"Calca, you're underestimating me far too much," Helant said slowly, his eyes burning with unyielding resolve.
His voice carried a powerful, commanding timbre that echoed across the tense air. "As the Human Emissary of the Holy Domain God Lord, sacrificing the small self for the greater good is my sacred duty."
Calca looked up at him, her lips trembling where her teeth had bitten into them, drawing faint beads of blood. After a long, agonizing pause, she choked out, "No… don't go. You'll die."
In that moment, she had completely cast aside her royal poise, using both hands and feet to cling to him desperately, restraining his every movement like a living chain.
"Be good now. Let go," Helant coaxed softly, his tone gentle yet firm.
"I won't!"
"That's right, Sir Helant," Quaiesse interjected quickly. "You should go with Zesshi to hunt down the demon's true body. As for the five border cities…"
Before he could finish, Quaiesse was frozen in place by a cold, piercing glare from Helant—one that brooked no argument.
Helant gripped Calca's waist with one strong hand, channeling a subtle flow of mana to gradually sap her strength and loosen her hold, freeing himself inch by inch.
Then, he whispered softly, "The choice lies with me, not with you."
Calca had gone limp in his arms now, her body drained and unable to muster even a fraction of her earlier ferocity. She could only clutch weakly at his collar, shaking her head back and forth in silent protest. "Don't… don't go…"
Helant glanced around, then carefully carried her over to Zesshi's side, easing her down to sit against the ground.
"The choice is in my hands," he repeated, his voice steady.
He swept his gaze over the defenders scattered across the sky, then to Quaiesse, Zesshi, Clementine, and the others. Placing one hand solemnly over his heart, he declared with righteous indignation, "I will definitely save the people!"
As the words left his lips, a brilliant platinum glow erupted from his body, bathing the entire city wall in pure, ethereal radiance.
Huumm~~!♫
The light pulsed like a living heartbeat, spreading a warm, reassuring sensation through everyone's chests—easing fears and kindling hope.
Helant's white hair fluttered in an unseen wind, and a fierce battle intent ignited in his azure eyes. He stood tall and unyielding, like a war spear planted firmly before them all, ready to pierce the sky.
"I underestimated your resolve," Zesshi murmured, a relieved smile tugging at her lips. Deep admiration gleamed in her heterochromatic eyes, reflecting the platinum light.
Quaiesse roughly grabbed a fistful of his own blond hair, his heart pounding.
"Ha… The more I learn about you, the more I realize that with your unshakeable 'human supremacy' conviction, you'd never stand by and let something like this happen."
He let out a long breath, his voice thick with genuine awe. "Doing what you know is impossible… The Six Great Gods once proclaimed that such a person is a true hero—worthy of everyone's utmost respect!"
High in the sky, Basterlo placed his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly, his posture a mocking imitation of courtly etiquette—as if humbly awaiting instructions. "Then, Helant, what is your choice?"
To the onlookers below, those elegant, precise movements—befitting a gentleman or noble—seemed grotesquely hypocritical when performed by a demon like Basterlo. It only reinforced their certainty: this creature was cunning, insidious, and utterly untrustworthy.
Woosh!
What answered him was a blinding pillar of light that lanced straight into the sky.
The glow surrounding Helant intensified, his aura swelling to majestic proportions as he launched upward like a shooting star, trailing a shimmering platinum streak through the clouds.
In midair, he paused briefly to glance down at the people of Diborne City, meeting the mix of hope and worry etched on their faces.
"Rest assured," he called out, his voice booming with conviction. "I swear by the Holy Domain God Lord—I will definitely save the people of the five border cities!"
Finally, he turned a cold, unyielding stare toward Basterlo, his tone dropping to a chilling edge. "I hope you keep your promise."
With that, the light around him flared once more, countless motes of brilliance condensing behind his back to form a majestic pair of Wings of Light.
Boom!
He flapped them powerfully, unleashing a gale that whipped across the battlefield as his figure rocketed away, dwindling into the distance until he vanished from sight.
