Chapter 08
Childhood, Prelude to Summer (7)
December, 1696 of the Common Era.
Despite the valiant efforts of each Feiquorier battalion, the frontlines gradually began to retreat over time.
Chief Commander Krauzan finally made the decision to pull all forces back behind the Inferno Line.
Even the Whitebone Battalion, who had served at the frontlines, was no exception—they were eventually assigned to defend the Inferno Line.
The Inferno Line.
It was the first time since the 7th Fortress Siege that they had the leisure to observe this mysterious structure up close.
“Don’t gawk like a bumpkin. You’re making us look low-class too.”
“Shut up, Jin.”
“Haha, it’s fair to be wide-eyed. They built a whole string of fortresses along the banks of the great Bellisor River that cuts the Old Republic into thirds. Who could’ve imagined such a thing?”
The brutal, tragic experience of the “Black Summer” led the Old Republic to adopt a defensive military doctrine—minimizing human losses by forcing the demons into war of attrition behind walls.
The permanent defense line born from that doctrine was the Inferno Line.
Equipped with artillery, barbed wire, trenches, and bastions, it even had underground food and ammunition storage.
Each fortress was connected by a rail network, ensuring smooth operation of troops and logistics in both peace and wartime.
The world described this iron wall as:
The pinnacle of dwarven engineering, the greatest and strongest fortress system ever built.
“A ‘great river,’ huh? Can’t even see the opposite shore. Might as well be an ocean.”
The boy muttered as he stared at the far bank, where volcanic ash whirled in chaotic gusts.
“If they use these batteries to intercept the Uruks trying to cross… that’d be the end of the invasion right there.”
The fortress gleamed in steel-gray, with soldiers meticulously maintaining it—no trace of ash clung to its surface.
From afar, it looked like a black belt across the horizon, ominous and commanding.
As the Whitebone Battalion crossed the great bridge, engineers bustled around, planting magical explosives at each pillar.
They planned to blow it up the moment all units returned from the front—or if the Uruks attempted a crossing.
“This the last bridge?”
At Jin’s question, a young combat engineer replied:
“Yes, sir! The last bridge on the central front. One remains in the east and one in the west.”
“Damn, must be hell working in this heat.”
“No, sir! It’s an honor to welcome the Feiquorier Battalion! But aren’t you hot too, sir?”
The soldiers’ combat uniforms were enchanted with high-level mages’ temperature-regulation spells.
Without it, fighting in the intense heat—like even the sun itself was raging—would have been impossible.
Even with the magic, they always needed Wolf’s ice spells to cool off after battles.
“Camilla Alter Aradamantelle.”
As they crossed the bridge, the fortress commander stepped forward, helmet tucked under his arm, clicking his heels and saluting politely.
Several officers stood beside him—judging by their discipline, they were not Haltene (local militia), but highly trained regulars.
“I’ve heard of your victory at the 7th Fortress. Congratulations.”
“Just give me the situation report.”
“The fortresses south of the Inferno Line… you may consider them destroyed.”
Camilla muttered under her breath:
“What the fuck are the Republic’s witches doing? Off on a group vacation?”
“They’re apparently struggling just to protect the major cities.”
“Right. Probably drinking with some guys in the capital.”
“Please… don’t say things like that… In any case, Haltene is now drafting even students to defend the Inferno Line.”
Camilla looked out at the distant horizon.
It was midsummer.
The southern sky was choked with volcanic ash—thick and inescapably dark. It felt like the world itself was being consumed by shadow.
“What about the others?”
“6th Seat Alesia Alter Solang and 7th Seat Ryunel Alter Gaumris have been deployed to defend Terbenople.”
“You’re putting the brats in charge of the most important capital front? And us?”
“Your orders are to defend the central front.”
“So we’re just stuck here playing house?”
“This is a critical front too.”
“If you Republican cowards had just built up your military, we’d already be pushing into the southern seas by now instead of wasting the budget on garbage like this defensive line.”
“Watch your words, Camilla. The Republic has long served as humanity’s breakwater. This is just a small repayment. The Commander always said that.”
At Johann Wolf Frost’s rebuke, Camilla spat on the ground in irritation. The commander hesitated, then spoke:
“One last thing… a message from the Papal Office…”
“Then spit it out, you bastard.”
“They say your active time is nearly up, and… it’s time you took a disciple. This is the candidate list from the church.”
He handed her a golden scroll sealed with the papal sigil—radiating holy light as if sunlight were leaking from it.
“Camilla…”
Wolf watched her accept the scroll with despair in his eyes.
He knew better than anyone.
That her hair had turned completely white.
A testament to her mad fighting…
Feiquoriers were swordsmen who burned their own lifespan into strength.
Average wartime lifespan: late 20s to early 30s.
In peacetime? Even the longest recorded was barely into the early 40s.
Camilla, same age as Johann, was now in her late 30s.
She had managed to live a relatively long life after becoming a Feiquorier following Raminea’s death—but now that time was reaching its end.
“…”
Camilla stared at the scroll expressionlessly… then handed it back, unopened.
“Tell those old geezers I already found someone. Haven’t decided yet, though.”
“…Excuse me?”
The commander and Wolf both blinked in surprise.
The commander asked in disbelief:
“Wh-Who is it?”
This was major news.
The immovable 1st Seat Feiquorier had never taken a disciple. Just who could it be?
“What was his name again… Ka-dumbass? Ka-idiot? Ka-rubbish?”
“No way someone’s named ‘Ka-rubbish’… Never heard of him.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Wolf, sensing something was off, immediately shouted:
“Camilla—don’t tell me!”
“Come back later. I’ll decide once I see if he’s got potential.”
After the commander was dismissed, Wolf finally spoke:
“If you’re just using Kaisen as an excuse not to take a disciple, stop it.”
