Liora strangled the pole of the white flag like it was the last lifeline on a sinking ship. She looked ready to spot assassins in the grass blades—knuckles bone-white, eyes flicking like a cornered rabbit.

  Adarin, by contrast, was relaxed. I wonder if there’s anything those fuckers can do to mess me up. Well—cannons would do the job. I’ll just have to dodge.

  They were surrounded by two dozen black skeletons—the least-scratched survivors, tasked with holding the line until the zombies arrived.

  Now, it was time for diplomacy. Adarin recalled Rüdiger’s words: “Ja, ja, you did it last time. This time is no different. Just keep talking and see what happens. There is nothing more to statecraft yet.”

  Yes. Adarin had ground his teeth. But I’m an officer. It is my task to follow orders. Not to question them. No matter how limited the sanity of the one giving the orders seems.

  Rüdiger was floating above them—Adarin was sure of that. But beyond that, the man remained hidden from any eyes.

  Adarin crossed the field of slaughter without a second thought. The tips of his legs got bloody where they crushed into corpses. White powder rose around their feet, like a small snowstorm. This is what victory looks like, he mused.

  Ten meters from the enemy delegation, they stopped.

  The enemy had brought a mix of pikes and muskets—nearly fifty of each. The mage in silver mask and white robes—stained with mud and dust—stood beside a knight in decorated armor. Pistols were strapped all over his chestplate.

  Adarin stood still and touched Liora’s leg. Over the noospheric link, he told her: ‘Wait for them to speak first. They’re clearly waiting. This is a power game.’

  The two groups stared at each other.

  Or rather, they stared at Liora. What else could they do—lock eyes with a spider made of smooth wood? A staring contest with him was about as meaningful as glaring at a wagon wheel.

  He smirked, watching the mage nonetheless try. Trying to find something to look at when talking to me, huh?

  This isn’t the time to grow a middle finger, he chuckled privately.

  Then—the masked mage broke the silence. He bowed his head slightly. “Greetings. I am Magus Balthas of Seaguard—last bastion against the green tide.” His tone was pure pomp, like a man giving a speech to an invisible crowd. “We welcome your assistance in reclaiming Portguard. I assume... what role do you envision in our battle order?”

  The magus took a breath. Adarin smiled at the audacity while keeping focused on his real task. Even Liora’s expression shifted—from anxious to hard, annoyed clarity. It was obvious what the man was doing.

  But the knight beside him cut straight through the game. “Heretics!” he barked. “Names are wasted on filth.”

  He slapped his fist to his breastplate with a loud metallic clang. “I know what your filthy order of dark mages did. You slaughtered my brothers-in-arms—while they were detaining you for investigation. Surrender now, and I shall grant you a quick death.”

  Adarin rolled his eyes. Well. So much for diplomacy.

  He prodded Liora through the link. ‘Would you do the honors?’

  Liora stared coldly at the knight. “You would execute a priestess?”

  “I have heard of you, Priestess. A traitor and a heretic.” He gestured with one hand while the other twitched near the grip of one of his pistols. “A disciple of a dark wizard—and still you dare invoke the name of the Holy Mother?”

  The masked mage snapped a sharp cutting gesture and grabbed the knight’s arm. “I am certain there is a way—”

  But the knight tore free. “There is not, Magus. The crusade has won. Everything else is merely cleanup duty. The time has come to take out the filth!”

  Spittle flew from beneath his visor.

  Liora reached out to Adarin. ‘This… this isn’t good. What do we do?’

  But Adarin’s mind was elsewhere. With his spiders.

  Four of them were scuttling toward the formation from the sides—only twenty meters away now.

  He shifted focus to the other six. They had already scurried into the enemy formation.

  Adarin smiled, remembering how he’d first used Cornucopian Garden to create their payloads.

  Instead of speaking, he sent a reassuring pulse to Liora, his full attention now on positioning the backup option.

  Liora shrank back—some of the helpless girl returning to her eyes.

  “Please, Magus. I had no choice. My sisterhood was slaughtered in the battle. I was saved by the Mages. I have only served the Crusade... and you would see me punished?”

  The masked magus shook his head. “No, Priestess. But you must understand the Marholdians—what you did, what you supported there… you killed thousands.”

  Liora sniffed. “They were encircling allies—clearly preparing to attack. It would be our corpses littering the ground if we hadn’t.”

  The knight cut in again, cold and sharp. “That is what corpses should do. Litter the ground. Not shamble about in unholy abomination.”

  Liora turned to him—anger flashing across her face.

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  Adarin perceived it dimly. The defenseless yet confident posture of the magus. The tension washing over the soldiers.

  Pikes and muskets held upright—ready to strike in a blink.

  Five meters.

  Each spider carried three payloads, most of his remaining munitions.Enough to cause serious damage.

  Liora’s voice grew tight. “You have not even introduced yourself. And you call yourself a man of honor? You dare accuse me? I have only healed. I have only battled those who tried to kill me. No proclamation was ever issued against the Order of the Invisible Hand. We were betrayed—by those who feared magic. Magic they relied on again and again to survive the battles of the Crusade.”

  Interesting, Adarin mused. So she’s starting to identify with them. Well... a few days working with the other disciples probably does that. Good.

  The knight made a cutting gesture with his gauntleted fist. “Enough. Musketeers—seize them,” he hissed.

  “Hold!” the masked magus snapped back. “Have your senses left you? We are meeting under a parley. Would you dishonor your house?”

