of the Black Gespenst Armor not blocked the slanting slash, and another placing a large dent on the plates on his unshielded arm. The final of the salvo of attacks came in the form of a full-blown uppercut, somehow lifting the entire body – and the armor – of the offending creature upward, lobbing it into the air ten feet above, climaxing with the Devastator Spirit leaping up light as a bird to his level, before, taking the claymore in both hands, slamming down on his head with his full might, tackling the tainted creature back to the ground with an accelerated freefall. The result was the paved ground where he fell being shattered on impact, its fragments hurled all over the place. As the dust subsided, there was no motion on behalf of the vampire, laying facedown on the broken earth, not likely to wake up any time now.
“Death to all sinners,” the Devastator Spirit nodded as he landed on the ground before the creature, before, having possibly done all what he could, severed himself into four original chromatic spheres, ascending up to the Grungedale still suspended in mid-air, absorbing themselves into the very context of the blade. And then the Grungedale descended back, gracefully, into the hands of its rightful owner, neatly and soundly as if nothing had happened.
The impact of the assault was so spectacular that everyone in the gathering, including those attuned to the mystics, were caught with dropping jaws, and stayed like that for a good minute after the blade had dissipated. It was difficult not to, for the creature that a combined effort of Zaelro, Florine, Takashi, Mina and Suuichi could not even leave a dent was overcome in seconds by a being that came out of nowhere. It was not before a good moment of stun-struck silence that Oredin was able to address a question again.
“S… Sire?” the Hoplite’s voice was still trembling from the excitement of the moment. “What... what was that… spirit?”
“Well, as he named himself the Devastator Spirit, we shall know him as that,” Zaelro replied, his own awe not subsided himself. “That is… the product of the full power of the Paladinian Cross unleashed.”
To prove his point, Zaelro raised his blade for everyone to behold. The double-guardpiece blade shone on his hand proudly as a finest of replies for that question.
“This… this is Lord Argeus’ personal blade,” spoke Oredin, a positive surprise intertwined with admiration filling his helmet inside-out, as he suddenly slumped down and bowed deeply. “Our most sincere congratulations to you, sire! You have indeed proven yourself as the Chosen One!”
The result of that action was a resounding, simultaneous clattering as the entire regiment, following their leader’s example, slumped down in congratulation. Having known that overt sincerity of his soldiers more than enough now, Zaelro was still somewhat taken aback by the resulting noise. While a dozen suits of armors slumping down was already astounding a sight, two thousand suits of armors of all designs collapsing on the ground at the same time, coupled with the weight of their wearers was another different matter entirely, creating an impact tantamount to a mild earthquake in the urban setting, as the ground itself rumbled in their wake.
“Okay, okay, stand up, everyone” Zaelro bent down as he signaled his men to stand up, a smile of both deserved pride and uncomfortable abashment reigned on his face as he spoke. Regardless, that act of great loyalty and respect still left its effect, the much needed fuzzy feeling in the general’s mind.
The next thing he was aware of, though, came in the form of a highly disturbing glint of darkness in the distance as a chilly wave of air flew by, cutting the back of his neck as if drawing his attention. The commander whipped his neck backwards, and to his and all those who beheld’s horror, the supposedly dead Chaos Vampire had gotten enough time to rise up, and, with a crazed, murderous glare in his eyes, only much, much more savage and reeked of devastation or wish thereof. Was it just Zaelro, or was it that Vjaya had grown more bloodthirsty itself? Regardless, the Faceless’ stealth attack aimed directly at the White Princes, yet to taken cover behind the lines, not at all paying attention to his edge.
“Now you DIE!” roared the beast, as if all of his sanity had been beaten to pulp and crushed following the Devastator Spirit’s attack. Florine could only turn back with a bewildered face to see for herself what was happening, and at that time, it was already too late – the monster’s charge had been so near consummation that there was no way she could swerve on time. In horror, the girl braced herself with closed eyes, waiting for an untimely ending.
And there was a sharp, tearing sound of a piercing weapon entering flesh as everyone gasped in horror. But as Florine opened her eyes, she could feel no pain at all. The reason – she wasn’t even hit. The Chaos Vampire, his Vjaya only a foot from its designated target was hanging frozen in place, and the murderer’s face was now engulfed in his own bewilderment as he looked downward. Someone, or more likely, something, had pierced through even the impeccable defense of the Black Gespenst, stabbing him from back to front. Out of his chest the offending weapon stuck out as a blade… made of transparent, seemingly harmless air.
“You…” he turned back as much as his neck could allow, his eyes rolled at the unseen opponent.
“I have promised and I will keep that promise,” the sullen, yet weak and seemingly out-of-breath voice of the culprit sounded behind him both as a declaration and a challenge to anyone else hoping to do the same. “Those wanting to harm Florine Silverlance must step over Takashi Minamoto’s cold, bloody corpse.”