“So what?”
“The swordsmanship you learned from the Commander—the Tenfold Cross Blade—is a treasure of humanity. Are you really going to bury it over personal feelings?”
Camilla turned away, quietly brushing the small sword she kept under her cloak—her master’s.
“Take a disciple… yeah, right.”
She would no longer grow attached to anyone.
Wouldn’t care for anyone.
That was Camilla’s way of surviving in this cruel world of goodbyes.
“You’re teaching Kaisen well. You could teach others too.”
“Maybe. But what if I don’t want to?”
“Why Kaisen but not the others?”
…Why indeed?
Wolf grabbed her shoulder, and Camilla pulled out the hidden small sword.
Then she spoke, her voice strained:
“This sword… I gave it to the Commander as a gift. Right before his last battle.”
Kaisen’s mother’s keepsake.
A gift from Camilla to her master.
When those two facts clicked together in his mind, Wolf nearly collapsed. His breath quickened.
“T-Then that means… Camilla… Kaisen is the Command—”
“—Of course not, idiot. You believe that?”
Before he could finish, Camilla shut him down with a deadpan expression.
“What?”
Wolf stood there, dumbfounded.
Only after a long pause did he sigh, press his temples, and speak in a low voice:
“Don’t joke about the Commander again. If anyone suffers the most whenever he’s mentioned… it’s you.”
There was no reply.
Camilla gave a faint smile, turned, and walked off.
Wolf blinked in disbelief.
“When’s the last time she smiled like that…?”
Not even jokingly, not since the Commander died.
But Wolf said nothing. There wasn’t time.
Because right then—a griffin kicked up a cloud of dust as it landed nearby.
“Camilla Alter Aradamantelle!”
The rider jumped down and kneeled urgently.
“What is it now?”
“We’ve lost all contact with the rear bases.”
“What, they all went on a drinking party together?”
“Even the search units sent out are unresponsive. The Whitebone Battalion has been ordered to uncover the cause of this phenomenon.”
…From the rear bases?
Camilla felt the faint anxiety she’d been pushing down begin to take shape.
The enemy was close.
There were reports from the Mage Tower’s intel division that the southern army had begun amassing near forward bases.
The Republic command had full faith in the Inferno Line’s deterrent power—but against demons? That was naive.
Brushing dirt from her cloak, Camilla stood and nodded to Johann.
“Call Kaisen. I’ve got a new task for him. And I’ll teach him the final sword technique too.”
* * *
“You’re telling me this brat is a Feiquorier messenger?”
Jack, commander of the Haltene militia, scoffed.
The boy in front of the barracks looked completely unimpressive.
“Even a dog would laugh at this! A snot-nosed kid like you?”
“Light the signal fire, and the Feiquorier Battalion will launch a pincer attack.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Suit yourself. Die here if you want. We’ll go report that an Uruk raiding party was found inside the Inferno Line.”
“What?”
“Convincing you fossils isn’t worth the time.”
“You little… You must be an Uruk spy! Setting a trap, huh?”
“Me?”
“Yes, damn it! That mark on your cheek proves it!”
The militiamen glanced at Kaisen—then looked away, unable to explain the chill that crept up their spines.
“What the hell is with this kid?”
He was tall for his age, but still just a kid—yet from behind his black, messy hair, his eyes glinted with cold intensity.
“Damn it, how did Uruks get inside the Inferno Line… Take his sword. We’ll interrogate him.”
As soldiers approached, Kaisen’s hand blurred—half the blade already drawn.
“I don’t mind explaining through force.”
The militiamen froze.
That killing intent—calm and icy—was so sharp, it made their backs go cold.
It was primal fear.
“Why is everyone in this country such a coward…”
Kaisen’s homeland was the Republic—governed by three city-states, with elders, witches, and consuls forming its ruling body.
Beyond the standing army, defense was left to the Haltene militia.
“Weak, cowardly, disorganized rabble…”
Even after their country had been ravaged years ago, the Republic remained mired in bureaucracy.
All they had to show for it was the Inferno Line.
Sure, the line was strong—but they could’ve invested in elite standing troops, like the Empire did.
Since that didn’t happen, it was the Feiquorier Battalions who did most of the heavy lifting on the frontlines.
“What did you say, punk?”
“Wait, commander!”
The soldier who brought Kaisen intervened hastily.
“Believe it or not, I saw this kid take down two Uruks with a single blade.”
“…What?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I saw it. That’s why I brought him.”
Jack’s eyes widened. The soldiers murmured.
Uruks… weren’t they monsters that only magic users or beastkin could handle?
Jack swallowed dryly.
“How many in your battalion?”
“1,000 spearmen, 1,500 riflemen, 50 musketmen, and 19 beastkin.”
“Only 2,500?”
“Stronger than your 30,000 headless chickens. And all our riflemen are grenadiers. Shut up and do what I say.”
Jack hesitated.
Then his veteran staff offered their input:
“There’s no way we can wipe out the Uruks on our own.”
“We’re low on ammo, and morale is…”
The barracks were in shambles.
Rumors spread that the Inferno Line had been breached, and deserters fled.
This unit was never meant for front-line combat—mostly old men and student soldiers.
“What do you want us to do?”
“Open the gates like you’re retreating. Hitch empty wagons to horses and make it look real. Then hold the entrance.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. We’ll handle the rest.”
Jack drummed his fingers on the table nervously.
If they were going to die anyway…
Everyone stared at him in silence.
They were going to die sitting still regardless…
The next moment, Jack slammed his hand on the table and stood.
“Wake up every last bastard. All troops assemble.”
“…He’s got guts, at least.”
Kaisen re-sheathed his half-drawn sword and spoke like a commander:
“I’ll need two soldiers to carry fire and oil. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
