CHAPTER 122: STUDENTS IN CARRIAGE

In the swirling stream of Nolan’s augmented vision, the battlefield unfolded like a macabre symphony of chaos and desperation.

Every flicker, every motion, every rising health bar and plunging vitality line was a neon echo of carnage playing out in real time.

"Ding! -1"...

"Ding! -1"...

"Ding! -1"...

His body remained suspended above the villa’s cliffs, but his mind was submerged deep in the data—locked onto the horrifying fight unfolding miles away.

Varros stood among his knights, the clanging of swords and the thundering rhythm of hooves lost to the eerie wet squelch of regenerating limbs.

"Men!" he shouted.

"Huhaaaa!!" they screamed back!

However, no matter what they do, the octopus-headed humanoid creatures, grotesque in every possible way, didn’t just survive their wounds—they unraveled and reformed with an obscene grace.

Tentacles, cut clean in two, would twitch on the ground, only to slither back to their main body like worms returning to the soil.

Sliced torsos would spill a thick briny fluid—then wriggle, mesh, and fuse together again.

Fire didn’t help.

One of the knights, his face pale with dread, launched an entire blaze spell into one of the writhing monstrosities.

"I used a lot of Mana!"

For a moment, it screamed—or something like it—and its skin blistered in reaction. But the smoke cleared only to show the bubbling flesh smoothing itself out, layer by layer.

"Damn it!" He cursed!

Flesh reknitting. Eyes growing back from nothing but ash. Its limbs flailed, then steadied. It stood back up.

Watching them, "NO! THAT’S NOT—THAT’S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE!" Nolan bellowed, watching it from his aerial screen, horror contorting his features. "WHY ISN’T IT DYING?! YOU BURNT IT TO A CRISP!"

But he’s not there to give them a Machete to kill them. Making all his shouts and screams helpless.

Varros could be seen hacking, panting, face drenched in both sweat and blood.

His broadsword gleamed red with ichor, but it was soaked too many times for victory—it was the wet sheen of hopeless repetition.

"WHY AREN’T THEY FALLING?!" one of the knights shrieked. "I—I CUT IT IN HALF! I SWEAR TO THE GODS, I CUT IT CLEAN—!"

"And it just got back up again," another knight whimpered, falling to his knees. "It’s not even bleeding like a living thing—it’s pretending to."

Then the worst realization set in.

"The Lilliflare petals!" someone gasped.

"The what?!" another knight shouted.

"They were supposed to nullify the infection or supposed to have an effect on them!"

"We used them on every stung soldier!"

"I—I thought they worked—!"

Nolan’s breath caught. "They faked it... you idiots... Can’t you all see!!?? THEY FUCKING FAKED IT!"

The petals weren’t real counters.

They’d just paused the transformation—long enough to lure the whole unit deeper into the ambush zone.

The infected were already ticking bombs... and now, some of them had started turning, one by one, into the same abominations they’d tried to kill.

"VARROS!" Nolan screamed through gritted teeth. "CALL THEM OFF! RUN! DON’T STAY AT ONE PLACE! GET THEM OUT OUT THERE ARE YOU ALL WILL FALL AND THE BASTARD THAT’S COMING TOWARDS MY DIRECTION WOULD BE STRENGTHENED!!"

Varros, as if hearing him—or perhaps through raw instinct honed by countless battles—raised his sword.

"MEN! SCATTER!" he roared. "DON’T GROUP UP! THEY WANT US BUNCHED TOGETHER—MOVE! RUN IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS!"

The knights looked up in fear and confusion—but then, understanding flickered in their eyes.

They obeyed.

The creatures were fast-walking but sluggish runners. By spreading out, they’d lower the risk of encirclement. Groups made easy meals. Singles could slip through.

The unit fractured, riders peeling off toward different escape routes. Some headed for the rocky ridge, others into the open grasslands—but Varros?

He bolted toward the forest, blade still drawn.

Nolan, eyes wide, barked, "Good! YES! That’s it! RUN! Run, damn it, get out of there—!"

But then, as Varros disappeared between thick foliage, dodging the slow-lumbering beasts, Nolan noticed something else.

There. In the corner of the screen.

A blip.

A detail missed.

"...Wait," he whispered.

His vision zoomed.

There—four carriages. Tucked near the back end of the army. Prisoner wagons.

The students.

Nolan’s stomach dropped.

"Varros," he said slowly, voice low. "Tell me you remembered..."

But Varros didn’t stop running. Leaves smacked his armor, branches clawed at his face. His breath was ragged, his boots thudding through the roots and dirt. He cursed loudly, once, twice.

"The infected... those stung by those tentacles..." he muttered under his breath. "I should’ve executed them! I should’ve—!"

Nolan clenched his fists in fury.

"DID YOU JUST—YOU JUST LEFT THEM?!" he shouted at the screen. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

He paced midair, shouting at no one.

"THERE WERE STUDENTS, YOU BLIND BAT! THOSE WERE KIDS! AND YOU—YOU RAN LIKE A DAMNED COWARD?!"

The forest blurred past Varros. The man wasn’t weak—he was fast, agile despite his heavy gear. He’d trained for years under military doctrine. He knew how to survive.

But even as he leapt over a fallen log and slid under a low branch, something twisted in his gut.

He stopped.

Dead.

Breathing hard.

"...The carriages."

His chest heaved.

Nolan leaned forward. "That’s right, that’s RIGHT! Come on, Varros. Come on, don’t disappoint me now—"

Varros cursed again, louder this time. He turned.

"GODDAMN IT!" he roared, pivoting back the way he came.

Branches scraped his face, thorns tore into his side, but he didn’t slow down.

"YES! YES! GO BACK! GO BACK AND GET THEM!" Nolan cheered, eyes wild. "DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE THEM THERE!"

The beasts—sluggish, stupid—lurched in his way. Varros ducked under the swinging arm of one, rolled through another’s slimy grip, and kept sprinting. His gauntlet punched a wriggling tentacle aside, and the thing screeched with a gurgling rasp.

"MOVE, DAMN YOU!" Varros yelled.

"Yes! Run! You still have time!" Nolan shouted. "Just don’t stop! GO!"

Roots snagged his boots, vines whipped at his arms, but he pushed forward, faster and faster. The creatures hadn’t anticipated a return. Their positions were scattered now—guarding nothing but discarded weapons and fallen knights. He slipped between two of them, their reactions too slow to catch him. One reached for his back—he flipped mid-run, slashing behind him—and it collapsed in two.

But even as it fell, its body began to crawl toward the other half.

"DISGUSTING THINGS!" Varros spat.

He broke through the final thicket—and there they were.

The carriages.

And in front of them... a creature.

One of the same tentacled monsters, standing unmoving, like a sentinel. Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, tentacles twitching like a predator savoring anticipation.

Varros slid to a halt.

His heart pounded.

Inside one of the carriages, someone moved.

Nolan gasped. "They’re still alive—YES! Varros, GO!"

The creature turned slowly.

It hadn’t seen Varros yet.

But it would.

Nolan’s voice shook the sky of his suspended vision.

"MOVE, DAMN IT! NOW! YOU HAVE ONE CHANCE! ONE!"

Varros didn’t hesitate.

He roared, sword high, and charged.

Nolan screamed behind him like a battle drummer. "KILL IT! KILL IT BEFORE IT SEES YOU—!"

And in that moment, as the beast’s eyes widened, as the carriage door behind it creaked open and the terrified face of a student peered out...

Nolan whispered one last time.

"Don’t fail them."

And Varros leapt.