Low-Fantasy Occultist

Chapter 457.5 - Interlude Eugene 9/Arthur 2

Leon pressed the attack, swinging his broadsword in a sweeping cut. As he moved, he left a vivid streak of light, and the air hissed as the sheer density of his aura displaced the cold.

The speed and power were a profound leap beyond his previous limits, but the execution lacked the necessary restraint. Too much power was wasted, really.

Eugene did not retreat. Stepping directly into the strike’s path, he raised his sword with one hand.

Angling it at the last possible moment, he caught the flat of Leon’s blade and let the knight's momentum carry the weapon into the frozen dirt, carving a twenty-foot-long gash with residual energy alone.

With a fluid twist of his wrist, Eugene brought the pommel up, halting it a mere inch from Leon’s chin.

“Power is all well and good," Eugene instructed. “But do not forget that you are still wielding a sword and all that entails. The transition to Prestige grants you a deeper well, but if you let it dictate the flow, you will leave yourself entirely unanchored, no more than a beast.”

Leon exhaled a long, foggy breath, retracting his weapon and stepping back. Despite the freezing temperatures of the surface camp, he seemed entirely unaffected, save for a frown of frustration.

"It feels... slippery," Leon admitted, flexing his gauntleted fingers. "Before, I had to wring every drop of mana from my coils to power a strike of that magnitude, and I could control its flow more easily. Now, the power rushes forward the moment I think of it. It takes more effort to hold it back than to unleash it.”

"That is the nature of the threshold between mortals and us,” Eugene said, lowering his sword and resting it against his shoulder. He looked at his most trusted commander with genuine pride. Attaining the Prestige rank was a big deal, and Leon seemed determined to make the most of it.

"You have spent your entire life fighting against constraints that no longer apply. It will take some time to learn how to let all that power flow naturally, but I have no doubt you will.”

Leon nodded, resetting his stance, but before they could resume the spar, the crunch of boots on snow drew their attention.

A courier wearing a fur-lined coat bearing the golden insignia of the Royal Army approached their sparring ring. He looked exhausted, his breath pluming in the frigid air, but snapped a crisp salute as he stopped before Eugene.

"Lord Crowley," he announced, extending a sealed parchment tube. “This is an urgent missive from the central staging grounds. General Nolan requests your immediate presence at the war council.”

Eugene frowned, taking the tube and cracking the wax seal. He scanned the brief, elegantly penned words and saw that, for all the flowery language, this wasn't a request; he was being summoned.

“We are about to breach the dwarves’ outer fortifications," he muttered, his expression darkening. "I cannot afford to leave my men right now.”

"General Nolan was very explicit, my Lord," the courier offered apologetically. "All theater commanders are required to attend. They are finalizing logistics for the push into the underworld’s inner ring, and any absence will be viewed as an act of rebellion.”

Eugene rolled the parchment back up and sighed, a cloud of frost escaping his lips. He despised the politicking of the high command. He was a warrior, a man who led from the front, but the generals treated the war like an elaborate game, moving their forces without regard for the consequences, save for what they could personally gain.

"Leon," Eugene turned to the newly ascended knight. "The command falls to you. Hold our position as best as you can, and do not initiate a push unless the enemy breaks their formation first. I will do my best to return before nightfall.”

“We will do as you command, my Lord," Leon promised, striking his breastplate in salute.

Eugene didn't bother to call for a horse. The mountainous terrain separating his position from the main army's staging grounds was treacherous, with sheer drops and deep snowdrifts that could snap a destrier's legs, even those of a steed trained by the Knights.

It would be a bit gauche to go on foot, but he’d be able to make it there and back much faster.

Leaving the surface camp behind, Eugene launched himself up the rocky incline. His boots shattered the frozen stone beneath him, propelling him across the mountainside at speeds that blurred the landscape. He ignored the biting cold and thinning air, his mana burning like a furnace in his chest, sustaining him better than any stamina potion could.

Four hours later, the central staging grounds came into view. It was a sprawling, orderly city of canvas and steel, nestled in a sheltered basin. Thousands of troops drilled in the snow, while supply wagons clogged the southern arteries, coming and going around the clock to keep the army fed and the officers comfortable.

If only we had the same, we could have already taken the city. But I shouldn’t complain. Nick’s friends have provided us with much-needed supplies, putting us in a better position than others.

As Eugene jumped down the nearest peak, there was a moment of scrambling as the guards took notice of him, but fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long, as his aura earned him immediate recognition, and he made his way to the vast command pavilion at the heart of the camp.

He pushed aside the velvet flaps and stepped into the heated interior. Roasted meats, expensive perfumes, and spiced wine warmed by the fire filled the air, marking this as an entirely different world from the one that awaited outside. Two dozen high-ranking officers and nobles stood around a large map at the center of the room, idly discussing troop movements and their own affairs.

