The Unveiled Curtain (7)
Ed had been waiting outside the building for his superior to emerge, but when he finally did, Ed was struck speechless by the scene before him.
What the hell happened in there?
He stared blankly as the man casually brushed his blood-soaked hair back, then quickly turned to peer inside the building.
He meant to check how many had died.
But what met his eyes was something entirely unexpected.
No corpses...?
That much blood—soaked into his clothes and dripping from his face—clearly pointed to a massacre.
Yet despite the oppressive silence hanging over the place, there wasn't a single body to be seen through the first-floor windows.
With no other choice, Ed stammered out a question.
"What on earth happened in there...? No, more importantly—why are you covered in blood...?"
"It's not Demon-nim's blood," Ben answered in his place.
Ed bristled at the reply.
Did he look like someone who couldn't tell whether the blood on a person was their own or someone else's?
If he lacked that basic discernment, he never would've climbed this high in the first place.
He clenched his teeth, ready to push further—but then he caught a glimpse of Ben's expression.
He looked shaken.
It was a face Ed had seen before—often worn by those who had witnessed Demon-nim fight firsthand.
Ed had worn that expression himself a few times, so it didn't take him long to realize what it meant.
Ah...
Right. That's what it was. I forgot, didn't I...
He'd grown too used to the peace lately.
He'd forgotten the 0th Legion Commander's fighting style.
Unlike the others, his was utterly unique—something you couldn't even compare to normal combat.
Of course there was no answer if you tried to understand him through a conventional lens.
How could I have forgotten that?
While Ed stood frozen with that realization, Deon casually wiped the blood splattered on his cheek with his palm... and licked it with a flick of his tongue.
His smile twisted—clearly not sane—and those red eyes gleamed once more with madness.
Startled, Ed quickly offered him a handkerchief.
"Please use this."
"No need for that. We're heading into battle anyway, aren't we?"
"But the blood might obscure your vision. At least clean your face, sir."
"Hm."
Thankfully, Deon didn't refuse further.
He took the handkerchief without complaint and began wiping his face.
Ed watched uneasily, posture stiffening as he realized they needed to move before anything else happened.
"…We should head to the outer wall immediately. This time, the scale is different."
"That doesn't matter. What's important is whether monsters feel emotion."
"They do," Ed replied firmly.
"I know."
That's why I'm here.
The words came with a soft chuckle—one that hinted he might be teasing Ed for being too stiff.
Even so, Ed didn't relax his stern expression.
He knew that wasn't just some joke thrown in for fun.
—When he'd first become the 0th Legion Commander's adjutant, and when he'd first witnessed this side of the man, Ed had been deeply confused.
He was clearly the same person—but also entirely different.
His demeanor, personality, everything contrasted with what he usually showed.
Ed had agonized for a long time over how he should treat someone like that.
But in the end, the answer had been painfully simple—so simple that all that time spent worrying had felt wasted.
There was no need to think so hard.
All he had to do was respond to him as he was in the moment.
A change in personality didn't mean a change in identity. His memories remained intact.
So Ed just had to treat him as a deeply mercurial man.
And right now, the best course of action was to deal with the 0th Legion Commander with absolute caution.
Because if he ever slipped up and got on that one's bad side, there would be no forgiveness.
"…My apologies."
"Forget it. So, where's my gear?"
"Here it is."
Ed held out several daggers and sheaths, all tailored for Deon's body.
Deon accepted them with the ease of familiarity and began strapping them on.
Two on each thigh.
One on each hip.
Two more crossed behind his back.
Six daggers in total.
Finally, he looked at the robe and the cloak Ed held and chose the cloak without hesitation.
"The enemy isn't human. No need for the robe."
Fwoosh.
The black cloak billowed behind him.
Deon, checking to make sure he'd forgotten nothing, suddenly paused mid-step and glanced over his shoulder.
Inside the building, the demons stood frozen, staring blankly in his direction.
He could faintly hear whispers mentioning the 0th Legion Commander—it seemed they'd figured out who he was.
Well, not that it matters.
The moment their eyes met his, they scattered like roaches, scrambling to hide.
Deon watched them with mild amusement, then let out a soft chuckle and turned away.
By now, his crimson eyes shimmered with a madness so sharp it almost had a scent—metallic and rank.
In stark contrast to the crazed gleam in his eyes, a bright, cheerful smile spread across Deon's face as he unsheathed one of the daggers at his waist, then slid it back in.
"Let's go."
I opened my eyes.
In front of me stood a line of soldiers, clumsily arranged but trying their best to maintain formation.
Widening my field of view, I saw the endless sky stretched out behind them.
It was a clear, beautiful sky—so ill-suited to the bloodbath that was about to unfold here.
I stared at it for a moment, then slowly lowered my gaze.
I was standing on a raised platform.
I looked down at the soldiers, who were trying to mask their fear, anxiety, unease, and resentment with blank faces, and spoke.
"There are two main types of vanguard troops."
I held up two fingers toward them as they wordlessly raised their heads.
"One is the true vanguard—those who crush traps and enemies with overwhelming force and raise morale. The other is what you might call meat shields—those who identify traps with their bodies and absorb the first wave of powerful attacks. If we had to pick, we're the latter."
I saw some of them grit their teeth.
