CHAPTER 120: SHOO

"Are you going to kill us?" Varros asked, finally voicing the question that had been writhing in every knight’s mind.

His voice trembled slightly—not from weakness of heart, but from the sheer weight of helplessness pressing against him. There was no defiance left. No flame. Only a question.

Yxthul, now floating just a few feet above the ground, cocked his head. His abyssal eyes blinked slowly, as if amused by the inquiry of these mortal fools.

"Kill you?" he repeated, almost casually. "No, no. I have no interest in slaying the unripe."

He began to drift slowly in the air, hands behind his back, inspecting the area like a noble strolling through his private garden. "I want you gone. That’s all. Gone from this land. Never return. Never send another patrol, or scouting party, or expedition to ’cleanse’ what you do not understand."

His tone grew sharper, each word now carrying the weight of something far older and darker than the battlefield around them.

"And if your precious Baron—what’s his name again? Ah yes, whatever Baron you are serving—if that mortal Baron whatshit he is, if he dares involve himself in this matter again... I will come-no! I will come for him and his people!"

Yxthul’s voice dropped to a whisper, like a knife gliding across silk.

"Yes, I will go to him and this is a threat."

He stopped midair, turned, and faced Varros fully. "And I will not be polite."

A pause.

Then, with a sudden flick of his clawed hand, he smiled cheerfully and added, "Shoo!"

The sound of that absurd word echoed like thunder.

Varros blinked.

The other knights looked at one another in bewilderment.

They expected death. Combat. A massacre.

Not... this.

"What—?" one of the younger knights whispered.

"Is he serious?" muttered another.

But Varros understood.

It wasn’t mercy.

It was a warning.

A threat.

Wrapped in civility.

And if they overstayed their welcome for even a second longer...

Varros turned, clenched his jaw, and raised his voice.

"Form up! Now! Right turn! Don’t look back! Straight!"

His men hesitated for only a heartbeat.

"Chief?" one asked cautiously.

"We’re leaving. This creature does not wish to kill us today. And if we’re wise, we will repay that kindness with distance—long and far. I will report this to the Baron himself, and we will see what actions we should take after that. We are here just to check and clear it if we can, but since he couldn’t, we should quietly resign ourselves and come back."

Stillness.

Then, one by one, swords were sheathed, and the battered formation gathered. Some limped. Others held broken staves. All bore wounds of fear.

Varros bowed low to Yxthul.

A bitter gesture, heavy with reluctance, but real.

"I will deliver your message to the Baron myself," he said, voice low but sincere.

Yxthul nodded slowly, arms folded behind him.

"Good. You’re a smart one, Chief. Try to keep that alive."

The army began its silent retreat.

As they moved along the northern path, Varros paused, noting several covered carriages rolling slowly behind his group. Inside them, though unknown to him, were the students of Nolan—silent, watchful. Their eyes never left the strange creature floating in the distance, but they dared not speak.

Varros, unaware of their identity, simply gave a quick nod and passed.

But as the army’s last banner disappeared into the trees, Yxthul’s feet finally touched the earth again.

His expression darkened.

His gaze locked on the departing trail.

"Fools," he murmured under his breath, his voice like oil over water. "You should’ve returned the way you came. You might’ve escaped entirely..."

He turned and looked beyond the hills, toward the curve of the road the knights had taken.

"But no," he whispered, lips curling. "You follow that path. The path I shaped. The path that goes deeper into the second formation."

He began pacing slowly, the sand hissing beneath his scaled feet.

"The weakening formation was merely the beginning. Just a taste. A lull to strip away your pride. But the second formation... that’s where the real hunger grows."

He smirked.

"They’re already in its teeth."

Then, without turning back, he faded into the shadows of the marsh.

---

Far from the battlefield, in a town long abandoned and draped in silence, a single figure crouched on the highest rooftop of the broken clocktower.

The town was deathly still.

The wind refused to howl. The trees stood too still. There were houses—dozens—but none lit. Their windows were black, their chimneys dead.

The beggar crouched, filthy and hunched, his clothes ragged and dusted with ash. But his eyes glinted with awareness—too sharp for a common vagrant. He stared eastward, his breath shallow.

Then he saw it.

The army of Black Vale.

Marching along the ravine trail, their banners low, their pace quick.

He lifted his left hand.

Opened his palm.

A whisper cracked from his lips: "Devour."

There was no chant.

No incantation.

Only a word.

The moment the word was spoken, a ripple of force pulsed from his palm, invisible at first.

But then the air trembled.

The rooftops shook.

A great BOOM erupted outward like a shockwave splitting the clouds above. The sky cracked with it, and even birds in the distance scattered in wild flocks.

---

Varros and his knights felt it instantly.

Their armor clinked unnaturally. Their boots faltered. The earth beneath their feet vibrated as though something below was growling.

They didn’t speak.

The shame of their retreat still clung to their lips.

But suddenly, one knight let out a short, wheezing gasp.

"Ugh—!"

He stumbled.

And fell.

"Valen?" one called, kneeling beside him.

Valen twitched, his body convulsing.

"Guhhhhhh—arghhhh—my chest—!"

"Valen!"

"What’s happening?!"

Valen clutched his sides, his mouth foaming, eyes rolling back. The veins on his neck bulged, black and purple, spreading across his skin like cracks in porcelain.

Then he screamed.

"AAAHHHH!!"

A horrible, warping sound followed.

Bones shifted.

Muscles tore.

His back arched as spikes jutted from his spine, tearing through armor. His skin peeled, replaced by a slick, deep gray surface. His face stretched—human no more—twisting into something monstrous. His fingers fused into claws. His eyes turned pitch black.

A knight stepped back. "He’s transforming—!"

"No—no! He was stung—by that tentacled spawn! One of the ones we have slaughtered back then..."

Another scream.

Another knight dropped.

His body trembled, arms twisting backward, jaw snapping as something crawled beneath his skin. He shrieked—and then he pounced, leaping onto a fellow soldier.

"BANG!"

They slammed into the ground together. Blood sprayed.

Chaos erupted.

A third knight convulsed. Then a fourth.

Soon, six more fell, writhing violently on the ground.

"Chief!" someone screamed. "They’re changing—they’re becoming them!"

Varros’s face paled as he backed away.

He recognized the faces.

The ones transforming—

—they were the ones stung earlier.

The ones who had been calmed temporarily by the Lilliflare Petal’s aura.

He staggered, his mind racing.

"But... but the calming effect suppressed it! I saw them stabilized!"

"No!" cried one knight. "It only delayed it!"

"I—I don’t understand—!" Varros yelled, eyes wide in panic as another body hit the ground beside him, gurgling.

"What is happening?!"

And the newly born spawn raised their heads and shrieked in unison—voices no longer human—no longer anything of this world.