Chapter 67

"Phew, haa, phuuu—"

Drawing in the cold air that flowed over the lake, Worm exhaled it as a hot breath. Despite his feet moving fiercely, his upper body, which held the halberd, remained perfectly still. While his heart pounded and his nerves were on edge, Worm's thoughts were remarkably calm.

The tip of the halberd pointed towards the wall that blocked the path. Clayst soldiers, ordered to hold the rear to cover the retreat of the siege forces from Cape Raga, stood firm in their positions, forming several rows of a horizontal formation. Despite their faces showing signs of panic, they did not waver from their training. They were valuable but replaceable, and thus, they were the best expendable assets.

Something glinted in front of him. A small point, the size of a grain of rice, quickly grew larger. Realizing it was unavoidable, Worm bowed his head as if making a bow. A dull pain and shock ran through his helmet. The pebble, deflected by the oval plate, bounced off in a different direction.

"Hmm, a projectile."

At the edge of his vision, a comrade fell like a puppet with its strings cut. The screams and sounds of shattering caused by the stones were rampant everywhere. No creature was as skilled in throwing as humans. This ability was effective even against their own kind. However, the pebbles were too small to stop the simultaneous charge of the light infantry. The suppressing fire from the magic troops, which they relied on, had long since run out. Indeed, the shortage of firepower was mutual.

Otherwise, Worm would not have chosen to charge without the magical barrier that he used to employ as a common soldier. He rubbed shoulders with his comrades, sharing their breathing sounds involuntarily. Each time he kicked the ground, his chest plate jingled noisily.

The distance closed rapidly. The spear tips, stained red and black, glistened, ready to impale the light infantry at any moment. Without magic, the means to retaliate were limited. Worm conveyed his gratitude in a primitive language. No one in particular, and the soldiers in the formation echoed the same words.

"Uoooh, ohh, ohhh!!"

The ape-like cries were a show of intimidation, suppression, and malice. The spears entangled like threads, representing the will of the combatants. At the boundary of the thorns, sturdy armor was shattered, and sharp blades tore bodies recklessly. Those who fell were trampled and crushed, regardless of whether they were friend or foe. In the front line, the beauty of neighborly love was absent.

Worm deflected a spear aimed at his face with a branch blade and thrust forward with the momentum of his charge. The tip of the halberd, piercing through the gap in the armor, buried itself deep into the lower abdomen, almost to the hilt. The muscles contracted, and the pelvis held the blade in place. Worm pulled the handle with both hands and kicked the dying Clayst soldier in the chest.

"Uu, uge, gyaa—"

The enemy soldier gasped in agony as the halberd was brutally yanked out. The demon's mask, drenched in blood and the sweet wine of the death rattle, trembled. Worm paid no attention and moved on to eliminate the next row. After a thrust, he took the head of the enemy, and then extended his halberd to the sides.

There was no need for a fatal blow. The social gathering of those who sought to enforce the will of the state through violence was filled with all kinds of hostility and malice. A slight disruption in the enemy's stance by the branch blade would not go unnoticed. A blunt weapon would be thrust into the gap, and if one fell, they would be crushed from above. Thus, they turned into fresh stains on the soles of boots.

"Make the gap wider!! Use your bodies or weapons to fill the ranks!"

"They're hesitant. Teach them how to use their spears."

With his magic depleted, Worm, now reduced to a light infantryman, continued to swing his weapon. The gentlemanly shouts, the percussions of swords and spears, the screams and roars, passed through his ears like background music. He killed the enemies in front of him without thinking, methodically. Why attack? Because the enemy retreated. Why stop? Because the enemy stopped.

"What the hell is this!!? Damn it, come on!!"

Responding to the invitation, the light infantryman swung the halberd from the top. The blow, devoid of magic in both body and weapon, was parried by the raised sword. If one strike didn't work, a second would follow. The enemy soldier, carrying a chipped sword, charged in with no proper technique or stance. However, the Clayst soldier in front of him had a fierce fighting spirit.