They wanted to argue. Maybe scream that I was wrong, maybe curse me out.
But deep down, they all knew.
I was a green commander, recently promoted from the ranks.
And they were the hastily assembled troops assigned to me.
Not one of them was shameless enough to deny that reality.
So I continued, facing their silence head-on.
"All of you have been on the battlefield at least once. You should know what to expect. I doubt any of you have forgotten—the shouting and screaming from every direction, the unrelenting clash of steel, the muddy ground soaked in blood... and the madness that seeps into everything."
"..."
"Some of you resisted that madness. Some of you were consumed by it. So let me make this clear now."
From the looks in their eyes, I could tell they thought they knew what I was about to say.
They were probably expecting some tired old line like 'Don't let the madness take you.'
What a laughable thought.
I had survived in this hellhole with a body so frail it was almost pathetic.
There was no way the words I was about to speak would be so bland.
"Let the madness consume you."
A cold silence descended.
Their stunned expressions said they thought they'd misheard me.
I looked them straight in the eye, letting the madness simmering within me rise to the surface.
Some flinched at the sight of it in my face and eyes. One even instinctively stepped back before forcing himself still.
"But don't give in halfway. Be consumed completely. You only need just enough reason to tell friend from foe."
Telling someone not to fall to madness only applied to knights—those with real swordsmanship and proper training.
What good would it do for us, with barely passable sword skills, to cling to rationality?
A wild beast must stay calm to hunt.
But a rampaging sheep is always harder to catch than a docile one.
We were just sheep.
And in this place overrun with predators, there was only one way I saw to survive.
"Don't leave behind a single intact corpse. Even if you think they're dead, don't stop. Hack them to pieces. Gut them. Tear up their insides. Stop only when they're too mangled to tell they were ever alive."
Ah—there it is. The disgusted look.
You turn pale over words? Pathetic.
Step onto a battlefield with that mindset, and I guarantee you—every last one of you will die.
I didn't ask to lead this vanguard.
But now that I'm here, I don't plan to let my troops die.
Not out of duty or morality—nothing so noble.
I was worried about the consequences of losing my entire unit.
What does a commander have left if all their soldiers die?
Someone like me, with no connections or backing, would be executed for sure.
After surviving this long—this far—dying because of idiots like them?
That I absolutely refused to accept.
"You idiots seem to have forgotten where we are. Snap out of it!"
Their wide eyes turned to me in shock.
I stared each of them down, locking eyes as I roared at the top of my lungs, voice laced with fury.
"You think the enemy's gonna swing their swords only after asking if you're here willingly?! You think if you shout, 'I was forced into this!' they'll go, 'Oh, really?' and let you off?! If any of you still care about morals or honor or whatever the hell else, step forward. I'll personally throw you to the enemy so you can have a nice little debate about ethics on the battlefield!"
A chill wind blew through.
I could hear the rustling of sand being swept away, the tumble of dry leaves, the tremble of branches quivering in the breeze.
It was so quiet on the open plain that those sounds rang clear as day.
"We are weak. And this is a battlefield where the weak are weeded out. Do you really think we have more than a handful of ways to survive in a place like this?"
I couldn't believe they still didn't realize that this wasn't the time to be picky about what's hot or cold.
That was the point of my outburst.
Whether they understood or not, no one answered. In that silence, I continued in a slower, quieter tone.
"We can't fight well. But we also can't back out of the fight. So, as far as I know, there's only one tactic left to us."
── "Psychological warfare."
We plant fear in the enemy.
Make them hesitate. Make them second-guess drawing their blades.
So how do we do that?
"Alienation. Make them feel something's off. In battle, that sense of wrongness, no matter how it starts, always ends in fear. And fear slows down their hands and feet. Makes them unable to perform at their best. That's when we go for the kill."
That's right. We become hyenas on the battlefield.
And don't call it cowardly. Who cares about cowardice when it's a matter of survival?
Now, as for how we cause that sense of alienation—that brings us right back to the start.
"There aren't many ways to stand out in the limited space that is a battlefield. In truth, there's really only one method available to us. Let me lay it out."
I raised my arm, showing off the tightly wrapped white bandages that covered it all the way to my fingertips.
"Either you stay perfectly clean—without a speck of dust or drop of blood on you—in the middle of a battlefield drenched in gore and grime…"
Then I dramatically flared the special white cloak I'd been issued.
"Or you get so soaked in blood that you stand out even among the others who are already drenched."
We'd be rolling in the dirt trying to dodge blades—staying clean wasn't an option.
So that left us with only one path.
Looking over the soldiers, whose faces had gone even darker as they realized there was no real choice, I let out a laugh.
Even to myself, it sounded like it reeked of blood.
"We're going to bathe in blood. We'll cut with such brutal precision that even seasoned warriors flinch. We'll smile—grin like lunatics—as we swing our blades, the kind of grin that makes your skin crawl. Hell, it'd help if you look downright obsessed with killing."
In short, let the madness take you.
Those who run become targets.
But the lunatic with bloodshot eyes who charges headlong into danger? That guy gets avoided.
"I'll say it again. We can never become the 'true vanguard.'"
"..."
"But we sure as hell aren't going to be meat shields either. So we take a path that's similar, but different."
They say the true vanguard boosts their army's morale.
In that case…
"We'll crush the enemy's morale instead."