Chapter 5: Merciless Mercy
As the echoes of the Horn of Doom faded into the fog, a more terrifying sound took its place:
The rhythmic noise of ten thousand pairs of booted feet pounding the wet earth.
The army of the Holy Auralis Empire had begun to coil around Ashveil Castle like a serpent made of steel and light.
Although the intensifying rain limited visibility, it could not hide the scale of the approaching danger.
The demons, orcs, and goblins cowering in the loopholes and crumbling breaches of the castle walls watched this spectacle with bated breath.
What they saw was less an army and more a walking catastrophe.
Even the armor of the ordinary imperial soldiers was brighter and sturdier than the best armor in this castle.
Rainwater streamed down the gold embroidery on their helmets, and when lightning flashed, it reflected off thousands of metal surfaces, turning night into day.
In the center of the army advanced massive, chained war beasts; six legged creatures with rock hard shells and glowing red eyes.
Behind them, they dragged colossal Mana Cannons made of bronze and magical crystals, their wheels leaving deep ruts in the mud.
A single shot from one would be enough to blow the castle's main gate sky high.
Further back marched the mage battalions in a complex and deadly formation, the crystals at the tips of their staffs glowing with their own inner light.
The pure mana pressure they emitted made even the raindrops in the air vibrate.
But the most terrifying of all was the small, elite vanguard standing apart from the rest at the very front of the army.
Around them was a dry area the rain could not touch, as if they were protected by an invisible dome.
Their white and gold cloaks billowed in the wind, their armor radiating an unearthly, milky white light.
And right in the middle of them stood Saint Evarion.
His presence was so intense that looking at him burned the eyes, like staring directly into the sun.
A goblin on the walls felt his knees buckle at the sight.
He collapsed onto the wet stone and covered his face with his hands.
"It is over," he sobbed. His voice was desperate enough to break the morale of even the hulking orc beside him.
"Today, we are truly going to die. The gods have come to punish us."
"Shut your mouth, runt," the orc growled, but the tremble in his voice betrayed his fear.
His hands gripping his axe had turned stark white. "Maybe... maybe there will be a miracle."
"A miracle?" The goblin let out a bitter laugh. "Miracles exist for them, not for us."
The Dark Elf Sylas watched the scene below through a viewing slit at the very front of the wall.
With his only remaining hand, he gripped the moss covered stone wall so tightly that his black nails dug into the stone and his knuckles strained.
The burn scars covering half his face twitched with anger and despair.
This splendor, this show of power before him, made his stomach turn.
This holy power he had fought against for years, the one that had taken his friends, was now at his doorstep, preparing to annihilate him and everyone left.
"Damn you," he whispered, his voice blending with the sound of the rain. "Damn your shining armor, damn your false gods."
He took a deep breath; the cold, damp air filling his lungs stoked the fire of battle within him.
Suddenly, he stepped back from the wall, raised his good arm in the air, and roared with a voice that drowned out the thunder.
"PREPARE THE STORM BELL!"
His voice brought the panicking soldiers to a momentary halt. Every head turned toward him.
"Mages! Put those damn crystals in place, raise the barrier to maximum power! Archers! Draw your bows, attach the poison tips! Kill anyone who dares to approach the base of the wall!"
Sylas's authoritative tone pumped obedience and duty into the soldiers' veins, replacing their fear.
Below, the human army had completed the circle around the castle and shifted into siege formation.
The mana cannons waited, aimed at the weak points of the barrier.
During this tense wait, a knight in silver armor with blue feathers atop his helmet separated from the front lines of the army.
He advanced on foot, not on horseback.
In one hand, he carried a large, white flag, the universal symbol of peace and parley.
Sylas watched the man approach. He narrowed his eyes. "Do not fire!" he ordered.
The knight stopped just before entering the bow range of the walls.
He stood there in the mud, under the rain.
He unrolled a sealed leather parchment in his hand. His voice, magically amplified, echoed across the castle walls.
His tone was diplomatic, distant, and equally condescending.
"Dark beings occupying Ashveil Castle! Listen!"
The knight began to read the parchment.
"In the name of the Holy Auralis Empire and the Church of the Supreme Light, by the mercy of Saint Evarion, we offer you this final chance. Your resistance is futile. Open the gates, lay down your weapons, and surrender unconditionally."
The knight paused for a brief moment, as if weighing the impact of his words.
"If you surrender, your lives will be spared. You will be judged by the infinite mercy of the Church and the Empire. You will have a chance to turn to the Light. Otherwise, this castle will be your tomb."
When the knight finished speaking, a deep silence fell over the castle. Only the sound of the rain could be heard.
A stir rippled through the demon soldiers on the wall. The words 'mercy' and 'your lives will be spared' began to sprout like a poisonous ivy in desperate hearts.
"Hey," the goblin from earlier whispered, a gleam in his eyes. "Did you hear that? We could be saved."
"Maybe," the orc said, lowering his axe slightly. "Maybe we really should surrender. That Saint... it is said that he is merciful."
Whispers spread. "Let us surrender," "We want to live," "There is no point in fighting."
As Sylas witnessed this foolish, pathetic hope among his soldiers, the anger inside him erupted like a volcano. The veins on his face bulged.
"Mercy my ass!" he shouted, turning to his soldiers.
His voice was so furious that the soldiers nearby flinched. "Fools! Do you truly believe their lies?"
