I Fought Kal'tsit? Seriously?

"In 1031, Lingones, the 'Capital of the World,' will be completely erased by artillery fire." Gerald wiped the blood from his sword. "After the Gaul-Leithanien-Victoria-Ursus War, Gaul will fall."

The moment he finished speaking, the hood over Kal'tsit's head slipped off unconsciously, revealing her face—and the shock she couldn't conceal.

On the distant hillside, the armies representing other nations erupted into unprecedented panic upon seeing the Vanguard leader defeated and brought down. Yet that panic was swiftly suppressed, turning into surging battle intent and clamor.

War drums sounded.

Watching the soldiers charging down from the hillside, Gerald couldn't help smiling. "See? It seems you don't even need the Sarkaz to act in person to leave wounds that can never heal."

"What about you?"

The army was closing in, yet Kal'tsit paid it no heed. She seemed utterly fixated as she rapidly questioned Gerald, "Why did you come to this point in time?! Why did you come to the moment Elesh died?! Tell me!! Descendant of the Windchaser family!!"

Yet Gerald's next words were like an icy wind, freezing every drop of blood in Kal'tsit's body.

"I don't know."

Gerald gripped his sword again and walked over to Mon2tr for a closer look—really, in a certain sense, this thing was kind of cute.

At the same time, the field of wind beneath his feet spread outward once more.

This time, it covered the entire battlefield.

"I only dreamed of a battlefield, then chose the battlefield." He glanced sideways at Kal'tsit, who had fallen deep into thought, then stepped forward with his sword in hand. "There's no reason for it, and I don't care about the grudge between you all. Everything is only for myself. That's all."

"I hope I'll see you again the next time I dream—unknown leader."

"When that time comes, let's continue trying to kill each other."

Under Kal'tsit's hollow gaze, Gerald stood before an army of thousands.

Gaul's artillery loaded their Originium Arts, Leithanien's tower casters chanted spellwords meant to disrupt Originium Arts, and Victoria's steam armor roared to life.

But just as even the finest tower casters could only attempt to interfere with an Originium storm, the tower casters under a Leithanien Elector could only be called "outstanding."

They couldn't stop the storm.

Nor could they stop the silver Pegasi.

Night, Mansfield Prison.

Twin moons hung in the sky.

At some point, a flag woven from coarse cloth had wrapped itself around the arm of the sleeping Gerald.

Even in the darkness, the deep black-red across its surface remained strikingly vivid... as though it had been soaked in Sarkaz blood.

It gleamed brilliantly.

Who Is General Film? Don't Mention Him Again!

The combined forces of the three nations nearly swallowed him like a raging tide, but he was, after all, a Pegasus—even ordinary Silverlance Pegasi had to address him with honorifics. Not even the nation of the Inner Guards had managed to keep him behind. Escaping alive from an encirclement wasn't difficult.

Besides, those one hundred and nine battles hadn't been spent in vain.

The Originium Arts flying toward him seemed like edited slow motion in his eyes. The artillery bombardment from Gaul's cannon units was fast, but all he needed to do was raise his sword and deflect it, guiding it in another direction before it exploded amid the enemy ranks. Limbs scattered in an instant, and flesh and blood turned to pulp.

Less than a tenth of the blades could reach him. Few warriors could block even a single strike from him, and there wasn't a single true powerhouse capable of harming him.

It should have been spring at this time of year, yet Kazdel's spring had left behind only cold and blood.

The battlefield's frigid wind lifted him into the air. Draped in the wind behind him, he walked across the skies.

His gaze fell upon the distant hillside. The army commanders shouted orders, halting the soldiers' pointless assaults. Several conspicuous suits of armor slowly emerged from the dark mass of people.

After sensing Originium Arts at the level of a Catastrophe Caster, the three-nation coalition made a swift and precise judgment. The instant the order was issued, the integrated weapon systems within the Steam Knights' armor locked onto the Pegasus soaring through the sky, and countless missiles poured forth.

Then, all three suits of armor took to the air, flames from their back-mounted mobility systems blazing as they lunged at Gerald.

Victoria's Steam Knights existed only in legends, and perhaps they were better off remaining legends. The stories in novels had mythologized them far too much. If these Steam Knights before him were placed in reality, could Kazimierz... truly handle them?

Probably only that old woman had the ability to clean them up. A few veteran generals in the army might be able to try. A formation of Silverlance Pegasi might only barely be able to take down one of them.

