Five days had passed since the fall of Baim.
On the outskirts of the demon capital, in a modest manor nestled among the trees, he stood.
“Lord Gwaranie.”
The voice belonged to a man approaching from behind. He was the most trusted aide of Gwaranie, and like him, one of the human race. The manor—granted directly by the King—served as the official residence for the kingdom’s highest-ranking civil official.
Standing side by side on the terrace, the two gazed out over the courtyard where troops were drilling.
“The King certainly is stingy,” the aide remarked with a wry smile.
The man, Antur Baia, appeared considerably older than Gwaranie—who looked no older than a boy—though he still possessed the vigor of youth. He continued with a tone both amused and bitter:
“Two hundred and fifty soldiers. Eighty mages. I expected the King to give you maybe a tenth of what you requested, but this? Even less?”
Gwaranie gave a faint smile at the complaint, which so closely mirrored his own sentiments that he couldn't help but let a quiet chuckle slip before his expression sobered.
“True. But as the generals like to point out, I have no battlefield achievements to speak of. In that light, it’s not unexpected. Still, if we’re only talking about the number of mages, it’s not entirely bad.”
He continued, voice calm and analytical:
“To fight effectively under magical protection, one needs at least one advanced mage per ten soldiers. In reality, both demons and humans often go to war with a far lower ratio, using mediocre mages instead. Considering that, receiving this many—regardless of their quality—is actually fortunate.”
“But,” he added, “it’s far from enough to accomplish our true objective. We’ll need a much larger force. And to get that, we need results—something visible. Something undeniable.”
“Precisely,” Baia replied, nodding. But his expression darkened with the weight of what he was about to say.
“…You’re quite devious, Lord Gwaranie.”
“Oh? And what makes you say that?”
Gwaranie turned his eyes toward the man, curious.
“I mean your proposal to the King. If what you just said to me was the whole truth, then you only explained half of your plan to His Majesty. And the most crucial part—the very core of the strategy—you kept hidden.”
“…I see.”
Rather than feign surprise, Gwaranie’s expression suggested approval, as if this was exactly what he expected from the man he had chosen as his aide the moment he rose to power.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s hear it. Tell me what it is you think I’ve hidden.”
Baia bowed slightly, then spoke.
“The Hero does not command an army. That means that no matter how powerful he is, his actual impact on the overall war is limited. If we avoid clashing with him and instead focus on defeating the enemy forces advancing on other fronts—targets we can beat—we can still secure ultimate victory.”
“But instead,” he continued, bitterness seeping into his voice, “the generals waste precious troops trying to take him head-on, pulling forces from promising fronts just to be slaughtered by him. As a result, they’re weakening every front at once. It’s idiocy. Prideful, suicidal idiocy.”
“Your plan, Lord Gwaranie, may seem like a stopgap on the surface—but in truth, it’s the correct way to deal with the strongest foe. More than that, it’s the first step toward our nation’s eventual victory.”
The words stirred something in Gwaranie.
…He had heard them before.
Long ago, those exact words had left his own lips. A nostalgic smile crossed his face.
“Yes. The Hero does not lead an army. You’re absolutely right. None of the others at that table—not even the King—realized that simple fact.”
“Then they’re fools,” Baia said bluntly. “That’s why we keep losing—not just to the Hero, but to a ragtag alliance of humans who only win because of their numbers. If this is the leadership we have, no wonder our lands keep slipping away.”
“Indeed,” Gwaranie agreed with a firm nod, then paused.
He glanced around to ensure they were alone, then spoke again in a lower voice.
“…Which is precisely why fortune has turned in my favor. Were it not for this chaos, a civil official like me would never have been given command of troops.”
He laughed—quietly, deliberately.
And Baia laughed as well.
“In that case, Lord Gwaranie, you should be grateful. Not only to the Hero for creating this situation… but also to His Majesty for elevating you so rapidly without regard for your status.”
The words, on the surface, were a statement of loyalty.
But Gwaranie knew better.
He knew this man was of the same nature as himself—an ambitious strategist in civil servant’s clothing. And while Baia didn’t yet know Gwaranie’s true goal, they at least shared a common destination along the way.
This comment wasn’t flattery.
It was veiled irony—harsh and deliberate. A jab at the King, who had unknowingly embraced a cunning viper, mistaking ability and loyalty for docility.
Gwaranie fell silent for a moment, then finally spoke.
“…Then let us begin our march.”
He stepped forward, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Down the path to conquest.”
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