After his quiet meeting with Ranni, Don departed just as silently. The knight Alayn led him to the armory, where he spent time carefully selecting a new weapon. From the rows of spears, axes, and halberds, he drew a streamlined, curved greatsword.
There was no other choice. Unless one commissioned a blacksmith for a custom piece, finding a genuine katana in Liurnia was nearly impossible. Alayn mentioned he had seen weapons from the Land of Reeds at the borders, but Caria possessed none.
A curved sword would have to do. At the very least, it felt more natural in his hand than a standard straight sword. Besides, this was no common blade; it was a weapon Caria had borrowed from their allies, the Bloodhound Knights.
Its name was Bloodhound's Fang. It was an exquisite, knight-grade weapon, perfectly suited for the current situation.
Those who used the Bloodhound's techniques knew their worth.
Ranni's favor did not end there. Along with the weapon, he was granted a set of Ronin armor, finally freeing Don from his mismatched apprentice attire. As for whether he was now a sorcerer or a soldier, only the gods knew.
Alayn subsequently assigned him to a combat squad responsible for defending the shallows at the rear of the manor. The leader of this five-person unit turned out to be a familiar face.
"Yo! Two days gone and you've traded your stick for a cannon, I see." Karin, the archer, punched Don't's chest, her white teeth flashing in a grin. Having witnessed Don't's prowess during the supply raid, she was exceptionally welcoming.
"Hello, Captain Karin." Don nodded, forcing a small smile.
Karin was a woman, but she stood nearly two meters tall with a mess of blonde hair and a frame so broad and muscular she hardly looked the part of an archer. If she grew a bit of stubble, she could easily pass for a seasoned brawny warrior. Don couldn't help but think of the harsh reality of the battlefield—there was little room for delicacy here.
"Haha! Don't tell me you only just realized I'm a woman? I won't turn away a pretty face like yours, you know," Karin roared with laughter, hooking an arm around Don't's neck and dragging him toward the others. She pointed them out one by one. "Duke, Laila—the ones who went to court death with us that night. They were supposed to be in the infirmary, but I dragged 'em back."
Don had been preoccupied during the raid, but looking closely now, he recognized them as members of the ambush party.
Duke was a somewhat timid shield-bearer who gave a dry laugh as a greeting. Laila, tall and long-limbed, held a Crescent Moon Halberd and wore a half-set of Cuckoo armor with the insignia filed off. She gave a dull nod before returning to her wood carving.
As for the last person, Karin didn't need to introduce him. Don't's eyes lit up as he stepped forward. "Arno? You were assigned here too?"
His young friend looked a bit nervous standing among these battle-hardened veterans. He scratched his head. "Uh, I think I'm riding your coattails."
Being several hundred meters from the front lines meant they weren't in immediate danger of being crushed by trebuchet stones.
"Don't sell yourself short. You're a veteran who's tasted blood now." Don patted his shoulder, looking out at the ripples on the lake. "Besides, this place isn't 'safe' either."
"Well said! It's exactly because we're short on men that they sent us to guard the shore. Those dead Cuckoos aren't idiots; if they can't figure out a simple flanking maneuver, they might as well just die." Karin laughed, slamming a hand onto Don't's back with a series of heavy thuds.
"So, brothers and sisters, we hold this line until we're all dead!"
The sun dipped into the west, and the Erdtree's glow faded, signaling the end of the day. The rhythmic thud of trebuchet stones hadn't stopped since morning. Occasionally, wounded men were carried past them toward the manor for treatment, while reinforcements marched toward the walls to trade their lives for time.
By evening, the flow of reinforcements had stopped entirely. Everyone knew the manpower was exhausted. Tonight would be the total assault.
Those guarding the shallows had seen enough of death to remain composed—save for Arno.
Karin snored loudly, her rumbles seemingly trying to drown out the sound of falling boulders. Laila remained focused on her wood carving, entirely immersed in her art. Duke had vanished toward the lakeshore for a while, returning looking refreshed.
Don found a clear space to practice his new skills.
"Bloodhound's Finesse!"
He swung the curved sword upward, leaving a trail of silver light in the air. The practice stake was cleaved through the center. Using the strength of his core, Don somersaulted backward several meters before his right foot planted firmly. In a flash, he vanished, reappearing instantly before the stake. The blade flashed again, and the falling timber was sliced into two more pieces.
Whew...
Don wiped the sweat from his brow. He had used the skill three times in succession and felt his stamina reaching its limit. He twisted his wrist, looking thoughtfully at the blade.
This was the power of an Ash of War. In short, it was like attaching a "program" of high-level technique to a weapon. It allowed the wielder to execute complex maneuvers without years of training.
The advantage was the low entry barrier—anyone with functional limbs could use it. The disadvantage was that the "program" belonged to someone else. It wasn't his own power.
