Hunter’s Blade

C23 – Tracking The Demons

Shire drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind a swirl of vague, elusive thoughts. Demons prowled, the mortal world aflame, rulers and nobles interchanged, and peddlers bustled by. He glimpsed fallen comrades, kissed girls, and Blade Devil God, Gradiu, who taunted him relentlessly, horns sprouting from his head.

Get out from my soul…

“You need me, you need me,” a voice echoed incessantly, “No matter how you despise me, you require me. I am the executioner who slaughtered all your allies, yet also the savior who yanked you back from the brink of demise. I’m your most fearsome curse and your most dependable confederate. Do you wish for annihilation? To survive, you must embrace me—”

Shire awoke from his reverie.

“What absurd dreams are you conjuring?” Gradiu’s voice emanated from deep within.

“Nothing,” Shire replied, feeling somewhat dizzy.

“Ah, I still intend to give you a lesson. We settled on a refined, stunning lady, yet you ended up ensnared by any random harlot.” Gradiu cursed.

“Don’t you find her attractive?” Shire pondered inwardly.

Gradiu held back for a while, then responded, “…Yes. But didn’t you realize she was manipulating you? She aimed to exploit you to vault to new heights, escape the Sea of Bitterness, and employ you as a tool?”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t you be callous and resilient, indulging in her until you’re wearied, and then finding a wild horse?”

“Why can’t you just be quiet?” Shire cursed.

“Why?” Gradiu’s tone carried heartache. “Because I’m beyond bored! You can’t fathom how it feels to be trapped in this wretched body. You’re so feeble, and your mind is so limited. That’s why my thoughts are limited to mortal matters.”

“What’s the issue with that? Don’t imply that my mind can’t meet your standards.”

“Think about it deeply. Imagine cramming an adult into a child’s clothing. No, consider the sensation of stuffing a lion and a million swords into such clothing… That’s the agony I’m enduring now. And yet, you won’t even converse with me!” Gradiu roared.

“Tell me what will make you be quiet.”

“Bring me souls, please,” Gradiu requested. “I’ll be silent once I’m sated. Human souls are the finest. See, there are hundreds of soldiers nearby. If one of them goes missing, they won’t even notice.”

“What if I decline? The more powerful you become, the more perilous I’ll be.”

“I’ll just be profoundly disappointed in you,” Gradiu’s voice shifted from sharp and casual to low and raspy, like a concealed blaze igniting within magma. “Let’s join forces. We can be the mightiest allies, with the entire world groveling at our feet. If you believe I’m only trying to exterminate you, you underestimate your own potential.”

“It’s still not convincing,” Shire rebutted. “Let’s compromise. Soon, you’ll have a soul for your satisfaction, but it won’t be a human one.”

It was another demon’s soul.

The entire army embarked westward, seeking traces of the Winged Devil. Shire trailed the large group. After covering a few miles, he looked back and spotted the havoc on the hillside. It was a mess of rubbish and mud pits. Even though the soldiers had moved on, the hillside bore the scars of hundreds of people, unrecognizably marred. If this was a noble war between lords… one could only imagine the aftermath of thousands camping in such a place.

Shire carefully observed the military operation, his habitual attention to detail coming into play. Among the ranks, a horse-drawn carriage laden with supplies stood out. The carriage also held women and logistical support, a strategy to swiftly form a defensive base in case of enemy encounters. As long as the carriage halted in an organized manner and formed a partial line, troops from both the front and back could rally around it. The soldiers seemed spirited and eager to test their mettle. In their eyes, demons were just like ordinary beasts, manageable through steel.

Rocher organized the troops into several hundred-man squads. Each squad featured a flag bearer responsible for relaying messages via flags and shouts. Leading the vanguard was a mounted knight. The nearby flag bearer only needed to wave his flag to direct the entire unit.

“Pick up the pace!” A command resonated from far ahead, accompanied by two waves of the front flag.

“Quickly!”

“Move it, move it!”

Backward flag bearers responded in kind, waving their flags and shouting. These flags, adorned with green hyacinth emblems, were easily discernible from a distance, deterring any ill-intentioned onlookers.

Family emblems held significant import in distinguishing between the venerable Luoman family and the ancient lineage. Ancient families often bore emblems of classical, traditional, and conservative design, exuding a sense of gravitas and elegance. Newly risen nobles, on the other hand, employed increasingly unique and distinctive emblems. Half a year prior, Shire had spotted a knight whose shield bore two unclothed figures. Etienne explained that it was a strategic choice, as no one dared to directly gaze at his shield during duels.

Responding to the command, the sounds of armor friction and clashing swords grew more pronounced. The soldiers advanced swiftly.

Many farmers and villagers who happened to be in the fields paused to witness the army’s approach. Leaning on their farming tools, they gazed with a mix of complex and apprehensive emotions. An occasional sigh escaped their lips. However, their demeanor shifted when Rocher, leading the vanguard, came into view. Cheers erupted from their hearts.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

“Master Rocher!”

Rocher lay ahead, unseen by Shire, yet his position was not hard to surmise. The knight was likely maintaining his calm and concentrating on the path beneath his feet. Among the people, the Lawman held knights in reverence. This title represented the lowest tier of nobility and bore the essence of honor. Even commoners had the potential to be knighted through noteworthy accomplishments. Shire had often wondered if he could someday earn this recognition and be granted the esteemed rank of a Knight, gaining hereditary estates and securing a future for his descendants. However, his role as a Devil Hunter had shifted his priorities; worldly power held less allure now.

Proulx rode forth on his horse to Shire’s side.

With a nose helmet on his head, his beard neatly tied, and a cavalry axe slung across his back, Proulx’s appearance was markedly improved from his earlier disheveled state.