It was doubtful if the Faceless One could actually hear the last sentence, his armored form collapsing on the ground with a loud thud. Yet, his fate was unknown, for the moment his seemingly lifeless corpse touched the ground, it dissipated, leaving nothing behind – not even a bit of ash to show that he had been taken to Hell for good – except for his helmet, having fallen off his skull before he hit the ground. The famed Shadowcast Helm was now Zaelro’s to take.
“Are… are you alright?” Takashi stood up, albeit with a lot of difficulty, gasped for breath as he tried to pull himself upright, having definitely exerted more than his current condition could allow as he asked Florine.
“I am… fine. Just fine,” replied the White Princess as she hurried to his side, a genuine look of anxiety for him overriding the yet-to-subside fear. “You are not well! Don’t waste your strength; just stay down and rest!”
“Ha,” Takashi replied, “I persistently refuse to meet up with my ancestors just yet.”
His statement did have some merit. Although nowhere near perfect condition, at least the critical, comatose status he was slumped into for the duration of the battle was no more, as he stood, albeit still with some difficulty due to the overstrained muscles and lungs.
“Hmm, you heard the lady,” Zaelro smirked at his friend. “It’s time we call it a day, isn’t it? There is no one left to fight actually – you slept through most of the action.”
However, the scene of the battlefield was appalling enough to make any idea of “calling it a day” sounding off-beat. The battlefield was by no means inferior to a standard World War I No Man’s Land, in terms of body counts and devastation, with the dead bodies of almost six hundred dead bodies of all factions strewn around the place. Beneath the fallen, the ground itself was badly scarred, broken, trampled by a multitude of armored feet in a battle that knew of no precedents in the vicinity. Broken and trashed weapons lined up along with their dead owners, together with the evening breeze were creating a melodramatic scenario, harmful to the optimistic mind.
“That’s a big mess,” Sieur de l’Aquitaine remarked. “Sire, should we leave the field as it is, or…”
“We don’t have a choice, do we?” Zaelro said. “Leave them here and tomorrow the entire city will panic with the news of a large scale vampire invasion. Not good.”
“Worry not, sire, our soldiers will get to work immediately,” reassured Oredin. “This meager task is nothing for the soldiers of the Valhallan Regiment!”
Barely could Oredin Kaledon finish his speech, for the next moment, a meteorological effect tantamount to a thunder bolt amidst the clear sky struck down, hitting the patch of empty land beyond the assembly of troops, resulting in a large, ominous blast setting off with the full-scale noise of a cluster bomb.
“A regiment, huh? That is an interesting sight to behold…”
A booming, yet sullen and ringing voice resounded evilly in the distance amidst the smoke, snapping the lines of conversation once more, once again forcing the inner circle of the Valhallan Regiment to face it. Maybe it was just Zaelro, but he did feel a strong, negative wave of chilling air reminiscent of impending death radiating around the source of the sound as he heard it even before turning back.
His notions were well founded – where the bolt of lightning struck the earth now stood a figure, shrouded in a mist of darkness from his very origin, as if he was made of darkness himself. A regal figure, Zaelro could assume, judging from the crown, the imperial-looking robes, and the iconic scepter he adorned. The only deviation from the standard royal figure is that this dark-shrouded newcomer had all his garment, apparels and accessories, painted in the pitch black color of the night sky and the unknown, a tone of color directly conflicting with his white, cold, and equally ruthless visage. As he stood, the dark mist from his very origin expanded at his feet, creating a rain-cloud-like mass of ominous fog hanging heavily beneath his heel, as if the pale black of his suit and his evil, malevolent smile of a cruel warlord stopping at nothing to get his ambition realized was not enough. The darkness around him was all what was needed to confirm that this being must be a member, a very high-ranking one indeed, of the Black Vampire society.
As Zaelro drove his sight back towards his comrades for an instance, he noticed Mina was frowning extensively at the appearance of the newcomer, her mouth trembled in both disgust and some degree of the emotion she never seemed to have had – fear. That sensation turned for the more obvious when the dark visage suddenly turned to face her, his violent red, vampiric eyes scanning her from top to toe, burning with a notion he British teen could not yet come to grasp with. It was supposed to be an angry, maddened stare at a sworn enemy, but instead, all what Zaelro could decode was a displeased look of a parental figure, somewhat reminiscent of his father’s on eye when he broke his favorite Ming vase a few years ago.
“In the past few years I have had to accept taking you as an enemy, Mina,” the figure spoke, his echoing, thunderous voice carrying with it some instances of a father’s affection. “But this is a great astonishment, a great shock. No, it’s a disgrace to the very name you bear. How could you, in good conscience, ally yourself with the inferior humans to slaughter your own kin?”