If I had taken a horse, I would have arrived long after the meeting had ended. Bah, just another little game.

His presence was soon noted, and the chatter died down.

Eugene was a clear contrast to the immaculate commanders. He wore functional plate armor, and his cloak was stained with mud and dried monster blood. The only effects marking him as a Peer of the Realm were the firestone sword at his hip and the aura of power that surrounded him.

"Ah, Lord Crowley," General Nolan greeted smoothly. The man was impeccably dressed, as always. He had a sharp, aristocratic face and an aura that felt dangerously refined. "So glad you could pull yourself away from your duties to join us.”

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As if you gave me a choice. But for all his faults, this man is not a failure like the others.

In fact, the General was one of the few members of the upper brass to take part in the fighting, having felled several dwarven lords with his rapier.

It was the only reason Eugene bothered to keep the peace with him. That, and the thought of the mess two Prestige warriors duking it out would cause.

“The missive made it clear that it was of the utmost importance,” he replied, biting back the annoyance he wanted to show.

A murmur rippled through the assembled officers, but no one made a fuss, which was just as well. His patience was already thin enough these days.

“There have been changes to the overall strategy," Lord Marbrand, a heavily decorated noble from the inner provinces, spoke up. He offered a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Your particular army group has advanced far beyond the projected timeline, Lord Crowley. In fact, your casualty rate is strikingly low. An ill-intentioned man might think you avoid the heaviest fighting entirely, letting the other flanks absorb the brunt of the enemy's wrath and taking advantage of those lulls to advance.”

Eugene leveled a cold, unblinking stare at Marbrand. The insult couldn’t even be described as thinly veiled.

They were jealous. The royal armies, led by noble scions with little talent, were bleeding heavily for every mile gained in the tunnels. Meanwhile, Eugene’s forces were carving through the dwarven defenses with ease, even purging a nest of demons in the process.

“Such people should reflect carefully on the strength required to achieve those victories, my Lord, and what it could do when turned against gossip mongers,” Eugene retorted, his voice low and dangerous. "If other forces are suffering, it is because those men are trained for the parade grounds. If you want to slow my advance to match yours, say so. Do not mask your incompetence by questioning my honor.”

The tension in the pavilion spiked. Several officers instinctively reached for their hilts, offended by the sheer disrespect.

General Nolan held up a hand, chuckling softly, though his eyes remained cold. "Peace, gentlemen. We all fight under the same banner. Lord Crowley, your ferocity is commendable. We ask only that you reinforce your position before pressing deeper, so we might assault the First City at the same time. We cannot afford to lose our most… enthusiastic vanguard.”

Ah, I see. He was looking for a way to push the other nobles and is using me as a cudgel so as not to dirty his hands. Now that Marbrand was humiliated, he will stop dithering to show me up.

“I shall do my best to ensure that happens,” Eugene agreed, having no desire to argue with such soft men. Nolan had gotten what he wanted, so Eugene saw no need to indulge him further.

He looked around the table, meeting the resentful eyes of the other nobles. They gained much from his efforts, taking the praises from the Court that came with it as their own, yet despised him for proving their refined tactics inferior to his.

"If we are done," Eugene said, turning toward the exit. "I have a war to fight.”

He didn't wait for a dismissal, sweeping out of the pavilion, eager to return to the freezing mountains, where the enemies at least had the decency to attack him from the front.

Arthur stepped back, sliding smoothly across the grass as he parried a relentless flurry of strikes. Rose, his granddaughter, pressed the attack with joyful intensity. Her hair whipped around her face, and her eyes sparkled with the sheer thrill of exertion.

She lunged, snapping her practice blade toward Arthur’s ribs in a blur that would have easily overwhelmed a seasoned town guard.

Arthur stepped into the strike, shifting his weight and sweeping his sword downward, aiming to knock her legs out from under her. The counter was far more forceful and far less forgiving than his usual.

Rose noticed. She abandoned her attack, twisting mid-air to avoid the sweep, and hit the grass in a fluid roll, instantly bouncing back to her feet with her guard up.

"You are overextending!" he barked. "If you commit your center of gravity to a thrust, you must have a plan for when it is deflected. A skilled enemy will not give you time to roll away. They will step inside and open your throat!”

Instead of shrinking from the reprimand, Rose grinned, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. "Then don't let me roll away, Grandpa!”

She charged again, her body flaring with the power of her [Sword Saint] Trait.

Arthur deflected her opening strike, uncaring of the damage done to his sword despite the reinforcement, and stepped inside her guard just as he had promised. To her credit, she struggled, jumping and contorting her body to create some distance, all the while hurling silver blades at him, but eventually she could hold him at bay no longer, and he tapped the tip of his sword firmly against her collarbone.

