Episode 261 – Star of Demtor (2)
"Don’t let a single one live!"
At Dortas shout, the witches unleashed their spells with ferocious montum.
Curses that summoned blood rained down, fiercely consuming the enemy.
“B-blood, get back!”
“You’ll die if it touches you! Fall back!”
Having suffered several tis already, Demtor’s forces imdiately retreated as soon as they sensed the cursed energy.
But Punkin and Oarla weren’t about to sit idly by.
Drdrdrdrk—
A massive earthen wall surged up, cutting off the retreat path.
The trapped rcenaries slamd and pushed against it, but the wall didn’t budge.
“P-Punkin! It’s Punkin’s earth spell... Guaaaagh!”
As a violet curse poured down on the isolated group of rcenaries, their skin began to rot.
On another side, the monstrous Hotarus hesitated, circling in place.
The mages riding on their backs scread and yanked the reins furiously, but the Hotarus wouldn’t move.
“You damn lizard bastards...! Move forward! Go!”
In the Hotarus’ eyes was a cliff that the mages couldn’t see—Oarla’s fear-inducing illusion.
The vision of falling the mont they stepped forward twisted the minds of the beasts.
Kreeeegh!
Krek! Krek!
“W-what?!”
Eventually, the Hotarus stumbled, collapsing en masse, crushing the mages beneath their enormous bodies.
Screaming, the mages were then grabbed by Punkin’s enormous stone hand and crushed.
As the tide of battle turned in favor of the witches, Punkin and Oarla nodded to each other.
They had been right.
‘We have to settle this in the Forest of Spirits!’
Though the Elders and other Dorta had opposed leaving the garden, Punkin and Oarla believed this was the perfect opportunity to deal a heavy blow to Demtor.
Their hearts had nearly dropped when they saw mages using spells after drinking a special potion, but the more they observed, the more certain they beca.
"Even the potion has limits."
Slowly but surely, magical depletion was evident.
The sa applied to Demtor’s Stars.
Having spent decades living in devotion to the Forest of Spirits, the two witches were filled with confidence.
The answer was to strike from the forest, harassing the enemy—not cowering in the garden, consud by fear.
“What about the Stars??”
“No response. Are they abandoning this force?”
“That’s too many to throw away though. Are you sure?”
“Just a mont…”
Oarla closed her eyes and listened to the voices of the spirits.
Spirits reacted to the presence of the living, and Oarla could interpret their voices, even sensing approaching Stars beforehand.
It was also why she had confidently defied all opposition and co to the Forest of Spirits.
“They’re not here. I’m sure. There are no Stars in the vicinity.”
Punkin nodded and sped up again, targeting the mages.
She unleashed her spells while scanning the forest’s edge.
Hundreds, thousands of massive trees had been uprooted and lay toppled—a bitter sight.
From the mont Demtor entered the Forest of Spirits, they had focused on surrounding the witches’ garden and destroying the forest.
As the tree cover disappeared, the witches’ refuge beca more exposed, prompting constant skirmishes to keep them in check.
The force before them was the largest yet.
Especially the proportion of mages.
Perhaps because of that, the witches were far more aggressive than before.
If they kept pressing forward, a complete annihilation was within reach.
Fwoosh—!
A flash of light burst through the forest.
“R-retreat signal!”
“Fall back to the camp!”
The mages, who had been holding their ground, gave up and fled.
Punkin and Oarla didn’t miss the chance and gave chase.
Seeing the corpses of mages strewn across the forest excited them.
So too the witches who had followed them.
Even wiping out just the enemies ahead would mark a major victory for them.
A mont later, Oarla looked back and realized the witches’ garden had vanished from view.
“Slow down, Punkin. We promised the Elders we’d keep the garden in sight even if we fought in the forest.”
“We can sense the Stars’ energy and retreat in ti. The garden’s not far.”
Even Demtor’s Stars didn’t recklessly approach the witches’ garden.
It was the core zone of the thousand-year-old trees where magical suppression was strongest.
Guaaaagh!
With a final scream, the remaining mages in front of them were reduced to puddles of blood.
They had moved a bit far from the garden, but successfully wiped them out.
Punkin rummaged through a blood-soaked mage’s robe and shouted over her shoulder.
“Find the potions!”
Seeing the stretched-out corpses, Punkin ordered the witches to collect the potions the mages had drunk.
They were dangerous artifacts, worth researching later.
The witches scattered to search the bodies, and Oarla paused to sense the Stars’ energy.
A colorless forest.
Only the witches’ footsteps echoed busily—until—
Flinch!
The sound of spirits screaming in terror rang out.
Oarla trembled, then shouted urgently.
“They’re coming!”
“Stop everything! Return to the garden!”
At her cry, Punkin gave the retreat order without hesitation.
The scattered witches quickly regrouped under her command.
Around a hundred witches had moved together.
As she checked the regrouping numbers, Punkin asked Oarla:
“How many Stars?”
“Just one. But…”
Oarla groaned as she looked to the right.
The spirits’ wailing was especially intense.
There had only been one ti they reacted this violently.
Bersen Clarke.
Demtor’s strongest mage, wielder of the Flas of Dreadfire.
“C-Clarke...? The Grand Duke is moving personally?!”
Only one, but a presence greater than any Star.
To the witches, he was an object of fear.
Punkin tensed at Clarke’s approach, but didn’t panic.
It was only one, and the garden wasn’t far.
“Inform Cordy.”
Oarla nodded and pulled out a shell-shaped stone, chanting a spell.
Cordy, the Witch of Ten Thousand Ears, could cover the entire forest, but her powers were limited in areas of the forest that Demtor had already destroyed.
