Despite the pitch-black night, sleep would not come easily. It was no surprise.
Few could stretch out their legs and sleep soundly in such circumstances, and Noah was no exception.
Unable to sleep, Noah wandered alone through the monastery, letting the cold wind caress him.
They had broken all the ornamental trees planted inside the monastery to build a palisade.
The garden, once a serene space, had turned into a ruin in the process of drying, cutting, and erecting the greenwood.
The devastation seemed to foreshadow the monastery's bleak future.
Why was the moonlight so bright tonight, of all nights?
‘Is God calling me? Is He questioning my sins?’
Was this the cost of turning a blind eye to the events that had transpired in this monastery? Were those on this land now being made to repay everything?
It was a night filled with deep anguish.
The so-called Pope of the Gray God had appeared with much fanfare, only to target a small monastery with a mere few dozen people.
Who could have predicted this outcome?
Noah realized they could not hold out.
The monastery was surrounded, and the enemy rejected any offer of negotiation.
When he asked them to take his life to end this, the reply came,
"Nonsense. Everything in this monastery, even a single chicken, is heresy."
When he begged them to spare the children, the response was,
"Didn't I just say it? Whether saints or not, that place is already a pit of evil."
No compromise was to be had.
To make matters worse, the martial monk sent as an emissary returned battered, one side of his face bruised blue, limping.
"If you send another person, we'll send back only their head."
They added.
Sighs deepened.
The child who had once been called a saint would now be known as the devil's child.
Because they would make it so.
"Are we going to die?"
Even the child sensed the monastery's peril and asked. Noah smiled faintly.
"The God will protect us."
Noah lied. The child smiled at those words.
Even if he were to die and be condemned to the prison of the Netherworld for lying, he would not regret seeing the child's smile now.
Even in death, he didn’t want the child to live their remaining time consumed by fear.
Above all, he wanted to believe that God would genuinely protect the children.
Noah was prepared to die. But he prayed that the children and the innocent would be saved.
Noah had no choice but did not merely endure with prayers.
He sought help from everywhere he could. Naturally, even escaping the encirclement was no easy task.
If he managed to slip out and spread the word about the situation, what would happen? Would anyone come to help? It was just one monastery.
The people inside? Why save them? They were unrelated to anyone else. What benefit would it bring?
None. There would be no benefit.
Noah was a shrewd man and understood the situation clearly.
The continent would see this as an internal civil war within the Holy Nation.
So, no one would come.
Even if someone gathered to fight the followers of the Gray God, they would arrive only after the monastery was burned to the ground.
Ironically, everyone, including himself, would die, and not a straw of the monastery would remain. Both factions fighting over this place wanted that outcome.
The reason was simple.
The Gray God’s followers justified their actions by claiming to purge a monastery possessed by demons.
Thus, they could not leave the monastery untouched.
They needed to prove their God’s power and assert their righteousness.
How fitting if the Gray God’s emergence was marked by defeating demons!
A scapegoat was necessary, and conveniently, there was a place filled with dissenters.
Even if the Holy Nation's army were to march, it would be no different. They had no reason to save him or the monastery.
"Who else but those burning down a monastery could be heretics?"
A monastery burned for the holy war.
People killed for the holy war.
Those who killed them would be branded heretics. It was a perfect political scapegoat.
The growing number of followers of the Gray God made a pretext even more necessary.
Thus, a large-scale massacre was the monastery's future. Meanwhile, opportunists emerged.
"What are you doing?"
Noah saw people unchaining the monastery’s gates, trying to ensure movement was possible only from inside.
They had wrapped cloth around the chains to muffle any noise and worked by moonlight without torches.
There were more than five of them, sweating profusely despite the early winter night.
"We’re opening the gates of the monastery."
One of them answered.
Noah wasn’t shocked. It felt like a hallucination caused by sleepless nights.
But he knew better. The cold, clear reasoning in his mind explained the situation as plainly as the moonlight above.
The one who answered straightened their bent back. They were a head taller than Noah and held a short sword clearly visible in their hand.
"Why?"
Opening the gates would change nothing, so why were they doing it? Because they didn’t know.
They didn’t understand that the enemy would never accept anything they did.
They didn’t understand that the monastery was already considered a den of demons by those watching this event.
‘Are they doing this out of stupidity?’
Were they paralyzed by the fear of death? Perhaps both.
"Do you think they’ll accept your surrender if you open those gates?"
"...We must repent."
This was why Luagarne had suggested smashing the heads of disobedient fools before leaving.
But Noah wanted to believe things would have been different if the monastery had run smoothly and they’d built bonds together over time.
No one knows the future, though. Even if years passed under better circumstances, these people might still have done the same thing.
‘Are people inherently evil?’
Or good?
It was an eternal conundrum. Noah wanted to believe in human goodness.
"Why are you doing this in the dead of night?"
Another man trying to open the gates pulled out a dagger, likely tucked into his sleeve without a scabbard.
"Killing me won’t change anything."
Noah spoke.
"That’s your opinion."
It seemed they had stopped thinking entirely. Thankfully, it was only five of them.
‘I didn’t think I’d die like this.’
Noah hid his inner thoughts and observed the five. None of them met his gaze.
Suddenly, a black figure leaped over the palisade. It landed on the ground, rolled a few times, then stood upright.
"Director Noah?"
The figure asked after standing up.
"...Who are you?"
"A crusader from the Anti-Cult Extermination Order, without a name."
Some people still moved by their will and beliefs, regardless of the world’s judgment. One of the Anti-Cult Extermination Order crusaders had come to Noah.
