Chapter 43
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Buuuuu—!
Dum—
Dum—
Dum—
Dum—
In the dead of night, chaos erupted inside the military camp.
The sound of a horn tore through the cold air, followed by urgent drumbeats that roused soldiers and tribespeople alike from their sleep.
“Raid! It’s a raid!”
“Hellhounds!”
Amid fear and tension, the same cries echoed across the camp again and again.
“Where’s the brat—no, the lord?”
“He went out with the captain!”
“And the company commander?”
“He’s out too!”
The highest-ranking leaders were absent.
With no proper command structure left, veteran soldiers quickly stepped forward, forming squads of ten and organizing defenses on their own. Among them was Günter.
“What the hell is going on?” Günter asked.
“No idea, damn it. One of the lookout guys on the watchtower said he saw a pack of hellhounds,” a veteran muttered, rubbing his head. “My damn head’s killing me.”
Some soldiers were still half-asleep, grabbing weapons blindly. Others swayed unsteadily, hungover and confused. No one had a clear picture of the situation.
“Waaahhh—”
Children burst into tears. Women hugged them tightly, casting anxious glances around.
Günter reassured the tribespeople briefly before running toward the watchtower where the horn had sounded.
“What did you see?”
“Over there. There—something’s there.”
The night guard pointed into the darkness.
The moon was faint, hidden behind thick clouds. Whatever lay in the distance was hard to distinguish.
“It’s just dry brush, isn’t it?”
“Look closely. Red… light. Red light.”
“….”
Something was there on the ridge, but torchlight made it hard to see clearly. Only vague silhouettes appeared.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh.”
Günter grabbed the torch from the watchtower and hurled it outside.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shapes on the hill became visible.
“…Ah.”
A low groan escaped him.
The worst possible enemy had arrived at the worst possible time.
“How… is that possible?”
More than a dozen hellhounds.
Their glowing eyes pierced through the dark.
If this were just hallucination, the lookout would never have sounded the horn.
“Günter! What do you see?! Is it really hellhounds?!” someone shouted from below the barricade.
Günter raised his hand and made a gesture.
He drew a line from his cheek to his mouth, then raised two fingers and clenched his fist.
At least twenty.
“Damn it! Build the barricade! Move!” a veteran shouted. “Those mutts are back! This time, none of them leave alive!”
As confirmation came, the camp erupted into full war footing.
Half-asleep soldiers jolted awake as if doused with ice water, tightening their grips on weapons.
“Archers assemble! Archers!”
Longbowmen and crossbowmen quickly formed lines behind the barricades, weapons loaded and aimed.
They had faced hellhounds before. Not in such numbers, but enough to survive.
The difference this time was clear:
No Bessemer.
Less than half the manpower.
And civilians to protect.
“Three coming from the front! Two hundred meters! One-fifty!”
“Shit…” archers cursed under their breath.
Distance closed rapidly.
Three hellhounds, not twenty.
Strange. Reports had said twenty.
But there was no time to question it.
Survival came first.
“Fire ready!”
The archers drew their bows tighter.
“TWO FIFTY!”
The tension peaked.
Then—
“They’re here!”
At the same moment Günter shouted, three massive beasts emerged from the camp entrance.
WHOOSH—!
Arrows and bolts flew like a storm.
The archers knew instinctively as they released their shots.
It hit.
That feeling came with experience—whether bow, blade, or fist.
And they were right.
But there was a difference between hitting and landing damage.
Swish—
A sharp slicing sound cut through the air.
Carlson deflected an arrow with his sword.
Bessemer caught a crossbow bolt barehanded.
Growl—
The three hellhounds revealed themselves under the firelight.
Only then did the soldiers realize something was wrong.
There was no coordinated attack, no howl, no charge.
Instead, the beasts simply stood there, watching.
Even their hostility felt… restrained.
Less “kill,” more “warning.”
“…Did I not sleep enough?” one soldier muttered.
Even Red Nose, the veteran who had organized the defense, rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
And then—
Three massive hellhounds stepped fully into view.
And on their backs—
Riders.
Carlson.
Bessemer.
Isaac.
Silence fell.
The soldiers froze, unable to process what they were seeing.
“…How is this possible?” Günter whispered from the watchtower as he descended.
—
Days passed.
The situation inside the camp changed completely.
Bessemer and the soldiers no longer needed to enter the Black Forest for monster meat.
Boom.
At dawn, a hellhound dropped a wild boar at the camp entrance and disappeared.
Later, another brought a deer.
Then a giant rabbit.
“Stop standing around! Run!” Carlson shouted as training resumed, irritated by the interruptions.
The hellhounds left their prey neatly, then vanished back into the wilderness as if nothing had happened.
From the next day onward, things changed again.
Some hellhounds began digging the frozen soil.
They tore up strange blue flowers and broke frozen ground with their claws.
At first, only one did it.
Then two.
Then three.
Veteran soldiers, still wary, followed them in small groups, watching carefully.
But gradually, the tension faded.
Hellhounds became part of daily life.
Children even began playing with them.
They pulled fur, grabbed tails, tried to climb onto their backs.
Growl.
The hellhounds would grumble—but never attack.
It became routine.
Women and soldiers constantly had to stop children from overdoing it.
The strange coexistence slowly became normal.
—
“My lord, a letter has arrived,” Carlson said, entering Isaac’s tent.
Isaac was deep in research.
Through his bond with the hellhounds, he could now perceive their senses—sharpening his awareness.
Their instinctive mana flow patterns revealed entirely new structures of magic.
A new world of understanding had opened.
Isaac opened his eyes slowly.
“Haa…”
“It’s Schiller,” he said. “Give it here.”
He scanned the letter.
“What does it say?” Carlson asked.
“Two bad pieces of news. One expected, one not.”
Carlson frowned.
“The expected one: we can’t get draft animals. Horses are forbidden by my father, and cattle or donkeys are nearly impossible to find. Apparently, everything is horse-based here.”
“That makes sense.”
“The unexpected one…”
Isaac paused.
“A royal inspector is coming.”
Carlson stiffened.
“A royal inspector?”
“Yeah.”
“…Not the Church, right?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not. It’s routine inspection. Or it could be something bigger.”
Isaac folded the letter.
“I have to go to Bern anyway if I want a blacksmith.”
He stood and stretched.
“We’re going home. Prepare the carriage.”
—
Wind howled outside the tent.
Binfelt’s plains were open and empty, allowing the wind to move freely without obstruction. It often carried strange sounds.
Some said it was the voices of the dead.
Others said it was spirits whispering.
Either way, it always sounded lonely.
Isaac stood silently for a moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he thought of Jonas.
And the sound of piano keys.