"Dead," he said flatly.

Rose puffed her cheeks, resetting her stance. “Again."

Arthur acquiesced. His heart swelled with her enthusiasm, but a lingering knot of fear kept him strict.

Ever since the Grandmaster had identified Rose's class, Arthur’s world had grown infinitely more fragile. The man had sworn silence, promising not to report the girl to the Royal Court, but a secret shared by two people was no longer a secret.

If the Court ever learned what Rose was capable of, they would send Shadows to either claim her or kill her.

Arthur knew he was powerful.

He was essentially a walking natural disaster. But even he could not fight the elite forces forever. For that reason, he had to push her, ensuring that if the worst happened and he fell, she would have a chance to survive.

They sparred for another hour until Rose was exhausted, then sat on the porch with a cup of water, completely satisfied with her morning.

In the afternoon, Arthur decided he needed a pulse on the town. Information was his only shield now.

Leaving Rose with strict instructions not to leave, he walked the winding path toward Floria. Before he reached the town proper, he closed his eyes and stifled his aura, compressing the vast ocean until it resembled a puddle.

To any magical perception, he would appear to be an aging, level fifty veteran far past his prime.

Another flex saw his hair change color and his face twist just enough that no one would recognize him.

As was the case every time he visited, the town was still expanding, its energy from the refugees and laborers creating a chaotic, vibrant atmosphere. Arthur navigated the crowds uneasily, eventually pushing through the wooden doors of the Adventurer’s Guild.

The tavern attached to the guild hall was packed, but Arthur managed to buy a cheap mug of bitter beer and found a stool in the corner, melting into the darkness.

"I'm telling you, I saw it myself," a gruff ranger said at a nearby table, slamming his mug down for emphasis. "Three of them. Wearing fine leather, hauling raw timber out of the camps with their bare hands. They were allowed no magic, not even the wizard.”

“That the Valerius boys?" a spearman asked, laughing darkly. "Serves the bastards right. The Lady Crowley and the young lord don't play around when you try to mess with Floria!”

Arthur took a slow sip of his ale. Elena and Devon's political maneuvering was impressive. They had secured the town's economy with ruthlessness, yet the common people loved them for it.

"That's nothing compared to the youngest," a scout chimed in, leaning across the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My cousin is in the town militia and was there during the raid on the refugee camps to deal with the cultists.”

“I heard it was a right mess, but details are scarce.” The spearman leaned in.

"The cult leader tried to blow up the whole warehouse with a suicide spell," the scout whispered dramatically. “He said Lord Nicholas just looked at him, and the guy dropped to his knees as his magic fell apart.”

Arthur kept his gaze fixed on his mug, though his grip tightened slightly on the handle.

"I heard one better," the ranger muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “A friend said the kid went deep into the Green Ocean a few days ago and faced a Prestige monster.”

"Bullshit," the spearman scoffed. "The boy isn't even fifteen. A Prestige monster would crush him. You need an entire Knight Corps to deal with those, you know?”

"Believe what you want," the ranger shot back. “But several people saw Ogden the Alchemist with a fresh Prestige-tier core. Where do you think he got it? The boy killed it, I tell you!”

People were clearly disbelieving that such a feat was possible, but they were also uncertain enough for it to spread.

In the shadows, Arthur let out a long, slow breath.

The gossip was muddled, undoubtedly exaggerated by the flow of tavern ale, but Arthur knew the core of it was true. Nick had dismantled the cult with little effort and had undoubtedly slain a beast far beyond his limits.

It was utterly absurd.

Arthur had spent decades enduring hardship, fighting in dungeons, and surviving wars to reach his current strength. Advancing to Prestige was a slow, exhausting process of gathering achievements and surviving by the skin of your teeth.

Nicholas Crowley was completely ignoring the rules. He was growing at a pace that defied logic, wielding esoteric magic that Arthur, in all his years, had never encountered.

A dark, nagging thought echoed in the back of Arthur’s mind. Should I have told Xander? The Grandmaster hunted anomalies, threats to the peace of the kingdom. And Nick, with his obscure knowledge and impossible growth rate, felt distinctly like one.

Arthur took a long drink of his ale, letting the bitterness wash the thought away.

No. He had made his choice.

Nick was unnatural and dangerous, yet he was fiercely protective of his family and this town. The Crowley family had brought stability to the frontier, given Arthur a safe harbor to hide Rose, and governed with a pragmatic compassion that was vanishingly rare in Berea.

Reporting Nick to the Crown would draw even more attention to Floria, attention he couldn’t afford, since he held a secret of his own.

After all, the ex-Crown Prince’s bastard daughter would be far more of a draw than any talented young mage. The moment one of those slippery bastards caught wind of Rose’s aura, it’d be over.

I need to do some work to keep things quiet.