Through the window and iron-barred door, Rean glimpsed the street beyond. Crowds of civilians fled westward toward the West Gate, lugging bulky luggage. Some dropped their bags mid-panic, scrambling onward as if chased by unseen pursuers.
Rean closed his eyes and sent ripples of magical energy pulsing outward.
"Hmph… They’re here faster than I thought."
Via the Heavenly Ripple Array, he’d already sensed the situation outside the city—just as he’d predicted yesterday. After the outpost’s destruction, Mammon’s forces couldn’t hold back. They swiftly mobilized. Now nearly thirty thousand soldiers pressed against the East Gate, clashing with Yethania’s defenders.
But the disparity was staggering. Mammon commanded thirty thousand elites; Yethania had fewer than five thousand. Barely any could truly stand blade-to-blade against them. Without adventurers (mercenaries) rushing the front lines, the city would’ve fallen already.
"Tch… Not even giving me time to be formally hired…"
Rean shook his head slightly with a sigh.
"What’s wrong? Have Mammon’s troops attacked?" Olga set down her water glass, gripped the sofa armrest, and rose. "Then let’s go."
"Pfft… Don’t be silly. Rest here. I’ll be back in a flash."
He glanced at Olga’s weary face—still flushed from last night’s hangover—and chuckled. Stepping forward, he gently but firmly guided her back onto the sofa.
Rean stepped back twice, eyeing his attire: black noble’s robe, cape, red bow tie accessory…
No way he could go out like this.
Humans might not recognize him—but Mammon’s minions? One glance at this outfit and face, and he’d be exposed instantly.
"First Armament Sequence."
After a brief pause, Rean smiled and raised his arm sideways. A crimson magic circle shot from his palm, swirling inward over his fingertips. His clothing shifted gradually: the black robe and cape transformed into a black-and-crimson battle coat and armored trousers. A white short sword strapped to his left thigh. A black oni mask now covered his face.
The coat—Phoenix Wing Guard: Woven with feathers shed by Phoenix, one of the continent’s guardian beasts. It nullified all ice attacks and absorbed fire magic, reflecting it back at foes.
The armored trousers—Thousand Strikes Light: Critical zones embedded with Li Steel, an ultra-rare ore far tougher than Stardust Lizard hide. It reshaped at Rean’s will into close-combat perfection.
The short sword—Holy Thunder Fang: A Cursed Blade forged when Rean infused five thousand high-purity thunder crystals into a blade crafted by Christine’s master smith. It cast the seventh-tier lightning spell [Gathering Thunder] without draining his mana.
The mask—Wrathful Guardian’s Gaze: Once ordinary, now imbued with spirit magic. It emitted passive psychic dread—onlookers felt instinctive fear; the mentally weak went mad from a single glance.
And the unmentioned blazing Cursed Blade—Laevateinn, reborn from Fenrir’s Fang.
"Off to a masquerade ball?" Olga quipped, utterly unaffected by the mask’s aura. As an angel, her spiritual resilience rendered it harmless.
"Can’t let enemies see my face. Gotta look like a real adventurer," Rean shrugged helplessly.
Truth was, he didn’t need all this gear. Clearing grunts? A single grand spell would suffice. This kit was years out of date.
"Be a good girl and wait right here for me."
He winked at Olga on the sofa. Flustered, she snatched a cushion and hurled it—he nimbly dodged. With a playful hop, he leaped out the window.
…
Count Tyler Adams faced the gravest crisis of his fifty-plus years.
Since inheriting the Adams title at twenty-three and becoming Yethania’s lord, he’d devoted himself to prosperity. For thirty years, economy, culture, and military strength grew steadily. He’d prepared to pass the torch—to let this legacy shine anew in the next generation.
But peace shattered. He now saw his glory meant nothing beneath demonic hooves. Demon King Mammon’s invasion carved a brutal truth into him: no matter how hard he’d worked another thirty years, victory was impossible. Decades of peace had dulled their will to fight. Complacency had lowered their standards—until harsher strength crushed them utterly.
