Chapter 28

Once Michael safely entered the fortress, he looked around. It seemed his unit was the first of the alliance to make it inside.

Considering he had eliminated five or six enemy commanders, his contributions were significant.

While resting after dismounting, he watched as other allied nobles trickled into the fortress one by one. They all looked shaken and defeated.

Meanwhile, Count Charles, after dismounting from the chimera and inspecting the face of a slain enemy commander, wore a grim expression.

"From a distance, I couldn't tell, but... this is..."

The strange blood-red patterns painted on the commander's face, the naked priests, the incomprehensible chants—these sights stirred troubling memories of his family's ancient lore.

The Count's eyes widened in shock as realization dawned.

"How can this be? Bloodseal—wasn't it sealed a thousand years ago by the Holy Radiant Kingdom? How could it fall into the hands of the fanatics?"

Finally understanding why the fanatics had grown so powerful, Count Charles felt his mind spiral.

The Crowley Barony, despite its wealth and resources, had fallen without putting up a proper fight. Now he understood why.

He regretted not responding to the initial distress call immediately. It wasn't the first time he had felt this remorse.

Bloodseal!

The cursed artifact from 1,500 years ago.

Even someone with no knowledge of magic or curses could use the Bloodseal to carve runes onto their face and transform a thousand docile serfs into fanatics.

It required a thousand lives to inscribe a single rune, but once the process began, the cult could expand its forces exponentially.

Ordinary humans couldn't match knights in strength, but when enough ants swarmed, even an elephant could fall.

The fanatics they faced now had likely been commoners or serfs, living normal lives before suddenly becoming zealots of an otherworldly deity.

Count Charles recalled his family's lore.

Fifteen hundred years ago, the Kingdom of Orland had been destroyed by the Bloodseal, an abominable artifact created by the bastard son of a king, who had borrowed the power of an otherworldly god.

Every time the Bloodseal resurfaced throughout history, it left devastation in its wake.

Eventually, the Holy Radiant Kingdom led a continent-wide coalition to suppress the cult and banish the artifact from memory. Over time, its name became one that people feared to even speak.

Only as a great noble, with access to his family's traditions, did Count Charles know of its existence.

The Bloodseal had to be secured immediately.

If left unchecked, even his own soldiers might fall under its influence. To resist its effects, he and his men would need to seek blessings from the priests of the Holy Radiant Church—blessings that had to be renewed monthly.

The thought of the church's demands and the costs involved made his head ache.

He recalled the message sent by the wyvern riders, informing him that a paladin and priests from the Holy Radiant Kingdom were on their way.

"It makes sense now. That cursed kingdom must have known the Bloodseal was stolen and are coming to retrieve it—probably to profit from the situation while they're at it."

The image of the self-satisfied messenger who had delivered the news made Count Charles grind his teeth in frustration.

Still, he had no choice. He could only hope the paladin and priests would arrive soon.

But how much damage would occur before then? The cost of the war effort alone was staggering. Even as the most powerful noble in the northeastern planet, his resources were being stretched thin.

There would also be criticism for his delay in suppressing the cult. If things went poorly, he might even lose his title.

Perhaps they should strike the cult's base before the Holy Radiant Kingdom arrived. But finding such a well-hidden enemy seemed an impossible task, leaving Count Charles feeling helpless.

As he stood in despair, a banner fluttering on the fortress walls caught his attention. The urgent sound of a war horn followed.

"Damn it!"

Count Charles suddenly realized the situation and hastily mounted his chimera.

Among the enemy forces was a necromancer.

The shriveled corpses lying on the battlefield could rise at any moment to attack.

Leaving the bodies of the fallen knights and soldiers behind, Count Charles fled in haste.

Meanwhile, Michael was inspecting his troops.

Despite their training, casualties were unavoidable. Several familiar faces were missing.

The final tally was nine dead, ten severely injured, and twenty-one lightly wounded. Fortunately, there were no missing soldiers—alive or dead, every comrade had been accounted for.

The severely wounded were entrusted to Hope for healing, regardless of whether they were regular soldiers or conscripted serfs. Within two days, they would likely recover enough to move on their own.

The lightly wounded received assistance from supply medics.

The basic medical training taught by Michael's uncle Henry and Carla had proven effective. Without the time to recruit and train dedicated medics, this temporary measure had worked well.

Overall, the state of the Crassus troops was excellent compared to the allied minor nobles.

The losses among the allied forces were severe.

Some lost nearly all their soldiers, while others had their knights or even family heads killed.

The minor noble alliance gathered in Baron Kensington's tent.

Their once-shining armor was now stained with blood, and their eyes glinted with hostility.

Michael feigned a somber expression. Had he joined their charge, the Crassus troops would have suffered similarly heavy losses.

In reality, he felt relief—his troops had the fewest casualties, yet his contributions to the battle were among the greatest. Internally, he celebrated but kept his outward demeanor in tune with the somber atmosphere.

"Everyone has worked hard," Baron Kensington began in a grim tone.

As the alliance's leader, he felt the burden of their losses.

His own losses were substantial. Though his gryphon and other magical beasts remained untouched, he had lost half of his 100 soldiers. Even one of the knights he had taken as a son-in-law had been gravely injured.

Knights who had awakened their aura were difficult to heal, and it would take at least five days before the knight could even stand.

With such losses, it was critical to secure substantial rewards. Properly managing the aftermath was essential for preserving the alliance. Without careful handling, it could fall apart.

"Now that everyone is here, let's head to Count Charles's tent. We must voice our grievances and claim what is rightfully ours!" Kensington declared.

These matters needed to be resolved early. Waiting until after the punitive expedition ended would reduce everything to empty talk.

The nobles in the tent, including Michael, nodded in agreement and shouted in unison:

"Let's confront Count Charles and claim our rights!"

"Indeed! We deserve fair compensation!"

Fueled by righteous indignation, the group marched toward Count Charles's tent.