Sylas pointed at the army below with his good hand. "Do you have any idea what you are in the eyes of the Church? Huh? We are not creatures that can be converted to them. We are tainted! We are mistakes! We are the flawed, ungrateful filth created by the gods that must be eradicated!"
His eyes were spitting fire. "What do you think they will do if you surrender? Give you a warm meal and a bed?"
"They will put you in chains, experiment on you, sell you in slave markets, or burn you in the squares just for entertainment! What they call mercy is nothing but a quick death!"
He was panting. "If you value your lives even a little bit, gather your wits! Dying here while fighting is a thousand times better than living by their mercy!"
Sylas's words scattered the cloud of false hope hanging over the soldiers.
The truth revealed its cold and ruthless face once again.
Yes, humans had never shown them mercy. Why would they do so now?
Seeing the resolve return to his soldiers' eyes, Sylas faced forward again. He took a step forward, reaching the very edge of the wall.
He took a deep breath and concentrated. From the shoulder of his severed left arm, a dense, pitch black smoke of mana began to rise.
The smoke condensed, took shape, and within seconds, a translucent, obsidian black mana arm formed in place of Sylas's missing arm.
This was the pinnacle of his dark elf magic; a limb made of mana.
Sylas took the large war bow from his back with his good hand.
With his mana arm, he drew a black shafted arrow with a tip as sharp as a pike from his quiver. He drew the bow. The fingers of his mana arm pulled the bowstring so taut that the bow creaked.
The knight below was still waiting for an answer, holding the white flag in his hand.
"Here is our answer," Sylas growled, and released the bowstring.
ZIIIIING!
The arrow tore through the air, vaporizing the raindrops as it glided downwards.
It left a trail of black light behind it, just like a comet. Its speed was incredible.
The knight below saw the arrow coming right at him. He did not panic. With years of training, he immediately shifted into a defensive stance.
The talismans on his armor activated, and a blue, transparent mana shield appeared in front of him.
However, the arrow did not hit the knight.
The arrow plunged into the wet earth just a few steps in front of the knight, exactly where the shadow of the white flag fell.
THUD!
Mud splattered all around. And it stained the knight's cloak.
The knight relaxed for a moment. He thought it had missed. He prepared to lower his shield.
He was about to shout, "You missed, wretched creature!" when... the shadows shifted.
At that moment...
From the point where the arrow touched the earth, razor sharp, pitch black, crystallized thorns suddenly erupted, like massive spears shooting up from underground.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
Before the knight could even understand what was happening, he was hoisted into the air by the black thorns piercing through his legs, torso, and neck. His armor was punctured like paper; the mana shield was completely useless.
The white flag slipped from the knight's lifeless hand and fell into the blood soaked mud.
The knight's body remained suspended on the thorns like a grotesque statue. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth left open in a silent scream.
The silence gave way to a massive uproar.
A wave of commotion rippled through the front lines of the Holy Imperial army.
Such a brutal violation of the rules of diplomacy, such a cowardly slaughter of an envoy, had infuriated the soldiers.
"SCOUNDRELS!" shouted a captain, drawing his sword. "Dishonorable creatures! How dare you attack a white flag?!"
"They are not human! They have no honor!"
"They deserve to die! They are not worthy of the gods' mercy! Put them all to the sword!"
Screams of rage, curses, and oaths of vengeance flew through the air.
The soldiers wanted to charge forward without waiting for the order to attack.
However, the halo of holy light at the center of the army did not flicker for even a second.
Saint Evarion did not break the serene expression on his face as he watched the brutal murder of his envoy.
It was as if this was an outcome he expected, perhaps even considered inevitable.
There was neither anger nor sorrow on his face; only a deep, chilling acceptance.
The group standing behind him, consisting of the Saint's elite disciples, was not as calm.
At the very front of the group stood a young girl whose bright blonde hair was soaked in the rain, her amber eyes flashing with anger: Mary Lumineheart. She was a candidate for future Sainthood, one of Evarion's most talented and fanatic disciples.
"Master!" Mary said, her voice trembling with anger. She was gripping the sword in her hand so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
"Did you see? Did you see what they did? Offering them mercy was a mistake!"
The other disciples joined her.
"They cannot be saved, master! Their souls are completely rotten!"
"Give the order, let us bring this castle down on their heads! That envoy's blood must not be left unavenged!"
Saint Evarion slowly turned to his disciples.
A compassionate yet equally distant smile appeared on his face, like a father looking at his mischievous children.
This smile was more terrifying than all the anger in the rest of the army, because it held absolutely no hesitation.
He raised his hand, placed it on Mary's head, and stroked her hair. His voice was soft, but every word sounded like a decree.
"Calm yourself, my child," Evarion said. "Anger is not our way."
He turned his gaze back to the castle, to the dark and hopeless pile of stones.
"I had to offer them a choice," he continued, his voice echoing with a divine resonance. "Because the Supreme Light commands us to grant a second chance to even the darkest soul. This was our duty."
He let out a deep sigh, as if he had been relieved of a great burden.
"But I see that..." The light in his eyes flared brighter for a moment. "...their hearts have already been sealed. They have embraced the darkness so much that they bit off the hand the light offered them."
Evarion lowered his hand and raised his sword into the air. The crystal at the tip of his sword began to shine like the sun.
"Since they have rejected mercy," Saint Evarion said, his voice no longer fatherly, but absolute like a judge's. "Then they shall taste justice."