The Regressed Mercenary's Machinations

Chapter 443

The plains were drenched in blood, and the river was choked with the corpses of barbarian warriors, piled so high that the water’s flow had nearly stopped.

The massive army of 60,000 had been annihilated here.

“Waaaah! We won!”

“Our lord is the best!”

“Long live Rayfold!”

The Rayfold army, which had fought with an eerie lack of emotion, raised their weapons high and shouted in celebration.

For them, Amelia was the greatest commander imaginable.

This wasn’t a victory achieved by a single hero cutting down thousands of enemies in an extraordinary display. Instead, ordinary soldiers had executed her flawless strategy and tactics, leading to an overwhelming victory.

It was no wonder they felt such pride.

But next to them, a different kind of cheer was rising.

“Woooo! We did it!”

“The strongest in the North!”

“Fenris is unstoppable!”

Fenris’s pride was equally fierce. In response to the cheers of the Rayfold army, they shouted even louder.

Joining in, the Ferdium forces cheered alongside Fenris. After all, it was natural for them to align with Fenris since Ghislain would inherit Ferdium.

As the two sides shouted back and forth, the atmosphere grew awkward. Tensions flared as mutual annoyance began to surface.

The two armies now stood across from one another, glaring over the corpses of the barbarians.

Kaor, carrying twin swords slung over his shoulders, smirked and was the first to break the silence.

“What? Why are you staring? Should we wipe out Rayfold while we’re at it?”

The hulking Vulcan bared his teeth in a savage grin.

“You arrogant red-haired bastard. Want me to pound some sense into you?”

“You’re just a bandit, right? I think I’ve heard your name before. I was planning to hunt you down, but I guess you lucked out by siding with them.”

“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Weaklings don’t interest me.”

“Heh, this bastard needs to die before he gets the message.”

Kaor, a former mercenary, and Vulcan, a former bandit, both had notorious tempers, so there was no chance of this conversation ending peacefully.

The knights from both sides narrowed their eyes and reached for their weapons.

Neither side thought for a moment they would lose if it came to a fight.

Vulcan’s energy flared dangerously as he sneered.

“Are you cocky because you’ve got your lord to back you up? Do you even have the strength to fight right now?”

Even if Ghislain was a Master, he had just fought against the Rift and rushed to this battlefield. His stamina and strength must have been considerably depleted.

And Amelia? She wasn’t an ordinary strategist. Even if a battle broke out, Rayfold had the advantage in numbers. There was no way they’d lose.

But Fenris wasn’t about to back down either.

Kaor gripped his twin swords tightly, his grin becoming more menacing.

“Go ahead and try. Do you have any idea what kind of battles we’ve fought? Or are you just bluffing?”

The Fenris army, battle-hardened from countless campaigns, looked down on Rayfold as a group holed up in the North with limited experience. With Ghislain leading them, they were confident they could overpower Rayfold.

“You want to fight? Bring it on, you filthy bandit scum.”

“Perfect. Let’s see if you’ve got anything beyond that big body of yours, you lumbering idiot.”

As the two most hot-headed individuals stepped forward, weapons drawn, it seemed a brawl was imminent.

Intervention

“Enough.”

Amelia rode into view, and the Rayfold soldiers immediately stepped back. Her commands were absolute.

Only Vulcan, still fuming, lingered.

“My lord! That bastard started it—”

“Stand down.”

Amelia’s icy tone cut him off, and though he glared at Kaor, Vulcan retreated grudgingly.

Kaor, pleased with himself, flipped Vulcan off with a smug smirk—only to have Ghislain ride up on Black King and smack him on the back of the head.

“Ow! Why’d you hit me?!”

“Because you never know when to shut up.”

As Kaor looked ready to protest, Gillian dragged him away, while Alfoy, watching from nearby, clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“No manners at all.”

Though the immediate fight had been avoided, the tension between the two armies lingered.

Ghislain and Amelia locked eyes, standing silently across from each other.

It wasn’t the kind of reunion that evoked nostalgic emotions. Instead, it was more like two people forced into a situation they’d rather avoid.

Ghislain observed her and thought:

“As expected, she pulled it off.”

Thanks to Amelia, the barbarian threat had been neutralized with minimal losses.

She had faced a numerically superior enemy and achieved an extraordinary victory. This battle would undoubtedly go down in history as a turning point in the North’s struggles.

The barbarian warriors who had plagued the northern regions of Luthania were no more.

Acknowledging her success, Ghislain chuckled faintly and finally broke the silence.

“Thanks to you, we were able to deal with the North’s biggest nuisance in one stroke. For once, I’m grateful.”

