"What is wrong with you people? You can't even handle a simple transport convoy? If you keep performing like this, I'm seriously going to start questioning your competence as mercenaries!"
Not far from the chaotic battlefield, a tall, heavily armored Sarkaz stood, his face a mask of pure murderous intent as he glared down at the group before him. He looked ready to execute every single one of them right then and there.
Standing in front of him were five or six equally imposing Sarkaz mercenary captains. A few of them were physically even larger than the armored commander, yet they stood frozen in total, submissive silence, taking his harsh reprimands like children.
It wasn't because they suddenly possessed the patience of saints, nor were they naturally inclined to play the servant while being insulted. The reason was brutally simple: they were completely terrified of him. They simply couldn't beat him in a fight.
The armored Sarkaz belonged to a tier of elite warriors who were considered formidable even within the ranks of Theresis's personal army. Had it not been for their superior recently acting unstable, a high-ranking soldier like him wouldn't be dealing with lowly mercenaries in the first place.
"You never told us that Kal'tsit would be traveling with this convoy! And you definitely didn't mention that strange woman!" one of the mercenary captains finally blurted out, unable to suppress his rising anger. He shot a glaring look at the commander. "She has personally slaughtered over fifty of our men already! Your network was supposed to be handling the intelligence!"
The other captains instantly shifted their eyes toward the speaker, looking at him as if he were a dead man walking. Had this idiot lost his mind? Where on earth did he find the courage to talk back to this monster? From what they knew of him, this particular captain was usually so quiet he barely spoke a word.
The terrifying commander didn't explode in rage. Instead, he simply locked his eyes onto the vocal captain, delivering a long, bone-chilling stare that instantly forced the man to shut his mouth. The captain stood rigid, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he stared back at the demon-like figure before him.
"This was indeed a miscalculation on our part," the commander finally said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The payout for this contract will be doubled. Consider it compensation for the structural losses your squads have suffered during this operation. This applies whether the mission succeeds or fails."
The mercenaries blinked in absolute shock. The commander was... admitting he was wrong? They stared at the imposing warrior, wondering if he had accidentally taken the wrong medication before the briefing. Just moments ago, he had been treating them like absolute garbage.
But any lingering confusion vanished the second the words "doubled payout" fully registered in their minds. If this employer was willing to pour that much extra gold into their pockets, then every single grievance they had just seconds ago completely ceased to exist!
What did they care about losing a few frontline grunts? In a lawless wasteland like Kazdel, as long as a captain had enough coin, there were thousands of stray, masterless mercenaries wandering the ruins just waiting to be hired. Better yet, they were guaranteed to get paid even if the operation completely fell apart!
A sudden surge of greedy excitement washed over the room. The captains practically charged out of the command tent like beasts injected with adrenaline, eager to rally their respective squads and throw them straight back into the meat grinder. At the very least, they needed to make sure they tore open those trucks and secured some loot!
"Hmph. Idiots. So easily manipulated," the armored Sarkaz muttered to himself, watching their frantic departure with a look of supreme disdain.
In truth, he had never intended to increase their funding. Under normal circumstances, executing one or two of those insubordinate fools would have solved his compliance problem instantly. However, summary executions wouldn't get the convoy destroyed or secure the cargo.
During a tight tactical stalemate, the most effective tool was to dangle a massive financial carrot in front of these beasts, redirecting their raw frustration and bloodlust squarely onto the enemy. That was the sole reason those captains were still breathing.
"Now, we see if this frantic push yields any actual results..." the commander murmured, stepping toward the tent opening. "Though it truly is bizarre. Why would His Highness Theresis suddenly take such a keen interest in a mundane commercial convoy? This completely deviates from the trajectory of our previous operations..."
He glanced up at the horizon, noting that the pitch-black night sky was beginning to bleed into a faint, pale gray. He desperately needed this operation to conclude before morning fully broke. Once the sun rose, the defenders would have a significantly easier time finding an extraction route through the terrain.
A shadow of doubt crossed his mind as he analyzed the field. Because this assignment had been thrown together as a temporary, last-minute directive from the upper echelons, he wouldn't face severe structural demotion if it failed. Even so, overseeing a total operational failure would inevitably stain his professional reputation among the high command.
And looking at the current layout of the battlefield... the mathematical probability of success was looking incredibly slim. The sheer, unmitigated combat output of those two women was proving to be a catastrophic obstacle for his vanguard.
At this stage, even a hardened commander like him could only pray that the sellswords managed to accomplish something useful. As for deploying his own blade? He had absolutely zero intention of stepping onto the field himself at this hour.
Back at the defensive perimeter, Jeanne swung her flame-cloaked sword in a wide, defensive arc, a look of profound confusion crossing her face as she analyzed the charging enemy lines. What is wrong with these guys? They're acting like they've all been pumped full of stimulants.
The shifting behavior of the Sarkaz lines was impossible to ignore. Just minutes ago, her terrifying display of power had broken their morale, leaving them hesitant and fearful. Now, they were suddenly throwing themselves at her barricades with a frantic, suicidal fervor, fighting with an aggressive disregard for their own lives.