Oh, right. There was also the uncle next door. He should have no trouble holding one down by himself.

Judging by their movements and rhythm, a single Steam Knight posed no threat to him. Killing one wouldn't require much effort; he'd only need to think about how to break through its armor.

Two would be a little more troublesome. It still wouldn't be as tricky as facing the Feline general and that monster at the same time, but if he wanted to deal with them together, he'd have to seriously consider his attack strategy.

Three?

He could fight them, but why would he deliberately bash his head against a rock?

Did anyone actually enjoy close-range brawls with several hulking brutes multiple times their size? He couldn't reduce their numbers quickly, nor could he improve his own skills. It was nothing but turn-based combat. What level of masochist would enjoy that?

Just as he weighed whether to force himself to fight and see how things went, or simply end the dream through self-destruction, the Steam Knights charging toward him in the distance suddenly froze.

Looking closely, he saw a line of spellwords transform into text, then into shackles that wrapped around the armor.

[There is no need to continue fighting. Leave the rest to us, friend of the Sarkaz, stranger of the Kuranta.]

[The gates of Kazdel are open to you.]

Gerald had a good night's sleep for the first time in a long while.

From nine in the evening to five in the morning—eight full hours—and he had even watched a rather exciting movie in his dream.

It was the first time he hadn't ended a dream through death, and he'd also seen records that hadn't been mentioned in the books.

While he was fighting the Feline general on the second battlefield mentioned by the Sarkaz, Kazdel had been facing attacks from all directions at once.

It was Gerald's first time encountering knowledge related to the Royal Courts. He did know quite a lot about races, but he'd never seen anything like the Sarkaz, whose races were numerous enough to seem wholesale.

No wonder people said the Sarkaz were innately evil. The moment he rode the wind to Kazdel's walls, he instantly understood where that sentiment came from.

It was simple. Of the six Sarkaz he'd just met, every single one possessed enough strength to grind him into dust.

With such powerhouses stationed there, of course other nations would fear them. No wonder that Feline general had looked like her worldview was collapsing.

If it were him, he wouldn't dare let that group unite either. If they truly developed and declared war on the land, Kazimierz probably wouldn't even last a day before being destroyed.

Every Pegasus had grown up constantly hearing tales of the Nightmare. No one dared allow another nation comparable to the Khan and his army to appear upon this land.

Gerald had no interest in fighting the old man wrapped in bandages and exuding deathly energy. He could sense that a single touch would be enough for bone-corroding death to cling to him and turn his flesh into dust.

The elderly Lich, the lady who had invited him with spellwords, the woman in the white dress—every one of them was a terrible match for him. His swordsmanship wasn't enough to cut through their Originium Arts, while facing their Arts directly with his own would be like an ant trying to shake a tree. They weren't comparable at all.

That Goliath was about the same as the Steam Knights. Gerald didn't want to fight it, and he wouldn't be able to secretly learn many techniques from it anyway.

But the general among them who was about his size and carried a sword brought him pressure no less than that Feline general had—if anything, far greater.

—As for what he'd said to the Feline general at the end?

Who was that? Who had said what to whom? Who heard it? He didn't remember anything like that.

He was already a Kazdel patriot in spirit. No one could stop his desire to learn.

After waking from the dream, Gerald stretched comfortably and flexed his arm, which had somehow gone numb.

Next time he entered a dream, he'd have to see whether he could end the fight with the Feline general early and come battle this new general instead.

Get up, brush his teeth, rinse his mouth.

His pleasant day ended the moment he saw a piece of red cloth inexplicably wrapped around his body.

He tried tugging on it. It looked like some cheap scrap that would tear apart with a casual pull, but once he tested it, he discovered that both its toughness and durability seemed abnormal.

"...What the hell is this thing? It came out of nowhere."

Gerald helplessly set the red cloth aside and cautiously dabbed it with water. To his surprise, not only did it fail to become wet, even the water marks that touched it vanished without a trace.

But soon, he saw the water that had touched it suddenly emerge from the other side of the cloth, splashing directly onto his clothes and soaking most of his chest.

Realizing something was wrong, Gerald immediately took off his clothes and looked at himself in the mirror—the strange red cloth had covered his right arm and even spread over most of his shoulder. Under the fluorescent lights, the black-red patterns on the cloth seemed to flow endlessly, like blood circulating through it.

