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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: FusionX
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“Who are they? I’ve never seen them before.”
“I don’t know.”
In a shabby diner in a rural village, farmers, stopping for lunch, questioned the owner, who simply shrugged in response.
A man in rags sat in a corner, shoveling soup and bread into his mouth, while a small girl gnawed on his arm.
“Where are you folks from?”
“…”
The man glanced up, then returned his attention to his food, his eyes devoid of any intention to answer.
One of the farmers, annoyed, started towards him, but the owner stopped him.
“Leave it. He won’t answer, no matter how many times you ask. He’s not causing any trouble. Let’s just leave him be.”
“Does he even have money to pay for his food?”
“Who knows?”
“Then why did you serve him?”
“See that sword at his hip? I doubt the food costs more than my life.”
“…”
The farmer understood. This man was dangerous, someone with nothing left to lose. It was best not to provoke him.
Serve him his food, let him leave quietly, and be done with it. The farmer nodded and returned to his seat.
‘What are they doing here?’
He observed the man and the girl, his curiosity growing. This area was swarming with undead remnants, a contested territory constantly changing hands.
The Alliance had maintained a tight perimeter for the past year, but it was still a dangerous place. It was rare to see strangers here.
‘Has it become that safe?’
He had heard that the recent flooding, caused by the opening of the floodgates, had strengthened the defenses.
Perhaps these newcomers had heard the news and decided to relocate.
“Attention! Gather in the square!”
“…?”
Bang!
The door burst open, and a guard in a helmet shouted. The farmers paused, their spoons clattering against their bowls, staring blankly at the guard.
Seeing no one move, the guard seemed flustered.
“What are you doing?! Didn’t you hear me?!”
“Are you new? Where are your manners?”
“Why is the guard being so aggressive with honest farmers?”
“Tell us why we should gather.”
The guard’s face reddened at their indifference. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice trembling slightly.
“The undead army…has crossed the river…”
The farmers’ expressions hardened. Without a word, they grabbed their farming tools and rose to their feet.
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“The enemy has crossed the river and is advancing. They’ll reach the nearest village in six hours.”
“Six hours…”
Jill bit her nails, her finger tapping the map. Six hours. It wasn’t enough. The Frost Duchess had departed as soon as they received the news, but she wouldn’t arrive for another twelve hours.
By then, the villages at the front lines would be overrun, and the second line of defense might have fallen as well. And if the second line of defense fell…
‘A catastrophe!’
The catastrophe Luna had predicted, a world overrun by the undead army…it could become a reality. She had deployed the entire First Fleet, but the slow-moving airships wouldn’t arrive in time.
Their fastest response was the ground forces and the Frost Duchess, but…they might have to abandon the second line of defense and establish a third. Jill traced the most likely route for a third line of defense and gasped.
“No…”
It meant abandoning more than half of the Southern Continent. Cologne, Basel, the site of the former Elvenguard…all would fall into enemy hands, and Petenburg would be surrounded.
The Alliance would crumble.
They had to hold the second line of defense. But even then…it meant sacrificing the tens of thousands of people living between the first and second lines of defense.
Jill’s heart ached as she made the decision, knowing it was the best they could do.
“Saintess! The farmers are volunteering to defend the villages!”
“What?! Tell them to evacuate! The enemy will just infect them, steal their weapons, and grow stronger!”
“They understand the risks. They’ll fight with spears and farming tools, weapons that can’t be used against them. They just want to buy time for their families to escape.”
“…!”
Jill’s eyes widened in surprise.
They knew they were going to die, that even in death, they wouldn’t find peace, and that their sacrifice would strengthen the enemy, yet they chose to fight, armed with makeshift weapons.
“How…”
She couldn’t finish her sentence.
How could they make such a decision?
The answer was simple, for their families. To buy time for their wives and children to reach safety. A surge of respect filled Jill’s heart.
