Chapter 121

The earth groaned and shuddered with increasing intensity. The monsters would reach the surface at any moment.

While reports indicated the evacuation of Burston was technically complete, the residents had only just cleared the town gates; it would still be a long while before they reached the safety of the mountain’s base. If the monsters were allowed to roam free, the horde would inevitably overtake the fleeing crowds in the mountain passes.

That was why Harold had remained behind: to act as the ultimate bottleneck.

Dozens of sake barrels were arrayed in the central plaza. Harold stood before them, dual blades in hand, hacking them apart with violent, sweeping strikes. Vivid reddish-purple liquid sprayed from the shattered wood, instantly staining the cobblestones.

The liquid was a concoction known as ‘Red Bottles.’ Unlike the White Bottles used to repel monsters and lower encounter rates, these were their antithesis—items designed specifically to lure monsters in. In the original story, they were primarily used for power-leveling or farming rare drops.

Enticed by the pungent scent, every monster in the vicinity began to converge on the plaza. Harold did not stop until every barrel was reduced to splinters and the plaza was awash in the fluid.

Most of the monsters emerging from the depths would now be driven by a single, mindless instinct: to charge this spot.

Harold’s task was simple in theory, yet suicidal in practice: slay as many as possible and buy every precious second of time.

Exhaling a short breath, Harold looked up at the fading light. Once the veil of night fell, the pace of the evacuees in the mountains would slow. He would have to hold the horde’s attention for that much longer.

Objectively, the situation was hopeless. And that was exactly why Harold smirked.

It was the same cold, condescending sneer he had worn countless times since inhabitng the role of Harold Stokes—a look of absolute disdain for everything in his path.

It served as the signal for the slaughter to begin.

The tremors spiked into a violent upheaval. The sound of splintering wood and stone echoed from the direction of the mine as clouds of dust billowed into the air. The vanguard of the horde was carving a path through the buildings themselves.

However, the first to reach the plaza were not the slow, massive juggernauts, but swift, quadrupedal predators. They were lean and supple, reminiscent of leopards, but their bodies stretched three meters long, tipped with vicious claws and massive fangs.

Black Sabers. In the game, they were mid-tier enemies known for their speed and high attack power.

“Is that all?” Harold spat.

The three Black Sabers lunged, claws bared. Harold didn't move an inch more than necessary, weaving through their coordinated strike with surgical precision. In a single, fluid motion, he decapitated all three.

To a bystander, it would have looked as if their heads had simply vanished in the moment of impact. The beasts collapsed, fountains of blood erupting from their necks. Harold welcomed the gore; the scent of fresh blood would only help draw more monsters to him.

Just as he intended, the defeat of the vanguard was followed by a flood of diverse monstrosities. Dozens more Black Sabers followed, flanked by hundreds of Goblins and Trolls. He even spotted several Hornheads—beasts he had faced years ago during the suppression expedition.

The horde filled the streets, surging forward like a black tsunami.

“『Bolt Lance』!”

Harold struck first. With the monsters still dozens of meters away and packed into the narrow street, they were the perfect target for a linear strike.

He impaled several with Bolt Lance, shattered the ground beneath the next rank with Grand Punisher to break their stride, and incinerated those who tripped with Flame Column. He was careful to manage his resources for a war of attrition, yet his efficiency was lethal.

He cut down dozens in the opening seconds, but it wasn't nearly enough to thin the herd. Finally, the wave crashed against him.

(If I stop, I'm dead. Evade and attack simultaneously. One strike, one kill.)

Harold maintained a state of preternatural calm. If he allowed himself to be pinned, he would be buried under the sheer weight of numbers. He moved constantly, utilizing the open space of the plaza to ensure the monsters had to fan out to reach him.

He dodged a lunging Black Saber by a hair’s breadth, and in the same motion, sliced through a Goblin’s raised club and neck in a single stroke. When a Hornhead tried to capitalize on the gap with a rear charge, Harold vaulted over it with a backflip, using the creature's rocky back as a springboard to launch himself into the air.

While airborne, he drove his black sword through the throat of a Griffin that had been preparing a spell. He kicked the limp carcass away as he wrenched his blade free.

As gravity pulled him back down, a sea of monsters waited with gnashing teeth.

He could have used Air Dash to reposition, but without existing momentum, it was a difficult maneuver. Yet, Harold’s expression remained frozen in a mask of cold indifference. He looked down at the teeming mass with eyes of ice.

Harold pulled back his right arm. The sword in his hand crackled with an intense electrical discharge, glowing with a fierce, unstable light. He threw the blade without a moment's hesitation. It flew with the force of a railgun slug, burying itself deep into the skull of a Hornhead in the center of the throng.