He joined Noah after taking down the people trying to open the gate halfway.
Several things happened afterward.
They blocked the gate with thornbushes and attempted once more to send someone out but gave up.
By then, the monastery was so tightly guarded that not even an ant could leave.
"You should leave."
Noah tried to send the crusader away, thinking his zeal was too valuable to waste here.
"No. I’m fine."
The crusader refused.
Six days of siege passed before Encrid’s group arrived. During that time, all Noah could do was pray.
‘Lord, help us. Protect Your lambs. Gather the fallen fruits into the basket.’
Someone would come to help them, to help the pitiful children.
By noon of the second day without food, they began to wonder if the enemy intended to starve them to death.
The sun illuminated the surroundings.
Through the thousands of soldiers blocking the monastery, figures could be seen cutting through their lines.
* * *
Commands on the battlefield must be simple and clear. Encrid knew this well.
"Break through."
The objective was to breach the enemy encampment in front of the monastery, secure Noah, and ensure the monastery’s safety.
Otherwise, there was no reason to come all this way.
Just because the exterior seemed intact didn’t mean the interior would be.
Rem went first, stepping lightly forward and swinging his axe. With a single, light stroke, he killed four soldiers of the so-called ‘Gray Holy Army’.
His axe cut jagged lines in the air, each stroke landing precisely on an enemy’s neck.
"I’ll take the front."
Ragna stepped up as well. Despite his words, he veered slightly to the right, his long sword of black gold stabbing, slashing, and battering through the enemy.
Clang, clunk, clack!
Enemies fell like wheat under a scythe.
The entire group fought brilliantly, even while mounted.
Rem, in particular, stopped using his axe, snatched a spear from an enemy attempting to stab him, and began thrusting it with devastating precision.
"Poorly trained."
Lawford nudged his horse, spinning it around while slashing, and added a comment. Compared to the Border Guard, this so-called Gray Holy Army barely qualified as a unit.
Lawford’s slash split an enemy’s helmet, causing blood and brain matter to spill onto the ground. The soldier crumpled to their knees before falling face down.
Lawford’s observation was accurate. The Gray Holy Army hadn’t had time for proper training.
They were newly assembled and had just begun organizing. When could they have found time for training? This was inevitable.
They were barely on par with a flock of crows, so how could they stop the might of a Knightly order?
Encrid, mounted on his steed Odd-Eye, swung his sword. His legs gripped the horse’s belly for balance, his right hand wielding the newly granted Jin-Silver sword, and his left holding Ember.
Preparation was complete, and he swung his sword.
Encrid instinctively assessed his surroundings, gauging the enemy soldiers’ level, and thought to himself.
‘Do I have to kill them all?’
No, it won’t be necessary. Armies are driven by momentum.
Disrupt their momentum, and they will naturally scatter.
How? Should he erect an iron wall again? He had trained extensively since his last attempt, so building a wall was possible.
But it wouldn’t have the same oppressive effect.
"Everything depends on the situation and environment."
Luagarne’s teaching. Even if he replicated the same iron wall as before, it wouldn’t feel the same.
Moreover, their goal was to break through, not to erect a barrier.
Encrid sharpened the edge of his senses, spreading the ‘blade’ of his awareness into threads to encompass the surroundings.
Within the realm of intuition, Encrid visualized the enemy army as a single entity and began to divide it within his mind.
As a mass, it was an army.
As individuals, they were soldiers.
The essence of an army was its momentum.
As his web of awareness unfolded, it enveloped his surroundings.
Eyes, posture, weight distribution, weapon orientation—everything became criteria for judgment.
He identified those who would charge, those who would flee, and those who would endure, using his sensory web to decide.
He struck down the most defiant.
Snap!
A soldier’s neck was severed, blood spurting as their body rolled to the ground. Encrid’s Jin-Silver sword lightly grazed their nape.
Next, he bypassed those trembling under the pressure. He flicked aside those attempting a feeble defense.
Thump.
A soldier struck by the flat of his sword’s blade toppled sideways.
Encrid differentiated when to apply force and when to withdraw, allocating his Will with precision.
Using his heightened senses, he struck, bypassed, and parried repeatedly. The result was an area devoid of surviving enemies.
The quietest fight yielded the highest number of fallen foes.
Rem’s gaze shifted toward him.
"Huh?"
He was capable of cutting through anything caught in his axe’s path, killing with every stroke. Although he wasn’t fighting at full strength right now.
So simply cutting and stabbing wasn’t surprising.
But what Encrid displayed was something different. Cutting and stabbing were acts anyone with strength could do, but this was not merely about strength.
"You can do that too?"
He was surprised, even a little pleased. Encrid’s technique bore traces of his teachings.
Bold advancement reduced hesitation, allowing more time for judgment and action.
It was a skill to stretch time and use it effectively.
Someone else was even more astonished than Rem while watching Encrid.
"What is he doing?"
As Encrid dropped more enemies, the army began to unravel as a cohesive force.
Jaxon sensed it intuitively. Others likely felt it to some extent.
He vaguely grasped the principle but wondered—how was Encrid distinguishing soldiers exuding momentum from those who weren’t?
‘Just by looking?’
Jaxon could imitate it but not replicate it with such precision.
The meticulousness and detail of Encrid’s technique were extraordinary.
What Encrid displayed now was uniquely his own.
It was the fruit of experience gained from starting at the very bottom.
Sometimes, a lack of talent leads to deeper understanding.
This was the reward of years spent as a common soldier.
Encrid was demonstrating to the enemy soldiers the true meaning of invincibility.
No comments yet. Be the first to leave a review!