Over the following days, Jeanne and her companions ran into waves of Sarkaz mercenaries nearly every day. Their mysterious employers were clearly stingy; as time went on, the ambushers looked less like professional sellswords and more like destitute vagrants in rags.
There were moments when Jeanne looked at those ragged figures and felt a prick of sympathy, wondering if they should simply hand over some rations and let them go on their way.
However, that naive thought was swiftly nipped in the bud the moment those men drew their concealed weapons.
Logos had grown exceptionally quiet over those same days. Every morning and night, he sat silently in the back of the vehicle with his eyes closed, gathering his focus for the next clash or stepping outside to clear their path.
Though the master of Arts made dispatching those foes look effortless, maintaining such relentless combat day after day was a heavy burden. It was no small feat that he had pushed through this far without breaking.
Today, even Jeanne and Mostima kept quiet in the front seats. The air was heavy with unspoken tension—there was no chance the road ahead would be smooth. Once they crossed today's stretch, they would step directly onto Laterano soil.
If Logos's calculations were correct, the main force assembled by his enemies was lying in wait somewhere in the wilderness near the Laterano border, waiting for their vehicle to drive straight into the trap.
Yet no hostiles had materialized so far. Jeanne harbored a foolish, fleeting hope that those Sarkaz forces had given up their pursuit and retreated to Kazdel.
It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Though they hadn't spotted a single scout all morning, the oppressive atmosphere settling over the landscape made one thing clear: the enemy was already upon them.
"Are you certain you want to handle them alone?" Mostima asked, unable to suppress her concern. "This won't be a simple skirmish. I'd hate for a mission this vital to fail right before the finish line—it wouldn't look great on my service record."
"Rest assured, I am confident in my abilities," Logos replied with a polite, measured smile. He twirled the bone pen between his fingers, scanning the surroundings to anticipate where the first strike would land.
Where would they attack from? Were they lurking in the dense timber along the road, or had they prepared a lethal ambush along their path? Or perhaps they intended to abandon subtlety altogether, attempting to crush him under a wall of sheer numbers?
The answer came from above.
A sickening, unnatural squelch echoed overhead. Logos leapt out of the vehicle in a single motion, looking up just in time to see grotesque, misshapen masses plunging from the sky.
They were horrific constructs spawned by the Grand Duke of Blood—the Prince's Tendrils! Their appearance confirmed that the Prince of Blood was one of the masterminds financing this hit, though the revelation brought no surprise to Logos.
That ancient Vampire had always belonged to the most radical faction among the Sarkaz. Had his handiwork not appeared here, Logos would have worried whether the Prince's true body was waiting further down the road.
Flanked by these writhing abominations marched a well-equipped contingent of Sarkaz soldiers. The heavy armor and uniform weaponry they bore made one thing instantly clear: unlike the ragtag cannon fodder encountered earlier, these fighters were seasoned professionals.
"To gather a force like this just to take my life..." Logos remarked, a faint, mocking curve touching his lips even as icy hostility gleamed in his eyes. He surveyed the arrayed soldiers.
They were not standard Kazdel military personnel—the forged lines of their armor were not products of Kazdel's industrial foundries. That made their true identity obvious.
They were personal guards belonging to the exiled former Regent, Theresis. That these warriors, absent from the world's sight for so long, would surface here was unexpected, yet entirely logical.
"Plenty of us are sick to death of spineless cowards like you!" the lead commander barked, clad in heavy plate from head to toe. "A few calls were all it took to assemble a host of true warriors!"
Unwilling to waste more words, the commander gestured, directing the twisted abominations to surge toward the Banshee Lord.
Logos invoked his Arts in response. His incantations tore through the fleshy constructs with ease, but as the clash wore on, the tide of monstrosities only seemed to swell.
"How many lives were drained, how much blood was spilled by the Grand Duke just to fuel this strike?" Logos called out, his voice cutting through the din. "How many of our kin have perished for your arrogant, stubborn delusions? Do you dare answer me, warrior—you who claim to fight for justice and righteous purpose?"
"Save your preaching for someone who cares, traitor!" the commander sneered, untouched by the words.
It was hardly a surprise. Men like him would never lower their gaze to acknowledge the lives crushed beneath their boots.
Logos hadn't expected to sway his enemies with words; he was merely venting days of accumulated fury over their choices and mindless bloodshed.
"Are we really just going to watch?" Mostima asked, her fingers tightening around her two staves, ready to unleash her Arts at a moment's notice.
Though she had agreed to let the Sarkaz settle their own grievances, she knew that if Logos fell, the ambushers wouldn't simply let two outsiders walk away unscathed.
"Let's wait a moment longer," Jeanne replied, her gaze locked onto the battlefield. "If he reaches his limit, we step in."
She didn't have to wait long. Logos launched himself high into the air like an artillery shell, using a seamless gliding Art to clear the ring of abominations and land directly before the lines of heavy infantry.
It was the same mobility technique he had used to hover his chair during the sliding tournament—an application of Arts refined specifically to slip out of tight encirclements.
Yet the real threat stood directly before him now. The heavily armored Sarkaz warriors raised their shields and blades, bracing for a lethal struggle against the Lord of the Banshees.
Before either side could strike, an indescribable, suffocating pressure washed over the battlefield, enveloping every living creature present—save for Jeanne.
Mostima's expression shifted instantly. She could sense the overwhelming, terrifying nature of the power blanketing the area. To counter a force like this, she would have to release the entity sealed within Black-Lock and White-Key.
Under the weight of this unseen Art, the blood-born abominations collapsed into inert, lifeless heaps, as though the very vitality driving them had been drained away in an instant.
"A host of Sarkaz gathering to slaughter a single brother... going so far as to raise your blades against a Lord of the Royal Court."
A grand, resonant voice echoed across the barren plains. The figure who had brought the battle to a dead halt stepped into view alone... though calling him human felt like a stretch.
He was a entity completely wrapped in tattered cloth and ancient wrappings, his features entirely hidden beneath the bindings, leaning heavily on a strangely shaped staff.
"Are you friend or foe...Nachzehrer King?" Logos asked, his posture remaining rigid and guarded.
The ancient figure before him was one of the oldest living Sarkaz. Though his words sounded like an intervention, there was no telling whether he might suddenly strike and claim Logos's life after a few pleasantries.
"I am neither friend nor foe," Nezzsalem, The Nachzehrer King replied, planting his staff firmly into the earth. He stood alone in the center of the wasteland, yet not a single Sarkaz soldier dared raise a voice in protest, listening in stunned silence. "I am merely an old man who has come to halt a meaningless conflict."
He surveyed the frozen army, his voice carrying the absolute weight of ancient authority.
"Let it end here. Sarkaz blood should not be spilled on a stage like this, and the covenant of the Royal Court forbids the murder of its Lords. Disperse!"
It was no gentle mediation. It was a command that brooked no defiance, ordering every warrior present to lay down their arms.