Chapter 856: Bastards of Rainwater

“It’s raining.”

Ingis was the one who said it first, and Cypress answered him.

“Yes, it is.”

Was that a good thing? Judging by the current situation, it was correct to see it as something good. At least the griffons wouldn’t be flying.

Cypress looked not at griffon riders but at the masses of drowned corpses rising from the earth.

On the southern front, a rainy day was always the worst. Many soldiers cursed as soon as they saw the rain falling in the morning.

‘Fatigue piles up.’

Not just himself—all soldiers stationed at the front would be feeling the same. Instead of fireballs, ice spears, or boulders thrown down by griffon riders, it was now raindrops falling from the sky that met the ground and conceived and birthed the drowned.

At this point, the griffons weren’t the problem. The evil spirits and drowned that appeared inside the camp, the ghouls prowling outside, the gnolls hiding their presence—those were the problems now.

‘Too many monsters.’

For Cypress or the knight order, they weren’t a threat, but to the ordinary soldiers they were real danger. Nothing was easy. The southern front, if compared to a human body, was like one covered in wounds and disease.

‘Should I ask the Goddess of Fate?’

Really, is this how it will be? Is this serious?

Cypress did not argue with the heavens. Instead, he carved a new oath upon his heart.

“There’s a foreboding air filling this place.”

Ingis spoke again.

“The soldiers will feel it too. They are veterans who’ve survived countless battles. There’s no way they won’t sense such ominous air. So don’t force the morale up.”

Ingis blinked. Shouldn’t they be encouraging the soldiers at times like this? If he was being told not to do something so natural, there had to be a reason. What should one do if one doesn’t know the answer? One should ask. Ingis opened his mouth.

“What should we do in times like this?”

He had recently become a knight. In terms of leading a unit, he was still inexperienced, whatever his individual skill. That was how it looked in Cypress’s eyes. Ingis knew that too, and whenever he didn’t know something, he asked his master—just like now.

Asking was a good attitude. It proved he wasn’t intoxicated by omnipotence, wasn’t consumed by arrogance, and hadn’t lost curiosity.

“Wait for the opportunity.”

Master Cypress stroked his beard, now damp from the rain.

“Wait?”

Ingis echoed him, and Cypress raised the hand that had been stroking his beard and made a gesture as if thrusting forward.

“If no opening shows itself, then make one.”

There was no need to encourage anyone by force. What was needed was a feat like stepping forward and cutting off the enemy commander’s head.

The commander of Rihinstetten wouldn’t come fight them directly. He only sent monsters from the Demon Realm above and released griffon riders.

If they had engaged in open battle, they wouldn’t be suffering like this now.

What the southern front needed now was combat.

If Cypress, or Ingis, or the third knight among them were to cut off the enemy commander’s head, the mood of the army would naturally recover.

‘Or showing something equivalent to that might work as well.’

As the power of the Holy Relic grew faint, the ominous air within the camp was about to take shape as monsters.

If, on top of that, morale sank completely—

‘A battle lost before it even begins?’

They’d taken a hit.

He wanted to see the face of the bastard in the south who’d come up with this trick. Before taking it, he hadn’t known, but now that he’d been hit, he understood.

‘It’s a plan built stone by stone.’

He’d experienced similar situations before. And each time, what had he done?

‘You push through with might.’

If you lack wit, solve it with strength.

Cypress organized his thoughts and went over the new oath he’d carved.

‘Among the knights, the first to die will be me.’

An oath is the foundation of a knight’s Will. He was the guardian deity who built oaths and protected the front line—at least in the eyes of the soldiers and Ingis.

“Yes, Master.”

Ingis bowed his head and answered. Once again, he carved his master’s teaching into his heart.

Cypress’s teachings were short, but he’d long since grown used to reading the depth behind them. It was Cypress who had guided him to become a knight in the first place.

The ominous air still hung over the front.

The only piece of better news, perhaps, was that last night the King himself had come out with the royal army.

They would meet the drowned corpses born from the raindrops in the place of the weary southern troops.

***

The Mad Knights wore cloaks embroidered with tiers shaped like fortress walls. Before long, those dark-green cloaks had become their emblem. Nearly all members of the order wore them.

Enkrid’s was a little more special, but the others’ cloaks were also enough to repel rain.

Except for Temares and Lua Gharne, even the cloaks gifted by fairies were enough to keep them dry. The cloaks repelled rain and didn’t soak easily. As long as they pulled up their hoods, made of oiled, double-stitched leather, they’d keep their heads dry as well.

The Dragonkin had no cloak at all, and let the rain soak his entire body without a care. The Dragonkin were a race untouched by disease; rain could not harm them.