"Gah, ah!!?"

Worm did not choose to slash or thrust. Instead, he twisted his body and struck the pommel from the side. The pommel, coming from a blind spot, hit the temple hard. The eyes, which had been staring at the light infantryman, rolled back and looked in a different direction.

The rear ranks of the enemy soldiers blocked Worm's path with their spears. Unlike the front-line soldier, this thrust was hesitant. After a one-sided exchange, he aimed the tip at the chest.

"U, ah!!?"

The expected resistance was absent. The enemy soldier, whose feet were stuck in the mud, fell on his buttocks, extending his time of death. He didn't understand what had happened. Worm brought down the halberd again.

"Wait, wait—"

One voice was lost from the battlefield. A sticky thread extended from the axe head embedded in the helmet. There was still work to be done. By continuing to strike, he could avoid thinking.

The halberd, mixed with water, rhythmically pierced the enemy's side, sinking into the flesh like a chopstick into cheese. A blow to the skull split it like a watermelon, spilling its contents. The sensation of the spear tip hitting bone was strange, like a soft omelet with eggshells mixed in, an unpleasant feeling.

The world perceived through the five senses was strangely distorted. It felt like being in a state of intoxication, where the feet didn't touch the ground. The body moved naturally, and the mind followed. As he scanned for new targets, the face of the man he had just killed suddenly appeared. Although his words were never fully spoken, Worm understood. He had understood.

What kind of person was the man who had begged for his life? He was probably not yet twenty, with a body that was not well-built, likely due to poor nutrition. He was probably a peasant who had joined the army to seek a living.

Empathy for the enemy would kill him. To maintain his mental balance, Worm unconsciously separated a part of himself, adapting through a kind of mental switch. This switch, which governed his conscience, was becoming increasingly blurred.

"Phew, uuh—don't think, don't think."

A hot lump rose in his throat. He tried to convince himself, but it was in vain. Unavoidably, scenes flooded his mind. Comrades who had shared hardships, the guards who had pierced him, the fellow countrymen who wanted to return home—none of them were there anymore. They were all dead. Around Worm, people often died. He had really killed a lot.

Even if he tried to suppress the memories, they overflowed. His heart moved. No matter how he tried to act dispassionate, it was futile. The contradictions always emerged. What had seeped in could not be easily erased.

"Phew, haa, phuu, haa—"

His mental balance was thrown into chaos. To maintain his sanity, he had to keep moving, fulfill his duty. By doing so, he had less time to think. Worm moved forward, seeking salvation. The balance he had maintained through combat quickly broke down. The number of enemy soldiers holding the rear decreased. In one corner of his mind, he hoped for the end of the battle, while in another, he hoped they wouldn't disappear.

The worn-out moral compass, the last bit of goodness left in him, was crumbling. The more he had time to think, the more foolish his thoughts became. In the end, the enemy soldiers from Cape Raga were gone. Only the dead and the captured remained. The halberd, like a thick layer of makeup, was covered in red. His armor was stained with blood. The only exception was the demon's mask, which had drunk its fill of blood.

"Are you satisfied?"

He asked the demon's mask he had removed. It trembled once, then fell silent. He stored the mask, now satisfied with its thirst, in his waist bag. Despite his face being exposed to the air, Worm's expression remained as rigid as a Noh mask, unchanged.

The fire flickered over the abandoned supplies. Like a moth drawn to light, Worm stumbled closer. With trembling hands, he took out a cigarette. The distance was uncertain, and it was difficult to light it. After much effort, he held the cigarette between his dry lips and slowly inhaled. The white smoke seeped into his lungs. The rising purple smoke wandered and dissipated.

"Haha... Not good, huh?"

He laughed, though there was nothing amusing, with a serious face. The bitterness spread on his tongue. No matter how many times he tried, the bitterness did not fade. It would be the same with alcohol. The sweet wine of victory was no different from the muddy water now. Despite knowing this, Worm couldn't stop smoking.