"Oh, of course," Basterlo replied smoothly, pausing for dramatic effect before articulating each word with crystal clarity. "I am the most trustworthy demon. Before the sun sets, I will absolutely not make a move against the people in the city."
Zesshi's heart tightened like a vice, her mind racing with wariness. Not making a move against the people in the city… It seems he really plans to strike at Helant directly!
Quaiesse, meanwhile, silently summoned a few more griffins from thin air, directing each to head toward one of the five beleaguered border cities.
"I hope my Reverse Summoning Magic actually works," he muttered under his breath, a flicker of doubt crossing his features.
Calca, now supported by Remedios at her side, stared longingly in the direction Helant had vanished. Her nose crinkled as fresh tears welled up and slid down her cheeks. "I already said I would take all the responsibility… I don't want you to go…"
High above, concealed in his invisible form, the Platinum Dragon Lord watched Basterlo's lingering phantom with narrowed eyes.
He had no intention of pursuing Helant, thinking to himself, Walking straight into an obvious trap… I really don't know if you're brimming with confidence or just profoundly stupid.
If he were in Helant's position, he certainly wouldn't risk his own hide to save a bunch of unrelated strangers.
From a vantage point unseen by all, faint platinum threads began to weave and condense from the hearts of the people in Diborne City—subtle strands of faith and desperation that drifted inexorably toward the direction Helant had flown.
...
The square, the city walls, and the ground were all marred with mottled bloodstains, the metallic tang of blood hanging thick and oppressive in the air.
The narrow inner walls pressed the city's residents together in a suffocating crush. Demi-humans gripped their weapons tightly, glaring down at the humans with the feral hunger of butchers eyeing livestock.
Neia looked up at the archers perched along the high walls, their bows nocked and ready, and felt her heart sink like a stone. She scanned the numb, terrified faces around her and thought bitterly, This place is nothing more than a slaughterhouse.
"Big sister, are we all going to die?"
A little girl clung to Neia's leg, her dirty face upturned with wide eyes filled with confusion and raw fear. The sight stabbed deep into Neia's chest, twisting like a knife.
The pungent stench of blood cloyed at her throat, making her stomach churn. She hesitated for what felt like an eternity, unable to force out the reassuring lie: "No, we won't."
As a border city, the inner square connected directly to the military camp and could hold tens of thousands. Now, it was crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with seventy to eighty thousand souls—far beyond capacity.
Neia's "Mad-Eye," the keen vision inherited from her father and once her greatest source of pride, allowed her to pick out every detail: the hollow numbness and paralyzing fear etched into each face, as if hope itself had been bled dry.
Gazing into the distance, her eyes fell on the center of the square, where dense, blood-colored runic circles pulsed ominously. Atop them, thousands of mummified corpses were heaped into a grotesque, dark brown "mountain"—a monument to the fallen.
Every time her gaze skimmed over it, Neia tried desperately to avert her eyes, to blur the horror.
But inevitably, her Mad-Eye sharpened the details: a hand clutching a bow, protruding from the mass. It was her father's hand—Pavel Baraja, "the Black," one of the Holy Kingdom's legendary Nine Colors.
Neia's nose stung sharply, and she quickly bowed her head, fighting back the surge of grief.
Ever since her father had chosen to guard the border, her childhood had been a tapestry of isolation and hardship.
The Mad-Eyes she'd inherited from him had marked her as an outcast among the other children, their whispers and stares branding her as "freakish."
The years without true companionship had bred resentment toward him—a quiet bitterness that festered in her heart.
Sigh…
She looked around at the numb, suffering, desperate crowd once more.
Then at the demi-humans wielding butcher knives, their faces twisted in ferocious, bloodthirsty arrogance.
"Father… I understand you a little now," she whispered to herself, a reluctant epiphany dawning amid the despair.
Neia's eyes sharpened further, noticing how the demi-humans on the walls constantly scanned the crowd, crossbow bolts at the ready.
She began to move slowly, inching her body through the dense press of people, using the throng to create blind spots and shadows. Step by careful step, she edged toward that horrific pile of corpses.
Her goal was clear: the bow left behind by her father.
____
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