The royal capital had fallen into utter chaos.
An abrupt, massive outbreak of undead—
the powerless civilians fled in terror, chased by grotesque undead, turning the streets into a living hell of screams and despair.
The most densely populated city…
and at the evening hour when people washed away the fatigue of the day with drink—
the capital was filled with a din and commotion like a festival, twisted into terror.
"Prioritize evacuating the citizens!"
Amid the chaos, a single stalwart figure roared with commanding might.
It was Gazef Stronoff, Captain of the Warrior Troops and pride of the Re-Estize Kingdom.
He issued orders to his men while cleaving the head off a lunging undead.
The greatsword forged of blue crystal metal gleamed serenely in the dusk, its half-moon arcs leaving behind deep blue traces.
Hearing their commander's voice with their own ears, the warriors felt determination surge within them.
It was they—no one else—who would protect this capital.
"This way, citizens!"
"Hurry! Leave your belongings!"
"Don't look back—just run straight!"
They shouted orders and encouragement to the fleeing townsfolk.
Evacuating civilians was the highest priority.
Unless the citizens escaped quickly, the warriors couldn't swing their blades properly—
a stray sword or spear could easily injure someone.
With wide gestures they directed the flow, standing between the undead and the civilians, fulfilling their duty with fearless courage.
The townspeople ran past them in waves—
one after another after another.
All of them were ordinary, peaceful citizens living simple lives in the capital—
"G—GYAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
—or so it was assumed.
"What—!?"
A sudden scream from the warrior troops.
As they passed by, the civilians—supposedly needing protection—slashed at them.
What is going on—?
That was everyone's first thought, but no one could immediately grasp the situation.
The idea that disguised agents of Eight Fingers had infiltrated the fleeing citizens and were targeting the Warrior Troops was not something one could quickly imagine.
"What in the—whoa—"
A woman suddenly stumbled forward into Gazef's chest.
It seemed she tripped while running away.
Gazef moved to offer support—
"Back away."
—and instead forcefully shoved her aside.
He had let his guard down, and he knew it instantly.
A knife had been driven deep into his thigh.
That woman had done it.
"Tch…"
With a bitter curse, Gazef tore the knife from his leg and threw it aside.
The "woman" he had shoved was no innocent citizen.
She chuckled in a man's voice.
"Even the great Gazef Stronoff can't do much when caught off guard, huh…?"
"You—"
The woman's outline began to blur.
No—
not blur.
The illusion was dissolving.
As it faded, a disheveled, rough-looking man appeared.
"One of the Six Arms…
Succulent the Illusionist."
"So you know of the Six Arms…
Then yes—this chaos is our Eight Fingers' handiwork."
"I see. So it was you."
"You got it. And our target wasn't the capital."
Succulent leaned forward, grinning.
"It was you, Gazef Stronoff.
But realizing that now won't help you."
"What—? Gh—!"
Gazef dropped to one knee.
From the stab wound burned a searing heat—
a numbness creeping across his body.
(Poison…)
He clicked his tongue inwardly.
Strength seeped from his limbs.
Sweat budded across his forehead as he glared at Succulent with murderous intensity.
"Ooh… scary, scary.
As expected from the Kingdom's strongest.
Face you head-on? No chance… not for me."
Even Succulent—whose raw combat ability was low but who had confidence in assassination skills—felt instinctively fazed by Gazef's killing intent.
The intimidation alone told him—
unless Gazef was completely suppressed, he could never defeat him.
If the ambush had failed, Succulent would already be dead.
He felt that certainty in his bones.
But Gazef had not lost his composure entirely.
(Damn…
but I still have an antidote potion—)
Preparedness against poison was natural for a warrior.
He reached for a vial—
"Don't let him drink that."
"G—AAAAAAAHHH!!"
A mass of flame struck him from above.
Gazef screamed as searing heat ravaged his skin, rolling across the ground.
The vial flew far from his grasp.
"Ggh…"
He looked up.
Floating in the sky was a robed figure, looking down upon him.
The face under the hood resembled a corpse—
no, it was a corpse.
This was no ordinary magic caster—
an Elder Lich,
a dead magic king.
"…Demiurge the Lich King—?"
No.
It proclaimed itself:
"…The Deadly Magic King, Khazeb Davernoch."
An Elder Lich with a title.
