Carine Forest — Forward Battlements
"What is happening back there?"
Sous paused mid-swing.
Even amid the carnage, the rear lines had become impossible to ignore.
The burning glow illuminated the battlefield like a second sunrise.
Or a funeral pyre.
Adrean carved through another charging mass, his blade releasing a shockwave that pulverized dozens of creatures.
"It seems something slipped through the rear lines."
He swung again.
"Logos is there."
A pause.
"Leave it to him."
At the rear—
Chaos had arrived.
Not battlefield chaos.
Not the kind soldiers trained for.
Panic.
Real panic.
Because enemies in front of you could be fought.
Enemies beside you—
Enemies wearing your own armor—
Were different.
The isolated zone burned.
White fire rolled across corpses and shattered armor alike.
Then—
Something moved.
"What are those?!"
All eyes turned toward the flames.
Bodies were rising.
Not standing.
Being lifted.
Like puppets pulled upward by invisible strings.
Black roots protruded from mouths, eye sockets, joints, and broken armor.
Some dragged themselves across the dirt.
Some stumbled.
Some merely twitched.
And then—
They spoke.
"H-help..."
"Br...brother..."
"S-save...us..."
The battlefield froze.
Several soldiers visibly paled.
Because they recognized the voices.
Friends.
Comrades.
Men who had stood beside them less than ten minutes earlier.
One Cardinal lowered his weapon.
"No..."
Another took a step toward the barricade.
"This isn't right!"
"Those are our men!"
"They were."
Logos didn't even look away from the burning zone.
His hand rose.
Another shipment of Arson compounds was dumped into the containment sector.
White flames erupted higher.
"STOP!"
Darian's voice thundered across the rear lines.
"We can still save them!"
For the first time—
Logos looked directly at him.
"Make me."
Silence.
A terrible silence.
Because everyone knew he meant it.
One Church knight swallowed.
"…Impossible."
The Arson fire did not merely burn.
It consumed.
Armor melted.
Stone cracked.
The corpses screamed.
Then gradually—
The screaming stopped.
One by one.
Until only the fire remained.
Logos raised three fingers.
"Prepare for Phase Three."
Immediately—
Beleth moved.
The colossal gray armor stepped forward.
Rows of Banes shifted formation.
Tower shields slammed into the earth.
Heavy support weapons rotated into firing positions.
"What now?" Darian shouted.
Logos answered calmly.
"Cleanup."
Then:
"Kill and maim."
Bal's expression didn't change.
Neither did Kleber's.
Because both men understood exactly what that meant.
Destroy the bodies.
Destroy the roots.
Leave nothing behind.
No remains.
No chance.
No second outbreak.
"Advance."
Ten thousand Laosian soldiers moved.
No speeches.
No war cries.
No banners waving dramatically in the wind.
Just movement.
Heavy shields locked together.
The first line advanced.
The second line fired.
Quake shells screamed overhead.
The ground erupted.
Entire sections of earth folded upward.
Roots hidden beneath the battlefield surfaced violently.
Writhing.
Twisting.
Trying to flee.
Trying to burrow.
Then the third line fired.
White fire descended.
The roots burned.
Some tried crawling away.
Others split apart.
Others twisted desperately through the dirt.
Then soldiers stepped forward.
Axes.
Mauls.
Boots.
Crushing.
Breaking.
Grinding.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
One Cardinal watched in stunned silence.
"…This isn't a battle."
No.
It wasn't.
It was extermination.
"What are you all doing?"
The voice echoed from the battlements.
Dozens of soldiers turned.
Logos sat in his chair overlooking the battlefield.
Watching.
Calculating.
Unmoved.
The troops gathered in the rear immediately straightened.
"If you are capable of standing," he said calmly,
"Then return to the front."
No one argued.
Not because he outranked them.
Many present technically outranked him.
But because everyone had heard the stories.
The Demon of Laos.
The boy who had survived the Red Tide.
The scholar who built armies.
The lord who never seemed afraid.
One by one—
The soldiers returned to their formations.
High above the battlefield—
Logos sat back down.
Watching.
Calculating.
Watching.
Calculating.
Then—
Nothing.
No movement.
No orders.
No reaction.
Kleber frowned.
"…My lord?"
No answer.
"…My lord?"
Still nothing.
Then he noticed it.
Logos's eyes.
Mana shimmered faintly within them.
Not glowing.
Thinking.
The expression sent a chill through him.
"I was distracted," Logos finally said.
"My apologies."
Kleber immediately regretted asking.
"May I ask by what?"
"Conquest."
The answer came instantly.
Kleber froze.
"…Conquest of what?"
Logos tilted his head.
"Not what."
A pause.
"How."
Kleber's blood immediately ran cold.
He looked toward the battlefield.
Toward the Laosian formations.
Toward the Banes advancing with machine-like precision.
Toward artillery coordinating with infantry.
Toward ten thousand soldiers methodically securing a battlefield for an army twelve times their size.
Without confusion.
Without panic.
Without losses.
The system worked.
That was the terrifying part.
It worked.
And Logos had noticed.
"I was wondering," Logos continued quietly,
"How difficult it would be."
Kleber said nothing.
Because he knew Logos wasn't talking about this battle anymore.
He was talking about campaigns.
Kingdoms.
Entire nations.
Logos continued watching the battlefield.
Expression thoughtful.
Analytical.
Detached.
Like a mathematician considering a difficult equation.
Kleber felt a knot form in his stomach.
Because Lucy was still there.
Lucy could stop him.
Lucy could restrain him.
Lucy could tell him no.
But Lucy would not live forever.
And for all his accomplishments—
For all the factories, railways, armies, and inventions—
Logos was still only eighteen years old.
Which meant he had decades left to grow.
Decades left to build.
Decades left to decide what interested him next.
And suddenly—
Kleber wasn't imagining another battle.
He was imagining a campaign.
One led by Logos.
And for the first time in many years—
The thought genuinely frightened him.