“Rescue as many people as you can from the area between the first and second defense lines. And…find the names of those who fought. We will honor them.”
They had bought her time. A disaster that could have claimed millions of lives might be contained to a few thousand. A flicker of hope ignited within her.
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“…”
A heavy silence filled the wagons heading towards the front lines. Farmers clutched their farming tools and makeshift spears.
Some were dictating letters to their families, while others collected the finished letters. Their faces were grim, resolute.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know…”
“Why are those strangers here…?”
The farmers glanced at the man and the girl sitting in one of the wagons.
They were sacrificing their lives for their families, but what about these two? They had warned them repeatedly, told them they were going to their deaths, but they had insisted on coming. It was baffling.
Shouldn’t they at least send the girl away?
They considered it, but seeing her clinging to the man’s arm, they hesitated. They had thought about separating them by force, but the girl’s glowing red eyes, visible whenever they approached, filled them with a primal fear.
They didn’t know what she was, but she was clearly a predator, something to be feared.
“We’re here! Everyone, off!”
The wagons stopped, the doors creaking open. The farmers stepped out, their boots sinking into the mud, splattering it in all directions. Dozens of wagons lined the road, farmers emerging, each grabbing a weapon.
They looked like they had just come from the fields. They exchanged glances, their jaws set, and marched forward, into the muddy field, the ground softened by the recent rain.
Terrible conditions for farming, but perfect for slowing down the enemy.
“Reinforcements!”
Workers, arriving earlier, had already dug trenches and were waiting for them. The farmers rushed forward, joining them, shaking their hands.
“We were worried you wouldn’t make it. They’ll be here in less than an hour…”
“The roads were bad. We’re a little late. Is this…a defense line?”
“Yes. It’s…modest, but…”
“Better than nothing.”
Modest? It was surprisingly well-constructed.
Deep pits, wooden barricades, layers of trenches…They could probably hold out for at least two hours. Hope flickered in the farmers’ eyes.
“The plan is simple. We’re illiterate farmers who need someone to write our letters for us. What do we know about tactics? First, burn them in the front. Second, stab them in the back. That’s it.”
The village head, acting as their commander, shouted. They were farmers, most of whom had never held a weapon, let alone fought in a battle.
Tactics and formations were beyond their comprehension, useless even if they learned them. Simple was best. No complicated orders.
As long as they didn’t panic and run, they could execute this plan.
“Everyone in the first trench, cover yourselves in mud! Unless you want to burn alive!”
The first trench, located before a deep pit, was meant to slow down the enemy’s advance.
It wouldn’t take long for them to climb out of the pit, but if they filled it with oil and set it ablaze…
They would fight, burning the enemy, then retreat when they were overwhelmed.
“When you fall back to the second trench, hold the barricades! Everyone else, stab the ones trying to break through!”
They would hold the second line of defense, reinforced with wooden barricades. And if that fell, they would make their final stand in the third trench, fighting to the last man, buying as much time as possible.
“In the third trench…fight until you die! That’s all!”
There was no plan beyond that. They would be slaughtered, becoming part of the undead horde, hoping they had bought enough time.
The farmers dispersed, taking their positions. Some knelt in the trenches, praying.
Others hammered the barricades deeper into the ground. And others, their bodies covered in mud, stood guard, torches in hand.
Even some guards, discarding their armor and weapons, had joined them.
“What’s that sound?”
“…?”
The village head tilted his head, then silenced everyone and pressed his ear against the ground.
“…!”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A chaotic rumbling, its rhythm erratic, made his expression harden. The rumbling grew louder, echoing through the air, no longer needing to be heard through the ground.
“They’re coming!”
They turned towards the forest, a mass of figures emerging from the trees, their forms grotesque, distorted.
“What…are those…!”
Some had two torsos on a single pair of legs. Others wielded four swords with four arms. And some charged headless, axes in hand.