Amelia scoffed.

“We both did this for our own benefit. I assume you already know what I want.”

“Of course. It’s in my interest to let you have it, after all.”

Amelia smirked coldly.

“Confident, aren’t you? How long do you think you can keep playing this game?”

“Even if things don’t go my way, it’s better than letting those lunatics trying to destroy the world have their way. Don’t you agree?”

Amelia didn’t argue.

The Salvation Order was truly insane. Compared to them, even letting someone like Ghislain seize control seemed preferable.

They halted at the sight of a military force struggling against the Rift.

The Lombars Kingdom's soldiers, exhausted and battered, looked more like a broken, fleeing rabble than a proper army.

Unable to stem the tide of monsters emerging from the Rift, they were being steadily pushed back.

One of the guards on watch spotted the approaching figure and stepped forward.

"This area is dangerous! Turn back immediately!"

"Hmm."

The figure tilted their head slightly, their movements curious yet deliberate.

The guard, about to repeat their warning, froze in place.

The tattered gray robe, the skull necklace, the shadow-covered face—these features were unmistakable, etched into the collective memory of the Lombars Kingdom.

"C-Could it be...?"

The guard’s voice trembled, and they stumbled backward in terror.

Even those who had never seen him in person would recognize him. His appearance was infamous, his name unspeakable.

To mimic him, even as a joke, was to invite death.

A Name Feared by All

"What’s going on?"

The officer in charge, flanked by additional soldiers, approached to investigate.

But like the guard, they froze as soon as they saw him.

Instinctual fear gripped them all, compelling them to step back and give him a wide berth.

The figure walked past them, unchallenged, moving through their camp as though it were his own.

"Could it really be him...?"

"Has he truly come from the Land of Death?"

The murmurs of the soldiers only grew louder, their terror evident in every word.

Even the commander, who should have maintained control, was visibly shaken.

None dared to meet the figure's gaze, fearing that a single glance would bind their souls to eternal servitude.

Unperturbed by the chaos he caused, the figure continued walking. Though such reactions were rare, he was not unfamiliar with them.

As he approached the Rift, the air around his feet darkened, swirling with an ominous energy that seemed to rise from the ground itself.

Finally, he entered the area shrouded in blue mist, the heart of the Rift’s domain.

"Screeeeech!"

Countless Rift creatures surged toward him, their monstrous forms a chaotic storm of claws and fangs.

"...Interesting. There are so many of you now."

The figure muttered to himself, his tone laced with mild amusement.

Surrounding him were the corpses of countless soldiers who had fallen in their futile battle against the Rift.

Raising his hand, the figure made a subtle motion.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

The dead began to stir.

Bodies twitched and jerked unnaturally as they rose to their feet, animated by his power.

"Graaaargh!"

The undead let out blood-curdling wails, their weapons clutched tightly in decaying hands as they marched forward to meet the Rift creatures.

An Army from the Grave

But he wasn’t done yet.

Creak. Crack!

Even the corpses buried beneath the ground clawed their way to the surface, drawn by his command.

Rotting flesh and skeletal remains formed an ever-growing army.

"Graaaargh!"

"Screeeeech!"

Boom!

The undead clashed with the Rift creatures in a brutal, chaotic melee.

Though many of the undead were swiftly torn apart, the figure remained unbothered.

As long as his magic persisted, the dead would rise again, no matter how many times they were felled.

Still, the sheer number of Rift creatures was overwhelming.

"...It was worth coming out. To think so many of these have appeared. Truly, the end of the world approaches."

He made another motion with his hand.

Whooooosh!

Dark voids opened around him, each pulsing with an ominous energy.

Flash!

From these voids emerged Death Knights, clad in black armor, their mounts spectral and wreathed in ghostly flame.

Death Knights and Phantom Steeds—elite undead warriors only a high-level necromancer could summon.

With their arrival, the tide of battle began to shift.

Behind him, hundreds, then thousands more corpses rose, joining the fray.

Zombies, ghouls, skeletons—all cursed and unrelenting—surged toward the Rift creatures.

"Graaaargh!"

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Even the earth itself seemed to heed his call. Massive bones twisted and merged, forming a monstrous throne that rose to lift him above the battlefield.

Sitting upon this throne of bones, his eyes glowed like embers in the dark.

He gazed at the swarming Rift creatures and spoke, his voice calm yet resonant with power.

"As I thought, I cannot claim you as my own. Your souls are bound to another."

This was none other than Ghislain’s past life, one of the Seven Great Powers of the Continent.

The man known as the Master of the Dead.