Chapter 43: The Front
The border town fell into a strange silence that felt heavier than the clash that had just shaken the ground moments ago, as if the air itself had forgotten how to move, as if every single person present had been frozen in place by something they could not understand, something they could not even begin to explain.
At the center of it all stood Borzoi.
His massive frame remained upright, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm, his gaze lifted toward the sky as though nothing had changed, as though nothing had happened, as though the battlefield still belonged entirely to him.
Yet something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The soldiers were the first to notice.
Or rather, they noticed... and then they could not stop noticing.
Their eyes moved.
From Borzoi...
To the ground...
Then back to Borzoi...
Then to the ground again.
There, lying on the dirt, was a severed hand.
Still fresh.
Still warm.
Still belonging to him.
One of the archers on the wall blinked rapidly, his hands trembling as he rubbed his eyes as if doing so would fix whatever madness had taken hold of his vision.
"W... what... what is that...?"
Another beside him leaned forward, squinting, then recoiled as if struck.
"That... that is his hand... right...?"
The first archer swallowed hard.
"It... it is..."
They both looked back at Borzoi.
Then at the hand.
Then at Borzoi again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, the reality refused to change.
The man was still standing.
The hand was still on the ground.
And somehow...
He did not know.
Or he’s just refusing to acknowledge it?
Below, the soldiers on horseback were no different.
One of them slowly lifted his weapon, pointing at the fallen hand with a shaking arm.
"Captain... do you... do you see that...?"
The Captain did not answer immediately.
His eyes were locked onto Borzoi, his expression stiff, his mind trying to catch up to what his eyes were telling him.
"I... see it..."
His voice came out low because of uncertainty.
Then, as if needing confirmation, he turned his head slightly, glancing at the ground.
The hand was still there.
He looked back at Borzoi.
Still there, calm and seemingly unaware.
Or maybe he’s just ignoring it because he’s too powerful.
"What kind of... monster... is this...?" one of the soldiers whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Even when his hand is cut... he doesn’t react...?"
Another spoke, his voice cracking.
"Or... did he not even notice...?"
The Captain’s grip tightened around his weapon.
No... that’s impossible...
No warrior... no matter how strong... would fail to notice losing a limb...
Unless...
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Unless the one who cut it... is far beyond his perception...
A cold chill crept down his spine.
Meanwhile, far away, across continents and oceans, inside that massive chamber filled with watching eyes and burning flames, the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe stood motionless.
For the first time since they began observing, his expression had changed.
He looked shocked.
And his eyes were full of question as if he cannot believe this.
But he can see it clearly.
His gaze was locked onto the map.
Around him, the other Warchiefs also leaned forward, their earlier confidence fading into something else entirely.
Something more serious.
On the projection, a figure had moved like a blur but for them, it was different.
She appeared behind Borzoi.
Passed through him.
Not in a way that could be followed.
Not in a way that could be tracked.
She moved...
And his hand was gone.
The Shaman beside the Warchief inhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his staff.
"Warchief... did you see that...?"
"I saw it," the Warchief replied, his voice low.
Another Warchief stepped closer, his brows furrowed.
"How did that happen...? Even Borzoi did not react..."
"That is not the problem," the Bersuka Warchief said.
His eyes narrowed.
"The problem is... he did not even realize it."
Silence fell again.
The map showed the woman moving.
After taking the severed hand, she vanished.
Not into thin air.
But into the shadows.
Among the white armored guards.
Then she’s gone... so easy... just like that... as if she had never existed.
"An assassin..." one of the Warchiefs muttered.
"No..." the Bersuka Warchief replied slowly.
"Not just an assassin..."
His gaze sharpened.
"Something far more dangerous than normal assassins."
Meanwhile, back at the battlefield, high above the border town, a gryphon soared through the sky, its wings cutting through the air with powerful strokes.
On its back stood Clay.
His eyes scanned the battlefield below, taking in everything at once.
The broken terrain.
The fallen beasts.
The soldiers.
And at the center...
Borzoi.
Fortunately... I made it in time.
A breath escaped his lips.
If I arrived any later... this entire place would have been wiped out.
Then...
His eyes widened slightly.
Phew...
He saw it.
A familiar figure.
A blur moving through shadows.
His maid.
Cerys.
He watched as she cut the man’s hand without him even noticing.
Then disappeared again.
Clay slowly nodded to himself.
Good... very good...
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
Then this becomes much easier.
His gaze sharpened.
Time to enslave these bastards.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward.
Then jumped.
The wind roared past him as he descended from the sky, his body cutting through the air like a falling blade.
The gryphon let out a loud cry behind him as he fell.
Faster.
Faster.
FASTER.
Then—
BOOM!
His body slammed into the ground with overwhelming force.
BAAAANG!
The impact sent shockwaves across the battlefield, dust and debris erupting outward as cracks spread beneath his feet.
The soldiers staggered, some nearly falling from their positions as they shielded their eyes from the sudden explosion.
When the dust slowly began to settle...
A figure stood at the center.
Calm, unaffected by the fall and seemingly relaxed.
Clay.
Borzoi turned his head slightly, his eyes finally lowering from the sky to the man who had just arrived.
"Who are you?"
His voice carried curiosity.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just curiosity.
Behind Clay, the Captain and the soldiers stared in shock.
Then—
They saw it.
The crest.
On his clothing.
The emblem of the Valmont Family.
Their eyes widened.
One by one, they dropped to their knees.
"Great noble from the Valmont Family!"
"Thank you for coming!"
"Thank you for heeding our call for help!"
Their voices overlapped, rising louder and louder, filled with relief and desperation.
"Please save us!"
"We beg of you!"
"You are our only hope!"
Even those on the walls knelt, their heads lowered, repeating the same words again and again, as if afraid that stopping would make him disappear.
After all...
The Valmont Family was no ordinary noble house.
They were a Grand Duke Family.
At the peak of power.
Their influence reached across the entire kingdom.
And their leader...
Was the Prime Minister.
Clay raised a hand slightly.
"Alright."
His voice was calm.
Simple.
Yet it carried enough authority to cut through the chaos.
"Get up."
The soldiers immediately fell silent.
Slowly, they rose, their eyes filled with hope as they looked at him.
Then—
A voice rang out.
"Hey you!"
Loud.
Sharp.
Filled with irritation.
"I’m talking to you!"
Clay’s expression did not change.
He turned his head slowly.
His gaze landed on Borzoi.
The man stood there...
With only one arm.
And he still did not know.
Clay looked at him for a moment.
Then spoke.
"What is it... slave?"