Even if it was no one else, it had to be reported that Clarke himself had appeared.
The witches quickly retreated to the garden.
With just one more forest to cross, the witches suddenly halted.
They had spotted sothing.
“Keep moving! What are you doing?!”
Despite Punkin’s shout, the witches didn’t budge. Instead, they recoiled.
“U-up ahead…!”
“There’s more to the side too!”
Punkin and Oarla, who had been guarding the rear against ambushes, rushed forward in surprise.
“What the…?!”
The two Dorta stared in confusion at the figures blocking their way.
The forest, ugly and destroyed.
Beyond the scattered tree debris stood massive figures with red eyes, blocking the path back to the garden.
Two hundred? Three hundred?
A terrifying sight, but what truly made the Dorta tense was the gaunt old man slowly appearing between the hulking figures.
A lavish staff.
Golden patterns on a green robe—the symbol of the Tower of Wind.
“Lindbergh? That old man... how…?”
As if he’d sprung from the ground, blocking their path.
Oarla couldn’t understand what was happening.
“I didn’t hear the spirits’ voices…?”
“It’s the work of the Shamans.”
Punkin groaned as she spotted robed figures with blood-red cloaks among the enemy ranks.
About ten of them?
The mont she saw them, she realized what the massive figures were.
A warning from the Elder about potential threats to the Forest of Spirits—Van Dyke puppets.
Shamans seed to know the forest well.
The Elder had cautioned against relying too heavily on the forest.
And now it was clear—Demtor had allied with the Shamans.
She had dismissed the possibility—but it was unfolding before their very eyes.
“You threw out a lot of bait. I suppose it’s only fair you get your money’s worth.”
“What the hell’s the old man saying?”
“It ans your head is the price of the bait.”
Lindbergh grinned and pointed his staff at Punkin.
As a nacing light gathered at the tip of his staff, Punkin shouted—Now wasn’t the ti to hesitate.
“Oarla!”
They had to avoid a head-on fight.
They needed an opening to retreat directly to the garden.
On cue, Oarla’s eyes flashed.
Illusion magic spread forth.
The targets were the Shamans.
She aid to throw them into disarray—but suddenly recoiled, eyes wide.
“The illusion... it’s not working?!”
The spiritual energy she had released scattered around the warlocks.
A figure stepped forward, breaking through Dorta’s spell.
A man in dazzling armor with an ornate helt.
Wielding both sword and shield like a knight—but Oarla recognized him instantly.
“...Modin.”
Modin Glos, the genius artifact maker.
Master of the Ivory Tower, and another Star.
Seeing him clad in battle gear rather than carrying books ant they intended a full-scale war.
Modin nodded to the warlocks beside him.
They began chanting with orbs in hand, and hundreds of puppets charged toward the witches.
The Van Dykes, stampeding with terrifying force.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
“Everyone, gather together!”
According to the Elder, the Van Dykes had high resistance to witchcraft.
ntal spells didn’t work, and they were nearly immune to curses.
They couldn’t be beaten with physical strength. Only defensive spells could hold them back.
Ku-ku-ku-krung!
Punkin summoned an earth wall, and Oarla gathered the witches’ energy to reinforce it.
The wall surrounding the witches began to glow violet.
“Tch, let’s see how long you last.”
Lindbergh scoffed and began channeling mana into his staff.
Blades of wind poured down upon the wall from above.
Below, the Van Dykes crashed into the barrier.
Kwakwa-kwakwa-kwang!
A massive impact shook the forest.
“H-hold on! Reinforcents will co!”
They were less than a kiloter from the garden.
Explosions had gone off nearby—Dorta in reserve would surely be on the move.
Not even Lindbergh and Modin could handle all the Dorta.
“We still have to prepare for the worst!”
But Oarla thought otherwise.
At her shout, Punkin furrowed her brow.
“What?”
“Grand Duke Clarke will get here!”
“The garden’s closer!”
“No... maybe not. Ugh!!!”
“Oarla?!”
Just as she opened her mouth, a shock hit the wall. Oarla clenched her teeth and stretched out both arms.
Gathering the energy of a hundred witches into the wall was no easy task, even for an Dorta.
And it couldn’t last forever.
“I don’t see the other Stars…”
Demtor had six Stars.
Three had yet to appear.
Oarla looked desperately toward the garden.
She could only hope her fears were wrong.
Not far from the garden’s path, two groups crossed paths.
Hurrying toward the site of the explosion, Natasha stopped Lily and swore.
The enemy blocking their way—One they had forgotten suddenly appeared before them.
“So, Ren. If even you’re stepping in, I guess all the Stars are in motion.”
“Natasha.”
“Don’t say my na with that lying mouth, you sanctimonious bastard mage.”
Natasha glared at Ren and raised her fists—A stance from Quanru, martial art of the Giant Tribe.
As Gereflam’s spirit surrounded her, light flowed from her body.
Feeling her murderous intent, Ren bit down softly and raised both hands.
The bracelets on his wrists emitted a faint radiance.
He didn’t want to fight her.
No—more precisely, he didn’t want to get involved with the witches anymore.
But—
“I have to fight.”
If it wasn’t sothing he could change with his own power, he had to stand with Demtor.
Ren signaled Ella, who stood beside him, and turned back to Natasha.
“My mission is to deal with the witches leaving the garden.”
“My mission is to save the witches.”
“I don’t want to fight you.”
“You crazy bastard. So I’m just supposed to stand by while my kin die?”
“This isn’t a winnable fight. Not for you, not for all the witches. If you abandon the forest now and run, I swear on my life to protect—”
“Shut up. Just give your life right now!”
As a fierce aura erupted from her, Ren gritted his teeth and clashed his bracelets together.
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