“I no longer bear that name, Black Emperor,” the vampire huntress spoke sharply, as though trying to conceal the not too non-existence self-remorse in her own mind. “Now I regard you, your generals, and the troops you send to disturb the ongoing life of humanity as a threat of the highest level and a remorseless criminal who must be hunted down, no more, no less.”
“I have given you ample chance to change your allegiance, but a father’s generosity is near limitless. I won’t hesitate giving you another chance to redefine where your loyalty lies,” the black-clad figure of darkness spoke adamantly.
“I have decided and I won’t change,” asserted Mina. “I’ll seek to destroy you and those you follow, until death stops me from it.”
“I don’t want to be regarded by historians as the only filicidal emperor of the Gendamme house,” shook the figure, his words genuine to a certain degree. “Do not make me do this, Mina.”
“And she is not alone,” Zaelro found himself speaking in the line. “You are the Black Emperor Reglay von Gendamme aren’t you? Then let me tell you that you now hold things that don’t belong to you. You are at the top of our most-wanted list until you give them up, or die, whichever comes first.”
Zaelro’s eyes was met with the figure’s fiery, agitated, but challengingly wise look from the black figure in question, a gaze both frightening and filled with interest at the same time.
“So… you are the one in command of this… rabble, aren’t you?” the Black Emperor Reglay von Gendamme – no doubt – spoke, as he gave the youngster a thorough look. “I have to admit that you’ve done a fairly good job, commanding this undisciplined mass of castaway revenants from the ages of uncivilization to actually score a victory against my forerunners. You have my commendation.”
“What we need is the Prime Treasures of Terra that you have stolen from their sacred keeps,” Zaelro spoke with conviction. “It isn’t yours in the first place.”
“Boldly spoken for a feeble human, aren’t you?” smirked the pale white visage. “In all seriousness, think for yourself first. Our armies outnumber you by almost ten to one. Our soldiers bolder, better armed and better trained. Not to mention an age-old heritage of the proud Black Vampires that would not shatter under any pressure. Do you really think you can rip the Prime Treasures of Terra back from us?”
“I can, and I will,” Zaelro affirmed.
“Interesting. Far too interesting to ignore,” the Black Emperor nodded, his unholy paleness growing more inhuman as he spoke. “This is a special case throughout my life. If you were just a human I'd devour you. If you were just a general I'd honor you. But since you are both, I’ll give you an offer no less sincere than that I made to this… promising figure some time ago. You and your armies can join us in our campaigns, and your future will know no ends of glory and wealth, and eternal immortality is just the icing of the cake. Would you?”
“What a broken suggestion,” Zaelro ridiculed. “You must have read too little literature to realize that this kind of offer never works.”
“That was quite the fallacy and the disappointment, though not surprising considering your inferior race’s overproud tradition,” the Black Emperor replied, “If that is so, I hereby challenge you to a war, a war we both know you can't win. Even the famous Hector Silverlance couldn’t, what chance have you got?”
“You shall not insult my father any further, vile emperor!” Florine sprang forward, her silver rapier drawn. Whether she could use that weapon well, however, was a different matter entirely, and her adversary knew this better than anyone.
“Princess Silverlance, haven’t you forgotten why your father lost?” starkly reminded the dark figure. “Had you chosen to remain in the humble housewife role you were supposed to play, and serve as a fine companion in marriage for General Laglace Entgegen, I wouldn’t have received his help in such a timely manner, and your father… wouldn’t have lost that easily, would he?”
Florine stood stunned for a while, as if the Black Emperor’s words had touched an old wound in her heart, one nowhere near healed, kept biting at her conscience at the smallest provocation. And then, the White Princess’ eyes turned for the more savage, as she roared, tears starting to flood her eyes.
“You… Get out of my sight!” cried Florine, her voice torn up and distorted sounding more like a beast than a lady, as she tried to lunge at the villain, and would have very well done so, had the handy Prussian musketeers near her not held her back, with great difficulty, of course., as the White princess’ rage was wild and violent, in direct contrast with her normal, amiable and sweet self.
“There is no need to get sarcastic, fiend,” at that sight the valiant Sir Jonathan rode forth to face the villain. “You’ve issued a challenge, and we’ll accept it. Let the scores be settled at the frontline rather than by tormenting the defenseless lady!”
“Pretty much my knight has spoken all what I need to say, Black Emperor,” Zaelro restated. “We’ll talk with our swords crossed in the battlefield. You’ll see your defeat rolling in no time.”
“Then it is decided. Watch, human, as a Total War is going to be more devastating than your short-lived experience can imagine.” nodded the Black Emperor. “Still, I’ll try to give you a quick death as a commemoration of your brave deeds today soon enough. As for you,” he glanced back at Mina, “remember that you can deny everything except your blood and your kin. You are always welcome to return, however wrong you have gone.”
