CHAPTER 702: 702

But the downside... The downside towered over every hope she sketched.

Spreading her men thin meant weakening them. Even if they encountered the enemy, what then? What if the enemy’s numbers dwarfed theirs? What if they were devoured before dawn? What if placing them as bait condemned them all?

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Her soldiers were trained, but they were not elite.

Her knights were capable but they were few and her mages, valuable, irreplaceable, she refused to sacrifice until she understood the enemy.

And in the worst case...

She might be sending her men to die blind, unprepared, unaware of what kind of monster awaited them.

She pressed a hand against her forehead, closing her eyes.

She straightened, spine stiffening with resolve.

If she waited for the viscount’s response, every town in her domain might fall.

If she acted now, she risked losing the remainder of her forces.

Both choices were wrong, both choices could doom her.

But she didn’t have the luxury of choosing the safer path.

Not anymore.

She exhaled, steadying herself.

"Very well," she murmured "We move first. And pray we are not too late."

She did not hesitate any longer.

The Countess tugged sharply on the pull-cord near her desk. A bell chimed once low, muted, the tone reserved only for summons of highest urgency. Within moments, armored footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Three of her captains entered her chamber, each bowing with a troubled expression. They had heard the rumors carried by ravens. They had seen the fear growing in the keep. But none of them expected to be summoned so soon after dusk.

"Milady," the eldest captain said, "we await your command."

The Countess gestured to the map, her fingers landing on the three untouched towns closest to the destruction: Greenford, Laynor, and Coldbridge.

"These towns," she said, her voice level though her hands trembled beneath the table, "will be next. There is no doubt."

Their faces tightened. The captains exchanged uneasy glances.

"Milady..." one began cautiously, "we do not yet know what threatens us. To spread our forces now"

"is dangerous," she finished for him. "Yes. But doing nothing is fatal. The enemy is not waiting politely for us to understand it."

Her eyes drifted toward the raven, still pecking at its meal. The image hardened her resolve.

"You will each take a squad. Twenty men. Ride to these towns and fortify them quietly. Do not alarm the citizens. Do not reveal what is happening unless absolutely necessary."

The eldest captain frowned. "And if the enemy comes before we are prepared?"

"Then you will hold," she said, voice low, "for as long as you can. Long enough to learn what we face. Long enough for one of your ravens to return."

They understood what she truly meant, Long enough to die with purpose.

None of them argued. They bowed as soldiers who seem readt to accept death.

But as they turned to leave, she added one final order:

"And send your fastest riders to every village between here and the border, separate paths, do not travel in pairs. If even one town sends a plea, I want to know before nightfall. We can no longer afford delays."

The captains departed at once, the clatter of their boots fading into the hall.

When silence returned, the Countess released a slow, shaky breath.

She hated this, she hated that she was gambling with the lives of her people. She hated that she could do nothing more until the viscount responded.

She moved to her window again, staring into the cold night sky. Somewhere out there, the wind-bird was already streaking toward the viscount’s estate, faster than any horse, faster than any raven.

She prayed it would arrive in time.

Unbeknownst to the Countess, her commander had already acted long before her orders could have reached him. The moment he received the earlier plea, he had understood that waiting meant death. So he drove his men through the night, lanterns held low, horses pushed to exhaustion, hoping, praying, they might reach the next town before the unseen terror did.

But the commander once he reached the town came to a realization the Countess would only uncover much later, when all chances to act decisively were gone.

He arrived at the next town only to find it already dead.

The silence greeted him first, the same hollow, suffocating emptiness as the previous town.

His men spread out with torches, searching homes, alleyways, barns, wells. No bodies, only the strange, unnatural signs of attack. No blood. No struggle. Just the lingering sense of something predatory passing through.

By all logic, he should have encountered the creature responsible. He had traveled through the night; the attack should have been recent.

But the marks told a different story.

The disturbed earth, the stale scent of death and the thick, heavy absence of fresh footprints.

His scouts returned pale-faced.

"Commander... this attack... it wasn’t last night."

He turned slowly, his jaw tightening.

"It happened the night before," the scout continued. "Before the plea was even sent. Before we even saw the first town."

A cold, sinking weight settled in the commander’s chest.

The conclusion struck him as he realised, this was not one monster. Not a single threat moving from town to town.

There were many and worse, they were growing, multiplying. Spreading faster than messages could travel. Faster than soldiers could ride.

The rate of devastation had doubled overnight.

If they were already dividing their forces... If they were already able to wipe out more than one town in a single night...

Then every assumption made by him and the county was hopelessly wrong.

The enemy was expanding, like a plague.

The commander clenched his fists.

Part of him wanted to immediately set off again, to race toward the next nearest settlement, to try to intercept the slaughter.

But when he turned to his men, he saw the truth. Their horses trembled with exhaustion, their eyes were sunken and their hands shook on their weapons.

They had traveled through the night after the previous horror, and now after hours of searching this town, they were spent.

Even if he drove them onward, they would collapse before reaching the next target.

He hated it, he despised the helplessness in his gut. But he could not throw away lives for the sake of desperation.

"We rest here," he finally said, voice tight with anger he struggled to suppress.

It was moments like this that made the commander wish, truly wishing the Countess had assigned him even a single mage. One competent spellcaster could have washed the exhaustion from their bodies, restored stamina, sharpened their senses, and even propelled them toward the next town with wind-enhanced speed.

A mage could have made all the difference.

But he had none.

And fatigue pressed down on his men like wet mud. Their breath was ragged, their discipline frayed. Even he, strong as he was felt the ache in his bones.

He considered it, truly considered it. Just leaving them behind, charging ahead alone.

He was a peak third-stage knight. At full strength, he could outrun his own horse for hours. If he pushed himself to the limit, he could reach the next town faster than any unit of men.

But then what?

He’d arrive drained, weakened, his aura barely stable. If the monsters were there and he had no reason to believe they wouldn’t be, he would die before lifting his sword.

And his death would buy nothing.

So he held back the order forming on his lips, swallowed the frustration, and stepped into his tent.

He sat heavily on the small traveling chair, his armor creaking with the movement. The silence pressed around him or it would have, if not for the strange feeling rising within his chest.

Excitement. It was wrong, so wrong. It horrified him to acknowledge it.

He had marched through empty homes, barren streets, lifeless towns. He had walked past cradles overturned, dinner tables untouched, doors swinging lightly in the wind with no living soul behind them.

Each sight crushed him with grief... But beneath that grief, something else stirred.

Purpose, fulfillment and a reason to act.

For years, ever since the Countess fell from grace and was demoted to a mere baroness, he had followed her out of loyalty and something quieter, more selfish.

Hope, hope for a life fit for a knight.

Not one spent patrolling borders that never saw a fight. Not one spent quelling farmer disputes or chasing off wolves. Not one spent enduring poisonings and assassins from jealous noble wives, who hated the Countess’s continued existence.

In truth, most of his years under her felt dull, gray, purposeless.

He had dreamed of danger, of challenges. Of something, anything worthy of drawing his blade.

And now, faced with a horror that could erase entire towns in one night...

He felt alive.

The feeling twisted in his chest, half guilt, half thrill.

"This isn’t right," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with calloused fingers. "But... gods forgive me... this is what I’ve been waiting for."

A real threat, a real war and a real test of his strength.