“Hey!” He hailed Shire. “How are you holding up?”

“Not too bad. I’m just not skilled at riding horses,” Shire responded.

“No worries. You’re young and picking it up quickly. I’ll teach you to ride when I have the chance.” Proulx remarked casually, “Riding a horse is much like riding a woman. It seems complex but is quite straightforward. All men enjoy it.”

“Alright.” Shire had never experienced either, leaving him uncertain of the analogy’s accuracy.

“Master Rocher is seeking you,” Proulx gestured ahead.

The army had seemingly discovered something, prompting a halt under the banner. Shire and Proulx veered off the road and reached an uninhabited area.

A lifeless cow sprawled on the grass, or what had once been a cow.

Shire observed the severed head of a bull, as if something had seized its lower jaw and forcefully ripped it apart. The skull’s white surface adhered to black and red flesh, a ghastly sight. The brain had been entirely devoured, leaving nothing in its wake. Solely the eyeball, roughly the size of a fist, lay abandoned nearby.

Farther away from the bull’s head, the ground was soaked in blood, thick and pungent in smell. The bull’s hooves, tail, and bones lay strewn haphazardly, as if some ravenous creature had devoured it with frenzy, leaving only this residue behind.

“Did the demon cause this?” Rocher gripped his long sword and advanced toward Shire.

“Yes,” Shire confirmed, simultaneously inquiring about the situation from Gradiu in his thoughts.

“I can scent it,” Gradiu responded in a hushed tone. “It’s likely a form of Winged Devil. It might be a subordinate of the Sky Sovereign, one of Devil God’s creations, or a servant of the dragon devil. Alternatively, it could be a follower of the gliding prince. While it’s not on the level of Devil God, it’s no pushover either.”

“It’s still no match for you.”

“Tch, in the entire hell, only a handful would dare to challenge the fearsome Blade Devil God. But your praises won’t serve much purpose now. Consider, why is it eating with such frenzy?”

“Because it’s hungry, it craves sustenance, yearns for souls.”

“You’re getting a hang of demons already,” Gradiu complimented.

Rocher surveyed the scene once more.

“It’s close,” she addressed the mercenaries in the distance. “We’re on the brink of clashing with the devil. Make sure you’re ready as swiftly as possible.”

“Absolutely.” Teibout rallied his men and instructed them to transport the ballistae using horses.

Nevertheless, the horses emitted piercing shrieks. Their encounter with the demons had left them terrified. They kicked and struggled, fighting for breath, their heads thrashing desperately. They refused to take a single step closer to the chaotic scene. Observing the strange behavior of the two horses, the mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances.

Teibout’s brows furrowed as well. Considering the weight of the ballista, if the horses couldn’t manage to pull it, how would they transport it? Yet, animals possessed an inherent fear of demons, their instincts warning them to steer clear. Shire couldn’t help but sigh internally.

“How peculiar,” Teibout mumbled, turning to Rocher. “They seem rather temperamental today, but it’s alright. I’ll have my people calm them down.”

“There’s no alternative,” Shire replied, shaking his head. “Horses are apprehensive of demons. You’ll need to lead them farther away to restore their composure.”

“Ah, the esteemed Devil Hunter truly is a brilliant mind,” Teibout remarked, instructing someone to guide the horses away. True to form, once they distanced themselves from the wreckage, the horses regained their composure, subsequently towing the ballista back to the main road.

“No need for veiled words. Just say you’re concerned I’ll walk away with the bounty,” Shire cut to the chase.

“Why would I be ‘concerned’? What reason have I to be ‘concerned’?” Teibout shrugged. “Isn’t it glaringly obvious who holds the upper hand here?”

“Is that so? Master Rocher, I’ve heard that the earl has issued a bounty. Whoever manages to slay a Winged Devil will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins,” Shire remarked calmly.

“A sum of one hundred Loman gold coins, bearing the likeness of Raveni III’s visage. It won’t be constituted with ancient Goeddel gold coins, nor will it be light money with reliefs. The earl himself has personally counted out a hundred gold coins from his estate, intended for the hero who vanquishes the devil,” Rocher’s tone was neutral and impartial.

“Very well, Teibout.” Shire lifted his chin. “This bounty is undeniably mine.”

“Fool,” Teibout chided, “Time will tell.” Behind him, the mercenaries glared at Shire with intense animosity.

Having suffered humiliation before, Shire was determined not to be bullied. He needed to assert his stance; he wasn’t one to tolerate mistreatment.

Rocher turned his head and observed the scout riding toward them from a distance.

The scout donned a light leather armor with four feathers adorning his helmet. A profusion of golden beard covered his face, giving him the appearance of a northern barbarian. Javelins and spears adorned his back. He conversed with Rocher in a foreign tongue, speaking loudly, while Rocher responded in kind.

“What are they discussing? Can you understand?” Shire queried Gradiu.

“They’re speaking in the northern tongue of your world. We’ve spotted signs of the Winged Devil soaring high in the wilderness. I comprehend their discussion. By the way, you guys possess quite a primitive mode of communication.” Gradiu listened attentively, then added, “So, what do you think I am?”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Shire teased. “For now, kindly translate for me.”

“Seems like it’s indifferent, oblivious to our presence entirely,” the barbarian scout reported.

“Do you think it could be a trap?” Rocher’s brows knitted in concern.

“I never said that. Trap or no trap, we must exercise caution,” the scout responded.

Demons are always crafty; it’s ingrained in their nature. We must be cautious, Shire contemplated. Humans have often been outwitted by demons; could there ever come a day when humans outwit them instead?

“Let’s go,” Rocher announced, addressing the mercenaries and Devil Hunters. “I don’t care who ultimately claims the reward, as long as someone eliminates the Winged Devil for me.”

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