Before any more could be said, with another bolt of lightning struck at his every origin, the ominous figure vanished from the sight, leaving but a cloud of smoke and dust billowing in the wind. Yet, where he once stood the ground would never be the same again – even the grass withered and perished under his darkness-shrouded heels, leaving a circular patch of now devastated earth, darkened to the degree of unrecognizability. The shock that he introduced with his presence, similarly, stayed with the Valhallan Regiment even as he had vanished, as everyone stood in their place, still yet to recover from the moment’s awe. Florine was perhaps the only exception, her face sunken with resentment, her blade dangling downward from her hand, as if regretting not piercing through the vile overlord’s heart when she had the chance to.
“So that is Reglay von Gendamme,” Zaelro remarked when the smoke and dust around the lightning-struck spot died down. “A stereotypical dark lord, isn’t he?”
“Sire, please allow me, but,” Oredin spoke, slightly hesitated, “if he is serious about a military challenge then we are definitely disadvantageous. As of now, if we are to trust our intelligence details, he outnumbers and outpowers us in just about any imaginable aspect. If this is to continue, the 25th Valhallan Regiment is not enough. We must find sources of reinforcement.”
“I… I can do that,” Florine replied, at first with some hesitation, but grew bolder as her words flowed. “This is, after all, a war my father started. As his daughter I must finish his legacy.”
“You just told me a few days ago that you can spare no soldier of your own, and that Lord Hector’s army has been long devastated,” Zaelro questioned with due scrutiny. “So what is your final answer?”
“Yes, it is true that the Lucent Knights of the White Order under my father’s command is no more,” Florine nodded. “But that doesn’t mean the rest of the White Vampires will stand there. They should know where their loyalty lies.”
“So what is your plan then?”
“I intend to travel to the few known population hubs of our community,” Florine revealed. “There, I suppose I can still raise our standards to gather some – albeit poorly trained – recruits.”
“Where are these places?” Zaelro asked, his attention escalating.
“There are only three White settlements I believe still stand, with a sizable support for my father’s cause,” said the Princess. “One is the Northern quarters of Munich. The second is a small neighborhood in West End London. The third is a fishing village near Vladivostok.”
“Then let’s get it started,” fervently spoke Zaelro. “When do you plan to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” Florine said, looking determinately at the commander of the Valhallan Regiment, before glancing around the field. “These armaments the dead Black Vampires left on the field today, when properly repaired, can arm up to half a dozen hundred of our own troops.”
“Let us get to work then,” Mina asserted. “Zaelro, do you need any help clearing up the field?”
“Yes, I do, thanks,” the commander replied.
However, the thankful eyes Zaelro looked at Mina quickly changed to a more adamantly condemning look as his gaze redirected at the young swordsman figure behind her, the very fighter whose participation in the last battle was a brave and commendable one. And then Zaelro spoke, in a voice reflecting that degree of judgement.
“You… You are Suuichi Takeda, son of Kano and Rei Takeda, are you not?” Zaelro asked the young man in question.
“I am,” he replied. “What’s the prob…”
He could not finish that sentence, for the next thing that struck him was a powerful, raging punch on Zaelro’s part, aimed at his jaw, delivering him the concussion that shook the entire foundation of his skull, knocking him down on the ground, to the astonishment of all those present. The swordsman didn’t appear to be heavily injured by the attack, though his mouth was bleeding and his jaw bruised rather badly. Before him, Zaelro stood, his eyes the complete opposite of tolerance.
“Z… Zaelro?” Mina spoke, her voice terrified as she stared at the violent. “What… what are you doing?”
Her astonishment was not unilateral, for the entire Valhallan Regiment present were similarly stunned by what a rude and rash action their commander had thrown up, gasping in bewilderment. The teen in question, though, was neither daunted or shaken by all those eyes on him, and proceeded to deliver his verdict.
“That is just a mild physical punishment,” Zaelro sniffed spitefully as he rubbed his fist. “I thought that the grandson responsible for his own grandmother’s death would deserve much, much more than that.”
At those words, it seemed that the physical pain on the most sensitive spot on his face was no longer holding the victim’s attention. Immediately he sprang up, his eyes stared at Zaelro with all due horror and bewilderment.
“What… what did you just say?” he stuttered, partly due to the shock and partly owing to the bleeding mouth.
“Read for yourself and you’ll see what I mean,” Zaelro said, tossing a small piece of folded paper to him, which he picked up with trembling hand, unrolled it. No sooner than his eyes caught the first lines than he gave out a gasp, as his mouth stuttered some unclear, jumbled words. And when he had read it all, Suuichi dropped the sheet on the ground, his eyes and mouth opened at full width, as he looked at his judge, frozen like a statue, his mouth told of an unbearable remorse.
It was Yoshiko Takeda’s death certificate he had read.
******
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