Chapter 111: The Commission

Anya Village was once an utterly ordinary hamlet in the Empire's southeastern province. Over a century ago, when the province opened maritime routes to the Realm of Nature and the dwarven clans, the entire region flourished, and even a small fishing village like Anya grew prosperous.

Every spring, once the fishing ban was lifted, Anya Village would bustle with activity. The boats, sequestered throughout the winter, were hauled from the shipyards to be cleaned, repaired, and readied for the new sailing season. Yet this year, this once-lively village lay in complete ruin, a chaotic landscape of devastation.

The only intact structure remaining was the guardhouse at the village’s eastern edge. All other buildings had either been razed or repurposed into makeshift bunkers. The entire village was shrouded in the shadow of war.

For the native inhabitants, combat had always been a distant concept. The southeastern province had enjoyed centuries of tranquility; even during the transition from monarchy to a parliamentary system, the main battlefields had been in the north. The southeast had seen little more than saber-rattling that never escalated into true conflict.

The price of such comfort was that, when war finally descended, the people of this land paid in blood.

A piercing alarm echoed across the village, wailing like a lament for the lost and a rallying cry for the living. Almost instantly, the desolate village sprang to life. Voices erupted within and around the guardhouse, and even the seemingly abandoned ruins began to stir with human activity.

While the alarm still lingered in the air, a group began to approach from the southwest. They could no longer be called human. These monsters, wearing the remnants of human forms, moved with a slow, heavy gait but possessed immense strength. Their breath and the fluids dripping from their bodies were highly corrosive. To be touched by them meant risking life and limb—a hard-won lesson the soldiers had learned at the cost of their own lives.

As the monsters drew closer, their pale, bruised skin became visible beneath tattered rags, and their faces—once so familiar—could be clearly distinguished. Many of the soldiers hiding in their bunkers tightened their grips on their weapons, their knuckles turning white.

These monsters had once been people—neighbors of the village, or perhaps even the soldiers’ former comrades. They were dead, yet death had brought them no peace; their bodies had been turned into puppets for the enemy. The sorrow and resentment were so profound that even these hardened soldiers, who had endured countless hardships, felt their eyes welling with tears.

The monsters plodded forward, leaving nothing but desolation in their wake, until they reached the former village square. They faced no resistance, but as the main bulk of the horde entered the square, a red signal flare rose into the sky. Simultaneously, a series of explosions erupted across the square. Countless blackened limbs were hurled into the air, and dark fluids evaporated in the intense heat. Soon, a thick, putrid green-black fog hung over the square, refusing to dissipate.

The few monsters that escaped the explosions shrieked and leaped, abandoning their sluggishness to dash toward the bunkers like startled deer. But there were things faster than them.

Countless flashes of sword light erupted from the silent ruins, locking onto the monsters mid-air. The strikes were precise, organized into groups of three blades per target. The monsters were forced back, though a few lunged forward despite their wounds. Regardless, whether they advanced or retreated, they were met by a relentless, tide-like assault. Wave after wave of sword light struck them down before they could mount a counterattack.

The battle lasted only half an hour, but the results were monumental. At the cost of only three lives, they had annihilated over two hundred monsters—the greatest victory they had achieved in a month.

This result boosted morale significantly, but high atop the guardhouse, the commander could not bring himself to celebrate. Anya, a sergeant who shared the village's name, was a local son. His parents and siblings had perished in the disaster; perhaps the remains of his own kin were among the two hundred monsters just destroyed. He hated the architects of this catastrophe with a bone-deep loathing, desperate to find the mastermind and strike them down, but the reality was cruel.

"Over two hundred zombies. By that count, there must be at least twelve to fifteen Void Demons," Anya muttered, his expression darkening. Having been transferred from the northwestern ice fields where he had participated in encirclement operations months ago, he knew all too well that such a number of Void Demons required the presence of a Night Demon to maintain order and prevent infighting.

A Night Demon—a nightmare even for the elite Snow Wolf Knights. To his ordinary soldiers, who struggled at a three-to-one ratio just to handle the zombies, a Night Demon was nothing more than a death sentence.

"Sigh, to think there's a Night Demon in such a small place. It seems the world has truly gone to chaos," a soft, languid male voice spoke from behind Anya. The silent approach made the hair on Anya’s neck stand up, and he instinctively flared his battle aura in defense.

"Whoa there, stay calm, stay calm," a large hand patted his shoulder, suppressing his aura back into his body. A smiling face appeared before him. "Your vigilance needs work. If someone had truly meant you harm, you wouldn't have had the chance to manifest your aura."

Facing that warm, brilliant smile, Anya remained expressionless, bowing slightly in a knightly salute. "Lord Lambert."

The young man seemed dismissive of such formalities. He waved a hand and turned his gaze toward the battlefield, watching the green-black mist contracting inward. "Your command is impressive. Finding a way to neutralize the 'Black Miasma' so quickly is rare."

"You are too kind, my lord," Anya replied, remaining stiff.

Lambert smiled, unbothered, and looked past the ruins toward the distant sea. Though it was a sunny day, an eerie, thin mist hovered just a few meters above the water, refusing to disperse. The sight made his smile widen, a expression that sent a shiver down Anya’s spine.

As the soldiers cleared the site, a logistics officer ran up the stairs and saluted Anya. "Sir! An alchemist is here and specifically requests to see Lord Lambert."

"Wants to see me? Who?" Lambert asked lazily.

"He wouldn't give his name, sir, only said he was your previous guest."

"Oh? That old fellow finally decided to leave his hole?" Lambert raised an eyebrow in surprise. He descended from the ramparts, pointing at Anya. "If anything strange happens on the sea, find me at once. The Night Demon is my prey; don't let your men go out there to be 'fodder'."

"Understood!" Anya snapped to attention and saluted.

The visitor did not enter the guardhouse, waiting by the door. He was a towering figure in a black cloak, nearly thirty centimeters taller than the average soldier—even Lambert had to look up at him.

Lambert walked straight to the guest and gestured toward a small grove to the northeast. "Shall we walk?"

The guest nodded silently, and the two moved away from the village. Once they were at a distance, the cloaked figure spoke. "I lost someone during the 'Magic Barrier.' I need you to bring her back. This is the 'waypoint'." He handed over a crystal-like object.

Lambert did not reach for it, his eyes widening in surprise. "Who could be so important that you’d travel this far to find me? You know my price isn't low."

"She may be a member of the Anga Gate," the cloaked figure said steadily. "The Anga Gate has done me a favor. Name your price."

"The Anga Gate!" Lambert’s eyes gleamed with excitement. "The Anga Gate hasn't added a new member in over a decade. Where did this one come from? Whose child is it? Rebecca's? Tina's? Or Antoine's? That’s not right—I saw them before I went to Cervantes, and none of them had even found a partner yet. Where would a child come from?"

"I must remain silent on that matter," the cloaked figure stated firmly.

Lambert touched his nose and didn't press. "Well, if the younger generation didn't produce her, it must be a 'fling' from the elders. I can guess who it was. Fine, I'll take the job. No fee necessary—the affairs of the Anga Gate are the affairs of the Sadiya family. Go back and wait for news."

The cloaked figure nodded, satisfied. He handed over the crystal and projected a magical image from his palm.

"Oh? Isn't this the girl called Theresa?" Lambert looked at the image, intrigued. "This child has an interesting temperament. If she truly is from the Anga Gate, she’ll have quite a time trying to fit in with those old relics."

As he spoke, something crossed his mind, and he began to chuckle to himself, paying no heed as the cloaked figure turned and departed.