  The knight paused for a heartbeat. Nonetheless he squared his shoulders.

  “I have my orders,” he hissed. “Musketeers! Move it!”

  Adarin cursed. The spiders skittered beneath boots, unnoticed—close enough to taste leather, not close enough to tear. I need more time.

  He subtly readjusted the tension in his legs, preparing to throw himself in front of Liora if needed.

  The skeletons flanking her raised their shields—banded metal, maybe strong enough to mitigate some bullet damage.

  But they were up against five dozen musketeers, not to mention the pikemen.

  Muskets tilted down, row by row, like jaws opening before a bite.

  Adarin stared down the barrels. With both hands, the knight raised his pistols—one aimed at Adarin, the other at Liora.

  “Now—surrender and come with us. And your execution will be painless. Otherwise...” His mouth curled into a vicious grin. “We will inquire with vigorous means into your dark deeds.”

  Adarin felt the panic boil over as Liora’s face fell. The undead surged toward her—trying to shield her with their bodies.

  But the knight was faster.

  Two gunshots.

  Inevitable lengths of fire and thunder.

  Adarin felt one bullet dig into the wooden plating over his core—nearly three centimeters deep.

  Then he saw it and his eyes widened in horror. The skeletons had been too slow.

  A small hole had been cut in Liora’s robe.

  A fist-sized wound had torn through her lower back, blood flowing freely from her exposed lung.

  She gasped. Stared in shock.

  “No!” cried the magus.

  “Fire!” ordered the knight.

  Cursing, Adarin ordered the spiders to detonate their payloads.

  The world turned mad as butyric acid and hydrogen sulfide gas burst within the formation.

  Dozens of muskets fired.

  Adarin felt impacts tear into his body. No pain—just the signal of damage.

  He ran a quick assessment protocol.

  Combat effectiveness reduced by: 11%.

  He readied his Root Whips—and charged forward.

  The arachnid tree blurred toward the knight. But the man was high-level. He dodged, drew a one-handed sword with practiced ease. Four unprepared pikemen weren’t so lucky. Their faces were torn apart by the whips—twisting, disfigured messes.

  Then Adarin crashed into the enemy formation as the putrid fog enveloped them.

  Pikemen tried to lower their pikes—only to drop them in chaos.

  They drew axes, but retching and coughing overtook them.

  Adarin trampled and lashed out.

  He was dimly aware of the skeletons following him.

  The spiders went for ankles—wrapping around them, then constricting—amputating the feet of screaming men.

  “No!” The Magus shrieked a single syllable, and the air convulsed—fog ripped away in a perfect ring as if the world itself recoiled.

  The Magus stood at its center.

  And against his will, Adarin froze. What? Why am I no longer fighting?

  Everyone had stopped.

  Distantly, he noticed Liora—her skin shimmering with scales. A healing spell.

  How—? Adarin’s mind felt like it was sinking into syrup.

  Then—a lance of white fire shot from the sky.

  A blue shimmer deflected it just slightly—around the Magus—incinerating soldiers nearby.

  The knight fell back in shock as several of his pistols went off.

  The moment the barrier collapsed, the flames consumed the Magus—turning him into a charred corpse.

  Clarity returned. Rüdiger. I have been affected by a spell.

  Around him, soldiers—the few who hadn’t been caught in the gas detonations—began to rally.

  But Adarin rallied faster.

  And he slaughtered faster.

  Within less than a minute, the skeletons and Adarin had finished the grisly work. Adarin quickly assessed the battlefield.

  The zombies were charging the gates. The defenders were scrambling to prepare—but the first cannon volley had already torn through dozens. A new cloud of quicklime had erupted among them.

  So we had more supplies. Why wasn’t I given them? He growled—but dismissed the thought. Unproductive.

  Hearing strange sounds of vigorous exertion, he turned to Liora.

  She had picked up an axe and hammered the blunt side into the knight’s helm, each blow ringing like a funeral bell.

  The man groaned, feebly trying to fend off the furious priestess.

  “You. Dirty. Bastard!” Each word punctuated with a strike. “You tried to murder me. A Priestess!”

  Tears and spittle flew from her mouth. And finally—

  One of Liora’s blows struck the man’s unprotected lower face.

  His jaw broke like porcelain—splinters of bone, a rain of blood.

  Adarin approached her. Reached out gently.

  “Liora—”

  Only incandescent rage, suddenly laced with shock, answered him.

  “What have I done?” she whispered.

  Her voice—an innocent little girl’s—was only now coming back to her senses.

  “I... I...”

  She cut her hand. Let a few drops of blood fall onto the knight.

  And he screamed—as bone, muscle, and flesh reassembled.

  He gurgled something, spat out blood. “Please… End… please don’t—”

  Then Liora gasped—and Adarin saw the ink on her arm crawl, reshaping mid-stroke. The System’s eye turned, watching, even as the knight screamed under her hand.

  Quest advanced:

  Hold life and death in turn over five victims.

  1 of 5 complete.

  Your mentor salutes your efforts.

  Liora gasped. Scrambled back.

  The knight groaned. His hand creeping toward a dagger—

  But Adarin wrapped him up in Root Whips.

  A prisoner.

  Adarin chuckled, leaning in close.

  “Enhanced interrogation,” he said, voice laced with malice. “I’m fairly certain I’m familiar with more sophisticated methods than you primitives. But I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

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