This 'Bloodhound Step' logic is impressive. I need to find a way to truly master the movement, not just the skill. Don took the two-stage physical movement to heart. He closed his eyes, flashes of combat playing in his mind.
Gathering force at a single point, a sudden burst, a rapid close-in... follow up with a cross-slash, a thrust, or a Carian Slicer arc. He could even jam a staff into an enemy's face and turn it into a shattered melon.
The feeling was hard to mimic; it required a unique kind of finesse.
Don kept practicing his footwork until sweat soaked his tunic. Mastering a sword technique couldn't be rushed; it often required a spark of insight in the heat of battle. But if a human had created the technique, it could be learned.
He sheathed the Bloodhound's Fang across his back and walked back to the fire. The squad was gathered around for a meal.
"Don, I got your rations for you."
Arno handed him a plate. Don thanked him, but his expression grew somber as he looked at the food.
There was goat meat and a cup of clear liquid. He sniffed it—wine.
"Uh, you're not eating?"
"You idiot. Look how smart Don is. Meat and wine? This obviously means the battle is starting." Karin leaned her head on her hand, huffing with annoyance.
Arno's eyes widened as the realization hit him. His face darkened, a trace of fear creeping in.
The trebuchets had pounded the walls all day. The Cuckoos were clearly preparing to storm the gates. The ground began to vibrate slightly. Looking up, a ten-meter-tall Troll wearing a Carian Knight's helm marched past them.
Another siege was beginning, but this time, the Cuckoo Knights were coming in earnest.
"Eat up. They might not even make it this far." Don't's face remained calm. He had survived the Interior Ministry's artillery; what was there to fear? If they came, he would just cut them down.
No one spoke. There was only the sound of heavy chewing and the crackling of the fire. A moment later, like a thunderclap on dry land, the roar of battle cries reached their ears.
Arno couldn't help but look south, but the stone buildings blocked his view. He could only see the flashes of Glintstone magic illuminating the sky, followed by the distant, raindrop-like clatter of clashing weapons.
The unknown was more terrifying. The din of combat was occasionally punctuated by the rumble of collapsing walls—whether from Trolls or trebuchets, they couldn't tell. High atop the stone buildings, sorcerers raised their staffs to fire frantically, only to be struck by concealed ballista bolts, falling like broken kites to be crushed into paste on the ground below.
"This... this..." The youth's knuckles were white as he gripped his spoon. He swallowed hard. "Are we just going to sit here and watch?"
"What else can a soldier do but hold their post?" Karin patted his shoulder, laughing. "Relax. During the Siege of Leyndell, the scale was much larger than this. Enchanted walls ten meters thick were blasted straight through by Radahn's gravity magic."
Don, eating quietly, perked up his ears. "Captain, you came from Leyndell?"
"You didn't know? Tsk. If I had more schooling, I'd tell you all about how brutal it was." Karin blinked, her mind filled with horrific memories.
Demigods clashing, soldiers flying like scraps of paper, falling stars smashing houses into splinters.
Don, ever inquisitive, interrupted her. "If the Allied Demigods besieged Leyndell, why did they lose?"
"No unity. Besides, the Capital has its own hero."
"Who?"
"Morgott, the Grace-Given King!"
Looking at Karin's reverent expression, Don fell silent. Morgott was a demigod, but one cursed by fate. Born with the deformity of an Omen, he had been exiled to the sewers since childhood. Yet, he rose from the filth, and instead of seeking vengeance against the Golden Dynasty that had abused him, he fought to protect it, driving back the other demigods. He was now the Lord of Leyndell.
Such magnanimity—repaying evil with grace—was truly heroic.
"Then why did you come to Liurnia?"
"Couldn't stay in Leyndell anymore. Unfortunately, I'm a jinx. Everywhere I go, peace vanishes." The giantess gave a bitter smile.
"Have you accepted that fate?" Don asked with a light smile.
"Accepted it? As long as I have a breath left, I'll shoot that damned fate dead..." Karin stopped mid-sentence, her head snapping toward the lake. By the moonlight, she could see several small boats cutting through the waves.
"Brothers, finally! Work's here!"
She didn't need to say more. Don and the others dropped their plates, looking solemnly toward the water.
"Arno, go report to Lord Alayn. Hey, don't rush off yet." The woman pulled the youth back. She picked up a wine cup from the ground.
"Come. A toast. See you at the Erdtree."
She was a follower of the Erdtree, though perhaps not a pious one. The group stared at her until Don raised his own cup.
"Honor in death, no life in disgrace. See you in the graveyard."
The strong liquor burned his throat. Don had always loved wine; he hadn't expected his first drink in the Lands Between to be on the battlefield. Listening to the roar of combat, he narrowed his eyes in comfort.
Clatter.
The cups shattered. He drew the Bloodhound's Fang, his limbs warm and his fighting spirit burning bright.
Time to kill.