On the night before they entered the Blood Eagle Corridor, the Witch Hunter camp was grim and tense. From Fennok, Lord of the White Oak, down to the last member, everyone was preparing the supplies they would need for battle the next day.
The Witch Hunters brought to Transia were the finest among those who had survived the White Oak Warband's ten years of war. Few of them were missing a limb or otherwise disabled.
Well, except for Natalie's squad, which had joined at the last moment.
These Witch Hunters had long since grown used to war. They took it as part of everyday life, so there was little room for either nerves or anticipation.
By several campfires, silent warriors sharpened their weapons and repaired their armor. They sorted alchemical sword oil, potions, and bombs, placing them beside the members responsible for each.
Some chose to walk beneath the night sky.
Beneath the stars, they prayed to Avalon, who no longer answered them, or spent what might be the last night of their lives with their partners.
It was perfectly normal.
The Witch Hunters were human, too.
They had their own joys and sorrows, and naturally formed attachments to the comrades who fought at their sides. Fortunately, they did not have to endure a process called the Trial of the Grasses, so most of them retained their ability to have children.
But the Avalon Church's rebellion had stripped them of their place in society. They no longer dared to pray for their god to grant them a new life in a world that had become so unwelcoming to them.
By a campfire in the deepest part of the camp, old Fennok was carefully wiping the great oak blade resting across his knees with a piece of cloth.
A peerless weapon