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Chapter 95: The Fall Part 1
The battle had long since ended. Conrad, flanked by the Dark Priest of the Blackfire Cultists, surveyed the battlefield littered with corpses. Wisps of white smoke rose from the embers, curling into the air like ghostly tendrils. Bodies lay everywhere—black-robed cultists, demons, and mercenaries—all of whom had been alive mere moments ago. Now, their blood cooled in their veins, their skin stiffening into something akin to hardened gel, as though they were nothing more than discarded molds. Conrad stepped forward, nudging a leather-armored mercenary's body with his boot. A faint groan escaped the fallen warrior. Conrad’s brow furrowed in irritation as he leaned down, delivering a swift and final thrust of his blade.
Conrad straightened, brushing ash from his hands, his voice tinged with impatience. “No, the sole heir of Duke Rhun isn’t here. That Macaro—”
“If you know him so well, why did you bother chasing us into this fight?” the Dark Priest interjected, his tone as cold and hollow as a tomb. “We’ve lost many men, all because of that tall one at Macaro’s side.”
“Without risk, there’s no reward,” Conrad replied with a sly grin, licking his lips in a manner that spoke of bloodlust. He yanked his sword free from the corpse, its blade slick with gore, and pointed it toward a group of his subordinates nearby. “Bring the remaining prisoners forward!”
A handful of trembling Gray Wolves mercenaries were dragged before them. These men had fought valiantly only moments earlier, embodying the courage of seasoned warriors. But now, stripped of the illusion of bravery, they found themselves powerless. The sight of their comrades being devoured alive by demons, their blood spilling onto the earth, had shattered whatever resolve they once possessed. They realized, too late, that their strength was meaningless against fate.
And with that realization came fear—a suffocating dread that clawed at their hearts.
Among the five captives stood the white-haired young man Radi, who glared disdainfully at his terrified companions. He had stayed behind to cover Yura and the others’ escape, fully expecting to be captured. Now, as he looked upon Conrad—the man they had assumed was merely the leader of the Card Mercenary Company, their bitter rivals—he felt a surge of anger. Brandon had been right all along. Not only were these men in league with the Blackfire Cultists, but they were also lackeys of the Treeminders.
Conrad, roughly the same age as Brandon, met Radi’s gaze with indifference. Radi clenched his teeth, his fists tightening involuntarily. No one had dared reprimand him so harshly since his father. The memory of it burned like an open wound. In his mind, Conrad and Brandon were cut from the same detestable cloth, both equally loathsome. He fixed Conrad with a look of pure contempt, hoping to provoke a reaction.
“If he dares to confront me, I’ll make sure to humiliate him thoroughly,” Radi thought bitterly. “Let those spineless cowards see what true courage looks like.”
But Conrad merely paused, his expression flickering for a brief moment before breaking into a faint smile. Without another glance at Radi, he turned his attention to one of the other mercenaries.
“Do you look down on me?” Radi snarled, struggling violently against the dark-clad soldiers holding him back. His attempts were futile; their grip was unyielding, and the gag in his mouth silenced any curses he might have hurled. He watched as Conrad approached the farthest mercenary, whispering something too low for Radi to hear. The captive hesitated, then shook his head weakly.
Radi expected interrogation, perhaps even torture. Instead, Conrad simply sighed, signaling for the man to be taken away. From behind, Radi couldn’t see where the prisoner was being dragged, but the screams that followed painted a grim picture. Bones cracking, flesh tearing, organs spilling—a symphony of agony filled the air. The cries grew weaker, turning into wails, then rasping gasps, until finally, a deep growl signaled the end. Silence fell, leaving the remaining mercenaries trembling in unison.
Conrad moved to the next captive, asking a question in a voice too soft for Radi to hear. This time, the mercenary collapsed to his knees, paralyzed by terror. Conrad shook his head in mock disappointment, raising his sword and driving it cleanly through the man’s eye socket. With a swift kick, he sent the lifeless body sprawling backward.
He clapped his hands together, signaling for the corpse to be removed. Only three prisoners remained, including Radi.
The white-haired young man watched as two of his former comrades teetered on the brink of hysteria. It was as if the weight of their past glories—their honor, their pride, the legacy of the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company—had crumbled into dust. All that remained was a desperate desire to survive. Their faces were pale, their bodies shaking uncontrollably.
Radi seethed inwardly, cursing their cowardice. He wanted to scream at Conrad, to demand a fair fight, but the gag stifled his words. Instead, he resolved to prove himself. Death wasn’t something to fear, was it? He would show these quivering shadows what true valor looked like.
But Conrad showed no interest in his defiance. One by one, the remaining mercenaries were taken away, none given the chance to beg or bargain. Even when the last captive pleaded for mercy, swearing allegiance and promising to reveal everything he knew, Conrad dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Soon, Radi was alone.
Conrad stopped before him, his shadow looming large. Without thinking, Radi lunged forward like a rabid dog, only to be met with a brutal kick to the chest. He tumbled backward, rolling several times before scrambling to his feet. Dazed and disoriented, he realized he was the last one standing. The weight of that knowledge crushed him. Who was left to witness his bravery? The enemy?
Conrad’s face remained impassive, as did the Dark Priest’s. Neither seemed impressed by the prospect of heroism. A chill swept over Radi, and he shivered despite himself. Was this how it would end—for him, Radi, one of the finest young fighters in the company, second only to Aiko? Would he die here, forgotten alongside nameless corpses?
No, he couldn’t let it happen. He was of the Celestial lineage, a descendant of the knight Marco, and heir to one of Eruin’s most ancient and storied noble bloodlines.
But who would remember him? There were no allies hidden in the forest, no comrades feigning death on the battlefield. The realization hit him hard, and he wrestled with conflicting thoughts. Should he embrace death with dignity, or cling to life, however meaningless it might seem?
Conrad watched him silently, unspeaking, before drawing a dagger from the Dark Priest’s belt with a sharp zing. Radi’s eyes widened in panic as the cold edge pressed against his throat. Death was close—too close.
He struggled, but the dagger’s bite froze him in place.
No, he didn’t want to die.
In that final moment, despair washed over Radi’s face, extinguishing the fire of resistance in his eyes. Conrad noticed the change immediately, withdrawing the blade and tearing away the gag covering Radi’s mouth.
“Do you wish to live?” Conrad asked, his voice calm yet commanding.
Radi opened his mouth to retort, to spit venomous words, but his voice faltered. Trembling, he nodded, then quickly shook his head, unsure of himself. Heat flushed his cheeks—not from shame at his weakness, but from the humiliation of having been frightened into silence.
What a disgrace.
“I’ll ask you one question,” Conrad continued, towering over the young man. “The other group traveling with you—how many were there, and which direction did they go?”
Radi hesitated. If this demon demanded secrets about the Gray Wolves, he might have resisted out of loyalty. But this… this was different. Those people weren’t his friends—they were mere strangers. Surely sharing information wouldn’t count as betrayal—it was merely cooperation.
That arrogant man had dared humiliate him.
His jaw tightened at the memory.
“They headed northeast, shortly before your attack. Fifteen in total, led by a young man about your age. Two women accompanied him, along with twelve guards…” Radi paused, swallowing hard. “I overheard our commander and Buga discussing it—they’re all at least Silver-rank, possibly stronger.”
He spoke freely, divulging every detail without prompting. Had Brandon been present, he might have laughed in disbelief. After all, Radi had endured far worse treatment from Conrad than a single punch. Yet here he was, babbling like a frightened child, eager to please.
Conrad exchanged a glance with the Dark Priest, their expressions unreadable.
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