"You… another of the Six Arms… damn you…"
Gazef grimaced; from Davernoch he felt the aura of a true powerhouse—
not like the fake strength of Succulent.
He stabbed his greatsword into the ground as support and forced himself upright, despite the poison gnawing through him.
"Warrior Captain!"
His subordinates cried out—
but they were overwhelmed dealing with undead and disguised attackers.
No help would reach in time.
"Do not worry about me!
Prioritize rescuing the citizens!"
"But Captain—"
"That is an order!
These ones are mine!"
Even with support, they couldn't handle such enemies.
Gripping his sword, Gazef glared skyward.
Above him, Davernoch sneered.
"If you were in perfect condition, perhaps.
But in that state, you think you can win—?"
"…I can.
Unlike you, I have duty and resolve."
"Heh… let's see how long that bravado lasts.
Come."
"What—"
At Davernoch's signal, five more robed figures appeared.
Like him, they floated in the sky with Fly.
They were not Eight Fingers—
but members of Zurrernorn, subordinates of Khajiit, cooperating with the Six Arms.
"More… magic casters…"
Gazef bit his lip.
For a man with only a sword,
distant spellcasters—especially airborne ones—
were the worst possible opponent.
Against one Elder Lich, he might still stand a chance—
but the situation worsened rapidly.
"Fireball."
A sphere of flame shot from Davernoch's hand.
His subordinates cast the same spell immediately after.
There was no warning, no start signal.
"Gwoooooohhh—!!"
Their distance rendered Gazef's sword useless.
Dragging his heavy, numbed body, he dodged desperately—
stepping, rolling, crawling.
But he could not avoid them all.
One fireball grazed his side, scorching his flesh.
"Kuh… damn…"
His breath was unsteady.
Sweat poured down his face.
Grinding his teeth, rage leaking between them—
Gazef cursed himself.
Ever since meeting the woman who changed his life—
Albedo—
he had endured hellish training to cast away his weakness.
To become a man worthy of returning the sword she had entrusted to him.
But this reality was merciless.
A surprise attack.
Poison.
Spellcasters tormenting him from perfect safety.
These tactics denied his swordsmanship completely.
Even on an unfair battlefield—
this outcome, where nothing of his training bore fruit, was unbearable.
(Is this… the end for me…?)
His vision blurred.
Still staring up at Davernoch,
Gazef knew his fate was sealed.
The casters' palms glowed—
a second volley of fire gathered to burn the Kingdom's strongest to ash.
"…It's over, Gazef Stronoff."
The words were quiet—yet sharp enough to hear.
The six orbs of flame shot downward simultaneously.
From far away, Gazef heard his subordinates scream.
The poison dulled his mind,
but his body remained that of a warrior.
He forced himself up, raised his sword—
a stance filled with pride, as if declaring this was the only fitting end.
"I… I will… not—!"
Fireball.
And the cluster of flame struck him directly.
The six flames merged, forming a blinding sun of fire that lit the dusk.
Heat blasted outward violently, enough to destroy any human form.
The conclusion was swift.
There was no drama in a battle for life.
Only the cold result of one killing another.
"…And with that, my work is done.
Even the Kingdom's strongest is easy once the battlefield is prepared."
Davernoch smirked, looking down upon the rising smoke.
With Gazef eliminated, the Six Arms' plan would advance easily.
His own reputation would also rise.
All that remained was to confirm the corpse and leave.
He watched as the smoke cleared—
"…What—?"
But where Gazef's charred body should have been—
stood something else.
A faintly luminous shape in the darkness.
Humanoid, yet not human.
Mechanical, holy, otherworldly.
It had intercepted the fireballs.
Protected by this being, Gazef still lived.
"An angel…?"
Davernoch shouted.
It was not Gazef who had taken the fire—
but an angel.
And beside the angel stood a man who had not been present before.
"—Pathetic, Gazef Stronoff.
Is this how a man recognized by my God should behave?"
Clad in an ink-black cassock,
holding a scripture-like book,
his face covered with a black mask.
A figure like a missionary—
he dropped a small potion bottle before the kneeling Gazef.
Likely an antidote potion.
"Y-you…
No… you are—
Impossible—"
Gazef's voice quivered with layered emotion.
He knew this voice.
He knew that angel.
He could never forget them.
"Stronoff…
Where is my God?"
Summoning yet another angel,
Nigun Grid Luin
demanded the whereabouts of the deity he worshipped.