Did they swallow some kind of chemical enhancement to dull the pain? Or had some uncalculated variable manifested behind the scenes, giving them a reason to break through their camp even if it cost them their souls?
BOOM—!!!
Before Jeanne could fully parse the shift in behavior, a deafening explosion shattered the air just a few meters to her left. A high-velocity Arts projectile launched by a mercenary Caster had scored a direct hit on one of the heavy transport trucks. The volatile contents inside caught fire instantly, triggering a secondary shockwave that ripped the trailer apart.
Jeanne watched as a massive shower of jagged metal fragments was launched high into the storm clouds, before raining down across the muddy earth like iron hail. One of their primary logistics vehicles had been completely eliminated.
Standing a short distance away, Kal'tsit shot a sharp, intensely anxious glance toward the burning wreckage, clearly terrified that a piece of highly sensitive, precision machinery had just been turned to ash. However, after taking a brief look at the specific materials scattered across the dirt, the ancient doctor let out a soft sigh of relief.
Compared to losing the classified core cargo, losing standard survival provisions and baseline logistical materials was an acceptable loss. However, Kal'tsit's hyper-analytical mind quickly picked up on a highly alarming shift in the enemy's behavior: the mercenaries were no longer focusing their main tactical assets on eliminating her or Jeanne. They were systematically redirecting their fire teams to target the cargo trailers.
This was the direct result of the commander's financial incentive. The original baseline payout wasn't worth dying for, and the sellswords had initially planned to capture the trucks intact to sell them on the black market for extra cash.
Now, they didn't give a damn about preserving the vehicles. Even if they blew the trucks to pieces and had to salvage the ruined metal to sell as scrap iron, the doubled contract bonus alone was more than enough to make them filthy rich.
Watching the red-eyed Sarkaz hordes sprint forward with zero regard for cover, the sheer, demonic intensity of their charge began to paralyze the remaining defenders. For a few terrifying seconds, the civilian guards completely forgot how to fight back.
To the ordinary workers, the scene unfolding in the flickering firelight looked exactly like an army of ravenous ghouls escaping the depths of hell. The Infected drivers, who were nothing more than ordinary employees working for a standard logistics company, felt their resolve crumble instantly. A collective urge to turn tail and run swept through their broken ranks.
This nightmare had scaled completely beyond what their civilian contracts demanded! They were transport drivers, not a frontline military unit. Expecting them to hold a defensive line against a horde of bloodthirsty, professional killers was a cruel joke.
But looking around the burning camp, reality offered them nowhere to run. None of them were naive enough to believe that after these mercenaries finished burning their convoy, they would generously grant the surviving witnesses a safe exit out of the valley. To expect mercy from a Sarkaz sellsword was a fatal delusion.
"Doctor, do you truly believe we can hold out until the sun comes up? If this keeps up, their very next vanguard push is going to shatter our entire defensive line! Did these monsters take some kind of combat drug? How did they suddenly become this terrifying?!"
One of the logistical officers ran up to Kal'tsit, his voice cracking with pure desperation as he begged for guidance. The only thing reflecting in his wide eyes was absolute despair. From his perspective, an engagement of this magnitude was completely beyond the capability of ordinary mortals to survive; their survival rested entirely on whether a superhuman entity like Jeanne could pull off a literal miracle.
Jeanne had naturally deduced the unnatural state of the attackers as well. The mercenaries were operating in a state of hyper-arousal, their movements driven by a frantic frenzy that mirrored the effects of a mass emotional spell or a high-grade hallucinogenic compound.
The former was highly probable. In a resource-starved wasteland like Kazdel, chemical combat stimulants were an incredibly expensive luxury. On the other hand, Sarkaz casters who specialized in manipulating emotions, minds, and spiritual energy were far from rare. The Sarkaz race, after all, possessed a terrifying, innate talent when it came to manipulating the energies of the soul.
But if this frantic onslaught continued... even with her supreme martial output, the sheer, overwhelming volume of bodies would eventually breach the perimeter. If she wanted to end this battle in a single heartbeat, her only remaining option was to unleash the full power of her Noble Phantasm, or summon a massive swarm of Wyverns to cleanse the valley.
But doing that would create a massive problem. A display of power on that scale would instantly broadcast her coordinates to the entire region. She really didn't want to drag the attention of Theresis's main army down upon her head this early in her journey.
Jeanne hesitated, her mind racing as she weighed the risks of unleashing her Noble Phantasm. But right as she prepared to channel her magical reserves, a sudden, inexplicable shift swept across the entire valley.
The frantic, red-eyed Sarkaz mercenaries, who just a second ago had been screaming for blood and charging like mindless beasts, froze in their tracks. In a single second, the terrifying frenzy driving their movements evaporated into thin air, replaced by an absolute, chilling stillness. It was as if their chaotic, drug-induced madness had been forcefully smoothed over and silenced by an invisible, almighty hand.
Through the parting curtains of rain and smoke, a striking silhouette emerged from the darkness. A white-furred Sarkaz stepped onto the battlefield, accompanied by a small, elite detachment of personal guards.
The White Demon King had officially arrived on the field.