Chapter 24
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Chapter 24: Light in the Right Hand, Darkness in the Left
Piles of supplies erupted into towering flames, staining the quiet night sky crimson.
Porter Sais, the fox-like cunning general, glared at the smoke blotting out the stars like storm clouds. His teeth nearly cracked from fury the instant he grasped the true target of the enemies lurking in the shadows.
"York County’s burning!" Fenrir blurted out, panic flashing in his eyes. "Uncle Porter, we should retreat—"
"Silence! Remember, Lord Fenrir, I command here," General Red Fox growled, his eyes radiating terrifying wrath.
A shadow flickered through Fenrir’s gaze, but he grudgingly closed his mouth under the circumstances.
As a renowned duchy general, Porter knew how rear fires could shatter troop morale during such a pitch-black night. Yet decades of military instinct told him retreating now would be disastrous.
Reorganizing the rear guard into vanguard would cause chaos. Worse, what if Asreks’ main force ambushed them? He could win normal skirmishes, but nighttime ambushes risked utter defeat—a gamble he refused.
Moreover, Fina’s thunderous Magic Beams kept raining destruction.
Though insignificant against four thousand troops individually, the Elementalist’s relentless attacks accumulated serious damage.
Being tricked into abandoning position without combat, retreating under Magic Beam fire while suffering losses like some battered plaything—this violated Red Fox’s pride.
He must advance while crushing those granary-burning insects.
"Relay this order!" Red Fox roared at the messenger, shedding all fox-like grace. "Tell the garrison captains I want those pests’ heads on the gates by dawn—or theirs will replace them!"
The command reached every York County officer immediately.
Midi’s group soon felt the pressure.
"More enemies keep coming, though we avoid main roads." Sigmund’s frown deepened.
"Are we being tracked?" Lilian glanced back, but even her Blue Fist Saint vision couldn’t pierce the dark.
Three skirmishes across two streets had eliminated two hundred-man teams—impressive yet meaningless for their true mission.
"Real pursuit would bring worse than this," Midi said lightly, scanning the path ahead. "Relax. They’re just swarming blindly."
For the other three, this first wartime mission naturally bred tension.
Fina’s fearless confidence aside, their flawless performance marked them as future Hawk Brigade elites. Still, Midi knew he must steady these Fina-following adventurers.
"The Crimson Flame Legion focuses on defenses and doesn’t know York County well. Their blind spot is our chance. Keep this pace." His calm tone eased their nerves.
Rounding a corner, they faced a hulking dark structure.
North District Granary.
The original hundred defenders now merged with reinforcements, swelling beyond two hundred—numbers still manageable despite growing by the minute. Night attacks favored speed, yet Midi didn’t advance. Instead, he turned, patted Sigmund’s shoulder, and nodded at Lilian. For once, the sharp-tongued woman responded earnestly.
"Your turn now." With those words, Midi vanished down the street.
North District wasn’t his battlefield.
The South District awaited.
Taking down a granary didn’t mean much. Surprise attacks were easy targets, especially after General Red Fox’s departure. The real challenge lay in how many granaries they could seize after alerting the enemy.
Through observations of the Crimson Flame Legion’s numbers, supply routes, and granary capacities, Midi calculated they needed to burn three granaries to halt their assault. Otherwise, the enemy would simply reinforce while attacking, prolonging the war endlessly.
Failure meant Fina’s gamble as bait, every sacrifice made, and all their bold vows would become meaningless.
This raid had to succeed.
They needed speed – speed to outpace enemy reactions!
Then greater speed to crush resistance!
That’s why Midi split their forces, walking alone toward the third granary. This would be the decisive battlefield.
As a reincarnator who’d rewritten his fate and sparked this war, he’d claim victory through his own hands – through his demon god’s power and the blade he wielded.
No retreat. Only advance.
Through winter’s stillness, beneath howling winds and firelit skies where steel glinted amidst swirling snowflakes, Midi charged across this cruel yet beautiful battlefield.
He slid through building shadows and lightless gaps, his foresight as a reborn soul guiding him. No clashes marked his path. Sentries blocking his way became mere corpses in dark alleys, their deaths unnoticed.
The Southern District Granary loomed ahead.
Midi instantly assessed three hundred-man teams guarding it.
The black-haired boy didn’t hesitate. He surged forward like a loosed arrow, his stealthy black longsword vanishing, replaced by a cold blue-glowing Lightsaber.
No more concealment. Only unstoppable cutting edge.
The lead centurion blinked, mistaking him for a stray soldier. Recognition came too late – here stood an enemy, seemingly suicidal.
"Kill him!" the centurion barked, arm raised.
"KILL!" Soldiers swung arms like windmill blades. Dozens of axes tore through air, converging on Midi from all angles – an elite throwing axe unit’s trademark assault.
These warriors gave the Crimson Flame Legion mid-range dominance. Even Heavy Knights avoided their barrage – axes shattered armor, impacts crushed bones.
But Midi knew second awakening.
His night-black eyes flared silver-white. The axes froze mid-flight, frost coating heated metal. Suspended. Motionless.
Midi’s left hand pulsed with icy magic. The axes reversed course, scattering wildly like shattered ice, embedding in walls harmlessly.
Chanting as he ran, Midi’s blade drew frost trails across ground. A massive magic array bloomed, engulfing the axe unit.
His Lightsaber lifted. Ice Shards erupted, impaling soldiers, freezing survivors solid.
Ghost Cry skill: Ice Binding Array.
The centurion gaped. A Lightsaber-wielder using Ghost Cry arrays? From this distance?
Midi gave no time. He blurred forward, Afterimage lingering as his blade fell – a strike merging Ghost Cry’s chill and sword soul techniques.
No blood spilled. Frost seized the centurion’s heart and veins before the blade connected. One slash reduced him to icy fragments scattering windward.
Left hand wreathed in dark aura, right gripping blazing Lightsaber, the black-haired boy stood amidst frost and corpses – a sharp sword unsheathed, battle intent blazing.
Thirty dead. Others trapped in ice. Their leader dust on the wind.
None dared approach.