It was the dignity of a species born already able to wield Will.

Though in his case, that dignity was nowhere to be found.

“Why can’t that mouth of yours stop talking?”

Lua Gharne muttered. The Dragonkin didn’t even look back and answered,

“Because it doesn’t have to.”

Truly the words of an arrogant race.

The Dragonkin had just read her mind earlier and had spoken out loud the thought she’d kept to herself—that her partner was hers alone. Shinar had nodded indifferently and acknowledged it.

“Of course I’m the only one.”

Whatever a Dragonkin said, Shinar too was long past the bounds of normalcy. Even by fairy standards, she was, and everyone here knew it.

So when she said that with a straight face, none of them were surprised. Shinar accepted the Dragonkin’s words. There was no reason to hide her thoughts.

“You said it wasn’t easy to weave the thread.”

Enkrid muttered, letting her words pass casually. The cloak adjusted itself to fit his body, blocked most attacks, and shook off rain.

He remembered what one of the Dryads, her light-green eyes shining, had told him.

“This fabric carries the essence of our clan.”

The clan she spoke of meant the Dryads. Even among the fairies, there were several distinct clans, each with # Nоvеlight # its own special skills.

‘There are plenty of odd fairies, like that Woodguard who burns tobacco.’

Thinking of the blacksmith who had repaired Penna, it struck him that such people were simply passionate about their craft. Enkrid touched and released the grip of Penna, sheathed diagonally at his right hip.

Idle thoughts. A gap born of leisure.

Even with the rain pouring, Enkrid felt neither stifled nor gloomy. If rain alone could shake his heart, he would have long since been stuck living in some “today.” If not that, he’d have died before repeating another.

He wasn’t perfectly serene, but keeping his composure was one of his specialties.

His dry way of provoking others came from that same temperament.

“I’m only grateful for being given a cloak that fits my body.”

Audin murmured, his face openly showing joy. The fairies’ gift had been heartfelt—they’d even tailored a cloak to fit his size.

It was the first clothing gift he’d ever received. Back when he was a monk, he’d had to patch together three robes himself just to get one that fit.

“Yeah, surprising how well it fits.”

Rem muttered. Audin found it strange wearing a cloak instead of a blanket, but satisfying nonetheless.

Teresa rubbed the cloak’s fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The texture was truly unique. Even in weather like this, it wasn’t damp.

Not only did it keep the wearer dry, but the air inside remained cool and fresh. It was a feat of fairy weaving and magic alike.

“If you want to light a fire, just tell me. I am a fairy who commands flame, after all.”

Shinar lifted her chin slightly. That much pride rivaled the Dragonkin’s arrogance.

Neigh.

A horse whinnied, spooked by the ominous air mixed into the rain. Shinar patted the horse’s head.

By no means a pleasant or joyful journey—it was gloomy, ominous, dreary, and stifling—but somehow they seemed a step removed from it all.

They joked and traded nonsense.

No one complained of headaches, nor did their bodies feel heavy.

Even while talking and laughing, their pace never slowed. They kept walking steadily. The road wasn’t difficult to find. With a few mountain peaks to their left, all they had to do was go straight ahead—and as long as it wasn’t Ragna navigating by the sunrise, they’d be fine.

“If you think we’re lost, wake me up.”

Ragna said something pointless, then began to doze.

“All right.”

Enkrid answered without much thought.

Once the plains ended, they had to cross rolling hills. The ground was covered in short shrubs, and to the left stretched a forest.

If they veered far east from here, they would reach the Harrison Barony.

It was said that the farther south one went, the more drowned corpses appeared.

When it rains, drowned ones rise from everywhere. Especially on days like this, when the rain lasted long, it was the best time for them to act.

That was the conclusion of countless scholars who had observed, tested, and studied it.

The drowned are born from water. The Demon Realm had spread its forcibly sown seeds across the continent. Those seeds, watered by rain, conceived and birthed bastards—the drowned.

The air and rain scattered by the Demon Realm did that. Some scholars even called them the vanguard of the Demon Realm’s assault on the continent.

“Damn, they’re coming out so many it’s annoying.”

Rem said, looking at the oncoming horde of drowned. Fighting them wasn’t even real fighting. They were just filth blocking the road.

At least, that was how it was for these people.

The miasma, the monsters, the gloom—Rem was used to all of it. The West was no place pleasant for humans to live. Sudden shifts in climate were common. To him, this weather was nothing unusual.

‘Better than near the Silence.’

He’d grown up right next to the Demon Realm called “Silence.” If he were weak enough to be shaken by this kind of foulness, he wouldn’t have been able to handle magic at all.