Then, Harold’s voice rang out across the plaza.

“『Raijin』!”

A blinding flash of lightning tore through the dusk, painting the world in stark white. A split second later, a deafening thunderclap shook the very foundations of the town.

When the smoke cleared, Harold stood alone amidst a charred wasteland. The majority of the monsters in the center of the plaza had been incinerated by a lightning strike that surpassed anything found in nature. The liquid from the Red Bottles had evaporated, and the metallic stench of blood was replaced by the acrid smell of ozone and burnt flesh.

When he had first used Raijin years ago, he could barely strike a few meters with four bolts. Eight years of grueling training and an iron will had transformed a "trash-tier" game skill into a devastating area-of-effect execution.

He retrieved his sword from the shattered remains of the Hornhead and turned his gaze toward the next wave.

The plaza was momentarily clear, but the remnants of the horde were still pouring in. Worse, his crimson eyes caught sight of the heavy hitters—behemoths exceeding five meters in height were now emerging. They advanced with the deliberate pace of a main army following its scouts. Their power was on an entirely different scale.

But Harold didn't care. His objective remained unchanged. He would simply kill.

“I’ll turn this town into your mass grave,” he muttered. “Be grateful for the burial.”

---

“Incredible...”

High atop the stone wall surrounding Burston, a member of the Frieri watched the distant town center from a watchtower.

Though they were too far to see the fine details of the combat, the pillars of fire and the jagged streaks of lightning illuminating the sky told a story of a struggle beyond human limits. To face such a horde alone—the sheer terror of it was unimaginable.

Harold Stokes, a man not yet twenty, was defying that terror and betting his life to save a town that wasn't even his.

“Hey, are you there?”

“K-Keith-san? Why are you here?”

The Frieri member spun around to see Keith Wingate climbing into the watchtower. Keith was drenched in sweat and gasping for air, having clearly sprinted a massive distance.

“I left the guard duty to the rest of the guys and the Knight Order,” Keith panted. “Give me a status report.”

“It’s going as planned. He’s holding the line at the central plaza.”

When the plan was first explained, the Frieri had thought it was madness. But Harold’s combat prowess had exceeded their wildest imaginings. He had been holding back the entire horde for over fifteen minutes.

“Sounds like the boss’s ‘worst-case scenario’ hasn't happened yet,” Keith said, his voice laced with relief.

Harold’s great fear had been that the monsters wouldn't be lured by the Red Bottles. He had theorized that if they were being controlled by an outside force, their instincts might be overridden, causing them to ignore him and hunt the residents instead.

“That’s right. Not only that, we haven’t received a single report of a monster slipping past him.”

Keith paused. “...Wait. Not even one?”

“No. Why?”

“That’s impossible. It doesn't make sense.”

“I mean, him fighting that many monsters doesn't make sense either, but... yeah, I see your point.”

Even if Harold was winning, there were thousands of them. It was physically improbable that not a single monster had strayed into a side street. And yet, the scouts hidden throughout the town had sent no signals.

“Something’s wrong,” Keith growled. The Frieri member felt a sudden, cold prickle of unease. They were missing something.

“Tch, whatever for now. Are the gates ready?”

“Yes. We can blow the tower and block the South Gate the moment it’s necessary.”

If Harold fell or the line broke, they were prepared to collapse the gatehouse to seal the town. It was a desperate, final measure—one that would likely trap Harold inside.

“I really hope we don’t have to do that,” Keith muttered.

“If we do, Lord Harold’s life is forfeit...”

Staying behind as a solo rearguard was already a suicide mission. To have his own subordinates seal his only exit and set the town on fire was madness.

“Why does he go this far?” the Frieri member whispered.

“Who knows,” Keith replied. “But for the boss, I guess this is something worth dying for.”

“Is it noble pride?”

“I’ve met my share of high-and-mighty nobles, but I’ve never heard of one who’d throw his life away for people who aren't even his own subjects. Not like this.”

Harold’s actions were undeniably heroic, but they lacked the typical vanity of a noble. He threw himself into danger with a reckless abandon that suggested he wasn't just trying to save people—he looked like a man searching for a place to die.

“Wait! A signal!” Keith shouted.

The man grabbed his binoculars and focused on the distant light flashes. As he decoded the message, the blood drained from his face.

“No... this can’t be...”

“What is it?!” Keith barked.

The man looked at him, trembling. “The signal... it says ‘Human detected.’ ‘One child.’ ‘Alone’...”

The premise of Harold’s success—the very foundation of his plan—shattered in an instant. A straggler or an intruder—whatever the case, a child remained trapped in the town.