Chapter 54
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Chapter 54: A Cup of Black Tea
Midi ultimately failed to kill Fenrir.
After all, this was a night attack—a clash of three hundred against four thousand. When Fenrir desperately fled while screaming for reinforcements, drawing more Crimson Flame Legion soldiers into the chaos, continuing the pursuit became impossible.
Yet Midi felt no regret. From the start, his goal hadn’t been Fenrir—it was to win the war.
As the Nightblade Leopard Cavalry withdrew in orderly fashion, the white cold mist faded. Dawn’s golden sunlight pierced the eastern horizon, scattering the night’s chill and shadows with warmth.
But the Crimson Flame Legion’s camp looked nothing lively under the morning sun. Instead, it lay in ruins: bloodied corpses, collapsed tents, and scorch marks from various spells littered the ground.
When General Red Fox finally broke free from the Mist Sorceress’s counteroffensive—after losing over six hundred soldiers—this was the bleak scene that greeted him.
“Report the losses. Now,” he growled. Having learned of the raid via magical communications earlier, he’d braced himself mentally. Though he didn’t rage openly, his mood was far from cheerful.
He’d marched out with 2,500 troops and returned with 1,900, inflicting barely a hundred casualties. Meanwhile, Midi’s three hundred had shattered the Legion’s core: hundreds of Elementalists lay dead, leaving only two chief magicians. The Legion’s long-range firepower now hovered near zero.
Now, their only hope lay in cavalry. Fight by day, avoid the night’s restrictions on warhorses, execute a frontal breakthrough with flanking maneuvers, and crush those damned Elves and Midi.
“Lord Porter! Disaster!” A pale-faced Knight rushed forward. “The stables were attacked—all our warhorses are gone!”
“What?!” General Red Fox swayed as if struck by a hammer. Only his guards’ quick support kept him upright.
This, too, was Midi’s doing.
Storming a fortified camp with three hundred Nightblade Leopard Cavalry had been perilous. A single misstep meant annihilation. So Midi had targeted only the Elementalists—strike fast, retreat faster. Eliminating the cavalry would’ve taken time he didn’t have, even with the Fog Demon’s aid.
But as the Legion shifted to defense, Fenrir appeared.
Midi seized the moment. He attacked, rallying elite cavalry to amplify the threat—not for vengeance, but to bait the Legion.
Fenrir, predictably, panicked and summoned every nearby soldier. The Legion redirected defenses to protect him, abandoning key positions to encircle Midi.
The trap snapped shut. Midi, never intent on chasing Fenrir, withdrew before the encirclement closed. Meanwhile, his cavalry exploited the distraction. After slaughtering Elementalists, they veered to the now-undefended stables. No bloodshed was needed—just spooking the warhorses into stampeding. Mission accomplished.
The raid had stripped the Legion of its two greatest strengths: long-range magic and cavalry. Now, General Red Fox commanded only infantry, dismounted horsemen, and a pitiful handful of Elementalists. The gap between both sides had shrunk—not just in numbers, but tactically. Even a legendary general would struggle with such limited options.
“Break camp. March to Asreks’ territory at once,” Midi ordered upon returning. “Push past fatigue. Put distance between us and the Legion. Prepare for the final confrontation.”
The black-haired boy’s eyes gleamed as he issued commands. His relentless victories and frontline bravery had earned the Elves’ unwavering respect. Unless the Mist Sorceress objected, his word was law. The five tribes’ elders and captains scrambled to obey.
Only when the last Elf left did Midi slump, exhaling deeply. His youthful composure vanished, replaced by exhaustion.
Even a Super Transmuter with a unique demon god was human. Humans tired. Humans erred. Midi was no exception.
Since dawn, he’d hunted scouts, plotted, and fought—nonstop.
Then came the tense ambush.
An entire night of relentless combat.
Leading the charge, Midi carved a bloody path with his greatsword, confronting four level 35 chief magicians and obliterating them in rapid bursts of power.
He then unleashed such overwhelming pressure against the elite Flame Guards—averaging level 18—that even Fenrir turned and fled.
Any single one of these feats would’ve been remarkable. Yet Midi achieved them all.
Now he stood exhausted, his weariness impossible to hide. But the war wouldn’t end with a single successful ambush. Forcing himself alert, he maintained the Elves’ morale while issuing orders.
A steaming cup suddenly appeared before him.
Black tea, brewed by Alice Otolopas herself.
Its soothing fragrance and deep amber hue warmed him instantly.
“Stun black tea. Calms the nerves,” Alice stated flatly, her face a mask of composure.
Though confident in her tea-making skills, this was her first time serving another. What seemed casual required immense effort for the black-haired girl.
She couldn’t predict Midi’s reaction.
Her calm expression faltered as she lowered her gaze, studying her boots like a guilty child.
“Thanks.” Midi accepted the cup with startling ease, his smile bright as sunlight.
Alice had seen that smile before—always directed at others after battles. She’d watched from shadows, certain it belonged only to Fina. The bond between the red-haired girl and black-haired boy was obvious to all.
The Mist Sorceress told herself their relationship was transactional: her study of his demon god in exchange for Elven Tribe reinforcements. Comradeship didn’t apply. She could leave anytime.
Yet this smile was undeniably hers alone.
The realization drew a faint curve to her lips.
For an instant, her beauty outshone the dawn.
As the Elves retreated, Midi’s prediction held true. The Crimson Flame Legion couldn’t pursue. They counted losses, tended wounded, and rounded up stray warhorses instead.
Afternoon pursuit through Birch Forest, scout losses, a disastrous night attack—their failure to catch the enemy crushed morale.
Yet one plain tent stood untouched by defeat.
The Nightblade Leopard Cavalry had skirted it. Fog Demons detected no magic. Even Midi’s danger-honed instincts missed it.
Coincidence? Fate?
This was Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare’s domain.
“How delightful!” The gray-robed man’s eyes gleamed like a child with new toys. “I expected dull noble wars in sleepy Belmar Duchy—not such fascinating prey.”
Rising from his seat, he mused: “Meant to watch quietly, but when the play climaxes, shouldn’t the audience cheer? Toss gold coins?”
“White.”
A whisper answered behind him.
“Silver.”
A shadow stirred.
“Gray.”
A reply echoed distantly.
“Warm up,” Wiseman smiled icily. “We’re hunting kittens.”