Compared to yesterday, there was only one variable today.

He had defeated that Feline general.

"Pretty nasty. Not only did you drag me into dreams, you also gave me this weird thing."

Though he said that, Gerald had clearly heard rumors about relics. It was said that every relic possessed strange abilities and unique activation conditions.

So what was this thing's activation condition? Did it like drinking blood?

Gerald casually found a small knife that wouldn't give him tetanus, cut his finger, and silently prayed that this wasn't some stupid parasitic organism that would drink its host dry along with everyone else—a thing that killed its supplier and left itself with no future source.

Then, just as he prepared to drip a drop of blood onto the cloth with his finger, he suddenly felt a suction force. His blood began leaving his body out of thin air.

It left—about one milliliter.

Yet once the blood had been absorbed, the cloth immediately stopped pretending. It directly spat out the mouthful of blood it had "drunk," splattering it everywhere as though it couldn't tolerate even one milliliter.

Great. Dead thing, and it was a picky eater too.

Gerald sighed and quietly suppressed the urge to continue testing it.

Once he got the shackles off his hands in three months and regained his Originium Arts, he'd see how long this thing could keep living.

As for what he needed to do now, naturally, was review.

Review that battle from earlier.

Taking the assembled "sword" from its hiding place, Gerald gently gripped its hilt. In his mind appeared the scene of the reverse-handed thrust he'd made.

If that monster had been right beside her, how should he have dealt with it?

That monster clearly had a mind of its own and would definitely stand before its master to protect her. If he wanted to use Originium Arts to suppress it at close range, he had to disregard explosive power and prioritize casting speed.

His left hand pressed downward in the air as he pictured the wind gradually compressing into a point, then rapidly pouring outward in every direction—

BOOM!!!!!!!!

A massive shockwave erupted out of thin air beside his hand, slamming fiercely into the wall separating the cells. Everything in the room was sent flying in all directions. The new notebook and large-print book he'd just gotten from Saria yesterday were swept up as well, though fortunately, the photos on the wall escaped unharmed.

Meanwhile, he stood firm amid the source-less gale, not even a strand of hair blown out of place.

After all, who would be willing to hurt their own child? Even the wind, which existed within all things, surely wouldn't be willing to do so.

But Anthony, who lived next door, didn't see it that way.

At this moment, Anthony was climbing out of bed in confusion, staring at the cell that had somehow been blasted open into a double room, then at Gerald across from him with a strange expression on his face.

The shackles on his hands were still there, and the suppressor was carrying out its duty normally. Only the black-red cloth had dimmed somewhat.

The two looked at each other for a moment, the prison's piercing alarm ringing in their ears.

Neither said a word.

The Tables Have Turned! Saria!

"You mean you just slept, then suddenly became able to use Originium Arts."

Anthony carefully chose his words and spoke them one by one, disbelief mixed into his voice.

"Right, though I have a guess." Gerald nodded, yet his tone was inexplicably relaxed. "As you can see, something unusual has clearly happened to me."

He walked over to the corner of the wall that had been blown apart by the shockwave. His gaze swept across the scattered rubble as he examined the damage. "It doesn't look like a load-bearing wall was damaged, so it's not a big problem. I'll tell you the details once I've verified my hypothesis."

If Gerald had to name one particularly outstanding virtue of this friend of his, he would nominate Anthony's trust.

No matter how absurd the scene before him was, Anthony merely nodded at Gerald without the slightest hesitation. "As long as you aren't hurt, that's fine. Go see Duma later. Do you need me to help deal with Barton?"

"It's fine. Let him come."

Though the current situation had exceeded his expectations, last night's dream and the return of his Originium Arts had put him in an excellent mood.

He had the leisure now to deal with a certain annoying fat man for a while.

"You mean that while you were still asleep, the wall suddenly exploded?! How is that possible! Who would have so much free time that they'd deliberately demolish a useless wall?"

Barton looked at the shocking scene before him and couldn't help tearing his throat raw as he roared, "This is fucking unbelievable! Unbelievable! Don't let me find out who did this! Otherwise, I'll definitely—"

"Relax, Barton. They're just two adjacent cells. Neither the outer wall nor a load-bearing wall was damaged. You should be grateful for that."

Gerald didn't care in the slightest about the fat man's attitude. He was simply tired of the meaningless shouting and directly cut him off: