Compared to Glenn’s battle, the situation on the other front was far more dire. With the kingdom’s reinforcements arriving one after another, the demons should have been steadily pushed back. Yet this time, the demon commander leading them was terrifyingly powerful.

  Fitt, the kingdom’s Vice Marshal and Grand Instructor of the Griffin Knights—a revered seventh-level knight who had inherited the ancient Nightflower Sword Art—should have been an overwhelming force. Yet even she could not bring her foe down. It was a grave miscalculation.

  Her enormous black griffin was but a third the size of the skeletal dragon opposing it—and far weaker. Worse still, the bone dragon’s power even surpassed that of the demon commander himself, tipping the balance decisively in his favor.

  “Hahaha… mighty human warrior, you cannot defeat me! Why not abandon your fragile kind and accept my contract? Become one of us—a glorious demon! With your strength, it’s a waste to remain among humans. Serve me!”

  The demon lord laughed hideously, each time forcing Fitt further back with his blows.

  “Demon—you are unworthy,” she spat, her voice cold and resolute. Though her griffin staggered under the force of each collision, her spirit never wavered.

  The once-glistening black feathers of her mount were now tattered and charred, torn away in the chaos of battle.

  The fight had already dragged on far longer than expected. If it continued, the endless waves of demons would inevitably shatter the knights’ defense lines.

  Countless calculations flashed through Fitt’s mind before she finally made her decision. After another fierce clash, she drew back, reaching for a scroll of parchment from her armor. With swift strokes, she inscribed a few runes upon it.

  The parchment trembled lightly—then words began to appear.

  Upon reading them, Fitt’s eyes widened in shock.

  The demon commander, sensing what she was doing, let out a thunderous laugh. “Hahahaha! Seeking aid, are you? Hoping your kingdom’s strongest might come to save you? Foolish woman—such hope is futile!”

  Fitt calmly tucked the parchment away, her gaze turning razor-sharp. “Demon, what are you planning? Why would your kind risk sending even the Demon Lord’s avatar to assault the royal capital?”

  The Demon Lord—ruler of the abyssal realm—was a being on a plane far beyond ordinary demons, his strength rivaling that of the gods themselves. But he was bound by one great constraint: his true form could never leave the Abyssal Rift. Even a projection of his essence suffered great strain when crossing realms.

  For the abyss to pay such a terrible price for this invasion—there could only be one explanation: a grander scheme was at play.

  “I won’t tell you,” the demon commander sneered. “Guess all you like, little knight—hahaha!”

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  He readied himself to strike again.

  But Fitt had no intention of continuing a meaningless fight. She turned her mount sharply, unleashing a sweeping blade of energy that cleaved through countless lesser demons, granting her fellow knights a brief reprieve.

  Her voice rang clear over the chaos: “All units—fall back! Form a new defensive line!”

  The demon commander made no move to pursue. He too was exhausted, and besides, he could not stray far from his lair.

  Fitt assumed it was merely fatigue that stayed his hand—but there was another reason.

  Returning to the heart of the demonic nest, the commander let out a piercing roar—a command. At once, the demons that had been relentlessly assaulting the knights froze in place, then retreated en masse into the lair.

  Though endless in number, the demons of the lower realm could not replenish themselves instantly. Even the abyss had its limits—the “flow” could not keep up.

  The kingdom’s warriors, utterly drained after nearly a full day of battle, finally allowed themselves a breath of relief. Another hour of fighting, and they would have collapsed.

  Those griffin knights still capable of flight immediately sought out local authorities to coordinate logistics and aid for the wounded.

  Fitt leaned against her mount atop a low rise, her armor battered and scorched. She removed her helmet, revealing a strikingly beautiful yet commanding face. Her hair, brows, and lips were all blackened by the nature of her battle aura, yet her elegance and authority remained undimmed.

  As she steadied her breathing, a tall blond knight approached respectfully. “Honored Grand Instructor Fitt—Reiz Halchi, guardian knight of Keraladria City, reporting.”

  Fitt opened her eyes and regarded him coolly. “What is it, Sir Reiz?”

  “I noticed earlier that you sent a request for aid… May I ask, what has happened?” he inquired, confusion in his eyes.

  Fitt hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no harm in telling him. “The Demon Lord’s avatar has emerged from the Abyssal Rift,” she said evenly. “It’s attacking the royal capital.”

  The brief statement struck Reiz like thunder. What he had thought a routine incursion was something far more dire. The demons often launched random raids, but for even a fragment of the Demon Lord to appear—this was unprecedented.

  Seeing his stunned silence, Fitt added curtly, “Do not let this information spread. The men are exhausted enough as it is.”

  Reiz nodded sharply. “Understood.” He turned and departed.

  One after another, reinforcements continued to arrive: elite warriors from various regions, promising apprentices from the Knight’s Temple and the Mage’s Guild—all came to report to Fitt, the overall commander of the campaign.

  Finally, three bishops from the Holy Saint-Saviel Church appeared. In their presence, Fitt’s demeanor grew solemn as she greeted them with the formal gestures of their faith.

  When they departed, she was at last free to rest.

  Four or five hours passed before Fitt reopened her eyes. By then, makeshift camps had been erected, and logistical crews were already at work.

  “We cannot let this war drag on,” rumbled a deep voice beside her.

  The black griffin had spoken.

  Fitt rose, nodding. “The Demon Lord’s avatar cannot remain long in this realm. That means they intend to finish their objective before it dissipates. We must do the same—before they succeed.”

  “But the enemy’s strength far exceeds expectations,” the griffin replied, its golden eyes fixed upon the towering demonic nest on the horizon. “With our current power, we may not be able to prevail.”

  “There is no choice,” Fitt said, her tone steady as ever. “Once the remaining reinforcements arrive, we’ll stake everything on one final assault.”

  The griffin knew its master well—she was far too proud to make such words in jest.

  “I shall give my all as well,” it vowed.

  Fitt turned, gently brushing her hand over one of the creature’s wounds. Her voice softened. “Nightclaw, does it still hurt?”

  The black griffin shook its massive head. “This pain is nothing… though I grieve for something far greater.”

  Fitt tilted her head slightly. “What is it?”

  “My beautiful feathers,” the griffin said mournfully.

  Fitt fell silent.