He was as solid and sturdy as when he’d left the Border Guard.

Rem narrowed his eyes and let his axe-hand drop. Rainwater ran down his forearm and along the axe blade. Rain alone would never rust his weapon. The axe he held was a descending weapon—imbued with sorcery that throbbed like a living heart, the blade quivering.

“Eh? Don’t you think so?”

Rem smirked and asked, but it wasn’t a question that sought an answer.

He tensed his arm muscles, watching distorted figures rise within the rain.

Even with rain and mist blurring his vision, Enkrid counted the number of monsters blocking the way ahead. It wasn’t difficult. A knight’s sight wasn’t hindered by this much.

As for gauging headcount, he’d done that countless times as a scout, risking half his life.

He drew an imaginary circle, counted the drowned inside it, then expanded the circle to estimate the total.

‘Over two hundred?’

A lot? Yes, a lot. Enough that a normal merchant caravan would call it disaster—or turn and flee on sight.

But not for them.

“Well. I’d like to stretch my body too, but until Odd-Eye returns, I can’t leave my post.”

Shinar spoke. Only a fairy could calm the uneasy horses. She still went around, patting their heads, soothing the pack animals carrying their supplies.

“Then I will.”

Lua Gharne stepped forward.

The southern rain was heavy, cold, and hard, but Frokk enjoyed any rain. That’s why only she and the Dragonkin wore no cloaks.

Even so, rain from near the Demon Realm was never pleasant. But did that matter? She tapped the Dragonkin’s elbow and said,

“Ever heard of friendship fees, Temares?”

“What’s that? Some new concept?”

“It means getting paid gold for keeping someone company. I won’t be taking gold from you, so you’ll have to give me something else.”

At her words, Temares thought briefly, then said,

“You wish me to transform into a woman and become that man’s partner?”

“...What kind of thought process leads to that conclusion?”

Shinar, who had been watching, snapped. She abandoned her usual emotionless fairy mask and raised her brows.

Such an expression wasn’t rare for her anymore, but the anger was clear. Of course, compared to humans, it was only a faint twitch and lift of her eyebrows.

Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks and chuckled.

“Fight. Clear what blocks the path of the one you follow. Temares, time to pay for the fun.”

The Dragonkin nodded without hesitation.

“So be it.”

A trade meant give and take. The Dragonkin understood the concept. To be a friend or comrade, one must pay the price.

Enkrid drew his sword. He forgot all about the lack of communion. The monsters ahead would receive his blade.

What kind of power did this rain carry, unknown to him? Perhaps the Demon Realm’s nearness was the reason.

At the center of the drowned horde, the current gathered and a translucent spirit appeared—a water wraith. Somewhere between drowned corpse and specter, it was regarded among common soldiers and mercenaries as a harbinger of death itself.

“Shall we move a bit faster?”

Enkrid saw no reason to slow down for rain.

“That one’s mine!”

Dunbakel shouted and leapt forward. Her steps were so light that the rain exploded and scattered wherever she passed, like dandelion seeds.

“That brat.”

Rem pouted, having lost the first move.

Several drowned noticed Dunbakel and swung their hands. Purple-stained claws tore through the air.

Dunbakel crouched, sprang up, and crushed one drowned’s head underfoot.

Splat!

The head burst, mixing black blood with the rainwater. Dunbakel soared as if flying and came face to face with the water wraith.

Then, with her Will-infused scimitar, she split the spirit that held the center. It happened within a couple of breaths.

Swift, sharp, and bold strikes.

As the spirit died, it sent blades of water slashing in all directions, but the beastwoman, nimble as she was, deflected them midair with her scimitar, landed, and rolled to evade the rest.

When the drowned lunged between, she alternated blade, foot, and fist—cutting and smashing heads and torsos alike.

“Haha! I am the fairest beauty of the East, Dunbakel!”

She spun on the spot, shouting. With that spin, water sprayed outward in a whirl. Her cloak clung to her body, moving with her.

Maybe she meant to give herself a new nickname every time she fought.

“Noisy.”

Ragna muttered, stepping forward.

“She sure lies boldly when it can’t be verified.”

Rem chuckled. This time, it was almost cute.

The East—was it even a place for people? Few would call her a beauty after catching her stench.

It didn’t take long to clean up the two hundred drowned.

The group broke through the horde and continued without resting even through the night.

Though the rain thinned, it never stopped. It was a dreary day with no chance of clear skies—almost as if God was favoring the Demon Realm.

The farther south they went, the thicker the ominous air grew. And the monster attacks never ceased.

Naturally, neither did their march.