Months of battles drained Yethania’s forces. Fewer than five thousand soldiers remained combat-ready. The sudden assault left them unprepared. Even with adventurers joining the fray, it was a drop in the ocean.
From the ramparts, Tyler watched. Mammoth golems charged alongside soldiers. Enemy mages unleashed relentless lightning and fire. His men were flung by golem arms, impaled by spears, vanishing in magical bursts. Warriors’ roars drowned beneath enemy war drums. His heart burned with anguish.
Amid the carnage, one figure moved like an angel’s wing—pure white, gliding freely through enemy ranks. A cerulean longsword swept like the open sky. Each swing felled foes in an elegant, deadly dance. Pale frost swirled around her; not a drop of blood stained her gown.
Every strike made the blade flare. Wounds froze instantly. Within seconds, enemies became rigid ice statues—shattering into glittering dust, blood crystallized into tiny shards.
"Is that swordswoman an adventurer?" Tyler asked his guard.
"Reports say three newcomers reclaimed the Crystal Mine and destroyed Mammon’s southern outpost yesterday, my lord. She appears to be one of them."
*Three people…*
Reclaiming the mine, destroying the outpost—impressive efficiency. But against thirty thousand? A hundred-fifty-fold gap no human endurance could bridge. When her strength faded, this elegant white blossom would wither.
"…Order all civilians to evacuate immediately. Bring my armor and sword."
Tyler sighed deeply, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked battlefield below. His wrinkled hands slowly clenched.
"My lord, you mustn’t go down there!" the guard urged desperately.
"No more words. I was once a knight who fought for the kingdom. If I must die today, I die with Yethania!"
The Adams legacy—he would guard it with his blood. Even if doom was sealed, he’d fight to his last breath.
"Don’t rush to martyr yourself just yet, old man."
A lazy sigh drifted from above. Tyler glanced up—just catching a flash of black-crimson fabric—before guards shoved him down.
*Flick.*
A silver torrent of light, crackling with arcs, poured over them. Lightning artillery slammed into Mammon’s mage corps like divine judgment. Within fifty meters, soldiers vanished into fine black ash, scattered by the wind like dark snow.
Next, a blazing greatsword soared from the lightning’s origin and plunged diagonally into the frontline earth. Where lightning had scorched the ground, a river of molten fire erupted. A bold soldier tested it with his spear—the tip melted instantly into droplets, swallowed by the flames.
"I address every Mammon soldier and commander on this field."
The man’s voice wasn’t loud, yet carried cold, absolute authority. The entire battlefield fell silent. Fighting ceased. All eyes turned toward the ramparts.
Peeking out from behind his guard, Tyler saw a section of the rooftop railing—gone. Had the guard not shoved him down, his head might’ve vanished too.
And there he was: lounging lazily atop the rampart. Black-crimson coat radiating oppressive magic. A silver short sword tossed idly in his hand, spitting sparks. The black mask hid his face—but Tyler instinctively shrank back, chilled by an inexplicable dread.
"I give you five seconds. Leave Yethania. Now. Five… four…"
"Who is he?!" Commander Aidan burst from his tent, staring at the crimson figure. That voice… familiar, yet unplaceable.
"Three… two…"
Aidan felt himself being *looked down upon*. He couldn’t see the eyes behind the mask—but their dark, commanding gaze pressed down on him, fear swelling until he nearly broke.
*Run. Or die.* His instincts screamed.
"RETREAT! ALL UNITS FALL BACK!" Aidan roared.
"One… Too late."
The man rose. Crimson and amber lights swirled in his palms. Two colossal, interlocking magic circles materialized above Mammon’s rear lines. The earth rumbled. Stone pillars erupted, soaring into the arrays. In an instant, they blazed with fiery radiance.
"EVERYONE, FALL BACK!" Cang Lin’s sharp warning cut through the chaos. Yethania’s soldiers moved without thinking.
"Enjoy hell’s welcome," the man murmured with a cold smirk—and snapped his fingers.
Burning rocks transformed into countless blazing meteors. Roaring through the wind, they plummeted upon Mammon’s army.
