CHAPTER 208: SHARP GREETINGS

The rumble of boots and heavy footsteps spread across the plain like a drum beating a funeral rhythm.

Maggie, standing on a raised mound of earth, watched the scene unfold:

Count Martissant’s awakened troops—hardened mercenaries, veterans with strange weapons, and elite soldiers clad in dark leather—advanced in flawless ranks.

There were at least a hundred of them, stark silhouettes against the gray horizon, and behind them, further back, waited the ordinary soldiers, mere pawns held in reserve for now.

Opposite them, as if in a mirror, Pilaf’s forces deployed in the same formation:

the awakened and mercenaries in the front lines, the common soldiers in the rear.

And at the center of this human tide, two figures Maggie couldn’t miss.

Pilaf.

A massive man, tall as a watchtower, muscles hewn as if from raw stone. His shaved head gleamed under the dull light, a deep scar running across his skull like the signature of an ancient battle.

To his right stood his marshal: an older man with a thick beard and sharp features, the look of someone with nothing left to prove—and even less to lose. Their faces were locked in a seriousness that suggested no laughter had ever touched them.

The wind carried fragments of voices, but no hostile gestures.

The two armies had drawn close enough to feel the animal heat of each other’s bodies, yet no one drew a blade.

The air vibrated with restrained electricity, like the tension before a storm too long in coming.

Then, with a sharp motion.

The two supreme leaders raised their hands, each on their own side. A silent command rippled through the ranks, and the footsteps ceased.

The frozen columns now formed a living border.

Martissant stepped forward, his tall frame draped in a dark cape, each step calculated to echo on the parched earth.

Pilaf did the same, his bulk moving like a solid mass, his marshal’s shadow beside him. They stopped ten meters apart—too close to flee, too far to strike.

The silence became almost unbearable.

"Greetings, Count Derilus Martissant. It’s been a long time," Pilaf rumbled, his deep voice rolling like an avalanche.

Martissant allowed a thin smile, just enough to be seen, too brief to be warm.

"Good day, Count Valon Pilaf... indeed, it has been a while."

Maggie, motionless behind the lines, knew this was no mere formality.

These two men had not met by chance—it was a tacit acknowledgment of the other as both equal and enemy.

Every syllable was a sword stroke that had yet to land.

And in their eyes, there was neither hatred nor friendship—only that icy understanding of men who knew that, soon, one would have to erase the other.

The silence stretched, thick as the air before lightning. Pilaf broke it first, his voice cutting through the empty space between them:

"They say wolves don’t devour each other when a greater predator prowls, Martissant. These lands that roar between our domains... they belong to neither you nor me. They belong to the nameless things that dig their dens there."

Martissant didn’t blink. His thin smile returned, colder.

"The last time we ’shared’ a battlefield, Valon, was at the siege of Gonave. Remember? The walls held... but the alliance didn’t."

A low laugh, like a boulder tumbling, escaped Pilaf.

"Alliance? A polite word for you leaving my flanks exposed when Homer’s cavalry charged. The blood spilled that day... could have fertilized these cursed plains." He gestured broadly toward the misty horizon, where twisted shadows seemed to shift at the edge of the hills. "Speak plainly: you covet the hero’s gems. Their black crystals. Their veins of ether. Just like me."

Martissant adjusted his cape with slow, theatrical precision.

"Covet? I recognize an opportunity. These wasted lands are the only border left between us. To cross them... is to risk being torn apart by the claws of beasts—or by the sword of an overambitious neighbor." His piercing gaze swept over Pilaf, calculating. "Your awakened brutes are impressive, Pilaf. But against the Bone Gnawers infesting the canyons? Even your giants will bleed."

Pilaf crossed his massive arms, the leather of his harness creaking.

"And your graceful shadows, Derilus? Those assassins you train to slither in the dark... do you think they’ll charm the Howlers?" He leaned forward slightly, like a predator scenting blood. "I heard your last raid into the red zone cost you dearly. Three of your best... shredded by a single Abyssal."

A muscle twitched in Martissant’s jaw. The information was accurate, and Pilaf knew it.

"The price of knowledge, Valon. I learn. You, on the other hand, send your mercenaries like cattle to slaughter. How many fled just last night, terrified by the whispers in the wind?" He took a subtle step to the side, watching Pilaf’s reaction. "This land is vast enough for two armies... for a time. But only if we don’t stab each other in the back along the way."

Pilaf growled, a sound so deep it made the air tremble:

"You propose a truce? You, the master of betrayals?"

"I propose reality," Martissant countered, unmoved. "Facing these monsters demands our full attention. And our full strength. Fighting on two fronts would be... the folly of the mad kings we overthrew." He let the implication hang: For now.

A new silence settled, heavier than the last. Pilaf studied his rival’s sharp features, searching for the trap, the weakness. Then, slowly, he gave a single nod.

"Fine. Each to his own side of the mountain. You take the southern gorges. I take the northern ridges. Let the claws and fangs decide who’s worthy of the spoils."

"And if we reach the heart at the same time?" Martissant asked, eyes glinting with icy challenge.

Pilaf’s grin didn’t reach his eyes.

"Then, Martissant... we’ll have a much shorter conversation."

They turned simultaneously, without farewell, their capes snapping like banners. Their footsteps echoed across the cracked earth as each returned to his lines. No orders were shouted, yet both armies retreated in unison, once again separated by the empty no man’s land.

From her vantage point, Maggie held her breath. The exchange had been a dance of invisible blades. They hadn’t threatened each other outright. They hadn’t even spoken of the war to come between them. Yet every word had drawn the line of the next battle—the conquest of the horrors lurking between their lands. And in that final exchanged glance, she had seen the truth.

This truce would last only until the first anima gem was ripped from the monsters’ grasp. After that, the rumble of boots would change its target.