Each undead, clad in heavy armor, wielding powerful weapons, moved with inhuman speed, their individual strength rivaling a knight’s. And there were thousands of them, their numbers filling the horizon.
“Ah…”
“We’re not even going to slow them down…”
The farmers paled. They couldn’t stop this. The undead would simply leap over the pits, tear down the barricades. They would be slaughtered, outnumbered fifteen to one.
“Don’t be afraid! It’s too late to run! Dying while running is a dog’s death! But if we hold them here, even for a minute, we win! Didn’t you all come here prepared to die?!”
“…!”
The village head stepped forward, torch in hand. The plan was simple enough to be executed even without a commander.
If he was going to die, he would die at the front, inspiring his comrades.
“We’ll follow you!”
“I’ll join the first trench!”
“No, not too many of you…”
The farmers’ spirits rose as their leader took his stand. No meaningless deaths. They would all die with purpose.
Though untrained, they formed their lines, their resolve hardening as the ground trembled beneath the approaching horde.
No one flinched, no one prepared to flee.
“…?”
Just as they braced themselves, weapons clutched tight, ready to face their deaths, two figures stepped forward. The man and the girl who had remained silent.
“While mortals cannot choose how they are born or the burdens they carry, they should at least choose how they die…”
“What?”
“I admit it. You are…true humans.”
“What are you talking about?”
The two walked forward, their eyes devoid of fear or tension, yet lacking any sense of determination as well.
The man wore an almost casual expression, as if this were an everyday occurrence. The girl’s face was completely blank, devoid of any emotion.
They must be mad. Everyone thought so.
“H-Hey…!”
The man stepped past the first trench, towards the deep pit. He continued walking, his feet seemingly on air, the girl following close behind.
The farmers stared, dumbfounded. This was beyond their comprehension.
Superhumans. They must be.
“Heh…”
The undead horde was less than two hundred meters away, but the man simply chuckled. He slowly drew his sword, its blade and tang both black, an unusual weapon.
“What are you going to do, alone?!”
They had heard tales of superhumans, like the Frost Duchess, single-handedly fighting off hordes of undead, but that was in favorable terrain.
Even the strongest superhuman couldn’t face thousands of undead on open ground. They would be surrounded, overwhelmed.
Losing a superhuman like this was a far greater loss than losing hundreds of farmers.
Yet, despite knowing this, the farmers felt a sense of…relief, the heavy weight of responsibility lifting from their shoulders.
This lone man, armed with a single sword, filled them with an inexplicable sense of calm.
“Dakia Style Secret Technique.”
The man slid back, his feet leaving deep tracks in the mud. He gripped his sword with both hands, pulling it back, the girl stepping aside.
“Kreeeeeeeee!!!”
The undead horde was a hundred meters away, their grotesque faces clearly visible.
“Crescent Moon!”
Crack!
A silent, white crescent-shaped blade of energy shot forward, engulfing the undead horde, slicing through them like butter.
A chilling sound of tearing flesh and shattering bone filled the air. The attack weakened as it reached the rear of the horde, but the path it carved was filled with dismembered bodies, a gruesome scene of carnage.
The farmers stared, their mouths agape.
“Kreeeeeeeee!!!”
The undead twitched, their severed body parts reassembling, rising to their feet, resuming their charge. The farmers paled, but the man simply sneered, assuming a fighting stance.
“If one strike won’t kill them, I’ll just keep slashing. Dakia Style Secret Technique…”
The undead horde, thousands strong, reformed, their approach shaking the ground.
The man smiled, a chilling grin, and swung his sword.
This time, the farmers couldn’t even see the direction of his attack.
“Iron Blood Storm Slash!”
A white net, woven from blades of energy, filled their vision. They finally understood. He hadn’t swung his sword in a direction. He had swung it in every direction.
The net engulfed the undead horde, their screams echoing through the air, then fading into silence.
A black fog, formed from the demonic energy released by the destroyed undead, settled over the battlefield.
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