Chapter Fifty-Two: The Empire’s Tiger, the Republic’s Blade

The scene was shrouded in silence, the eerie laughter of the ghouls abruptly cut off in that instant. Irene’s gaze sharpened, her mind stretched to its utmost, and she sensed a faint aura of holiness emanating from the strange objects held by those black-haired humans.

“Holy artifacts... mithril weapons?” was her first thought. In her understanding, aside from the clergy of the Church, only weapons forged of mithril could channel holy power.

Just then, the ghoul on the ground, smoke still curling from a wound in its head, suddenly raised an arm and staggered upright. The white smoke gradually faded, revealing a gaping hole in its skull.

Yet, this hole did not, as usual, sprout black worms or heal in some miraculous fashion. Instead, it remained—a grievous, irreparable wound.

Witnessing this, the sharpshooter who had fired the shot issued a command: “Headshots are not fatal. Mithril bullets inflict irreparable damage. Target the limbs and capture them alive if possible; if not, kill them.”

To the people of this world, ghouls—these so-called immortal fiends—were nightmares best left unseen, for they were nearly impossible to deal with. But to the scholars of the Arcane Law, they were a treasure trove of mysteries yet to be unraveled!

What was the principle behind their rapid healing? How many times could they regenerate? If they were cut into hundreds of pieces, could they still recover? What if they were dissolved in strong acid, or incinerated at thousands of degrees?

What was the structure of their cells? Did they even possess the cellular makeup of carbon-based lifeforms?

All these questions and more stoked the curiosity of the Arcane Law—more precisely, the scientists, especially those devoted to biology, who had become obsessed with these fiends, day and night.

The black worm from earlier had already been a delightful surprise; what wonders might a fully intact ghoul provide?

Thus, the sharpshooters’ goal in this operation was not extermination, but capture—alive, if possible.

A dozen or so ghouls, their bodies mostly healed, rose to their feet again. The twisted smiles had vanished from their lips.

For some reason, the gaze of these newly arrived, strange bipedal sheep was odd—unsettling. Their fallen comrade, its head left with a gaping wound, put them on edge; an uncomfortable aura radiated from these two-legged sheep.

Bang!

A gunshot shattered the silence. The ghoul that had just stood fell again, its right leg blasted through and smoking, black worms pouring out like blood.

It was as if this was a signal. The world sprang back into motion—for both the sharpshooters and the ghouls.

Every ghoul’s lips stretched into that grotesque smile once more. They threw their jaws wide, the skin at the corners tearing open, and a shrill, piercing howl filled the sky.

The sharpshooters squeezed their triggers without hesitation. Bullets whistled forth, and in an instant, half the ghouls fell, their bodies streaming smoke, their shrieks grating and sharp.

Clearly, holy weapons were deadly to them.

The surviving ghouls crushed the rubble beneath their feet, launching themselves like cannonballs toward the sharpshooters.

Ratatatatatatata!

A hail of bullets, some glimmering with a silvery light, rained down upon them.

In the chaos, several more ghouls fell to the ground.

Only five broke through the web of fire, and within seconds, they were less than fifty paces from the sharpshooters.

The ghouls’ sinister smiles grew ever wider; they could almost taste the thrill of tearing these breathless sheep in half.

Another ten paces—another ghoul fell. The sharpshooters’ magazines ran dry.

As the gunfire ceased, the ghouls sensed victory was close at hand, their scant reason whispering that they were but a heartbeat away from rending their foes limb from limb.

They would bathe in their enemy’s blood, devour their hearts, and drink in their agonized wails.

All in honor of their great Lord, to present the most exquisite of delicacies!

At that moment, the muscle-bound men astride the sharpshooters bared wide, dazzling white smiles.

“Battle Shields!”

With a bellow, the mighty warriors released their auras, forming faint, oval-shaped shields of energy.

The Battle Shield—a skill every knight must master. It grew in strength with its wielder, offering defensive powers far surpassing other extraordinary professions. Ordinarily, knights of the order would not use this, preferring the more efficient battle formations. Most who relied on it were monster hunters without a knightly order.

But in this situation, a formation was impossible. No matter; it was enough to block a few ghoul attacks.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Thunderous impacts rang out as the remaining four ghouls slammed into the shields without suspense.

Their grotesque faces froze in disbelief, the madness in their eyes replaced by utter stupefaction.

Not again—why these tricks? Why were these two-legged sheep so devious? Why not fight fair and square?

That red-haired sheep could wield magic and was stronger than them, but at least it could not kill them. These odd-looking sheep, however, not only fired strange, wounding pellets that would not heal, but now—shields!

Each one was more shameless than the last, ganging up on a few helpless ghouls!

The sharpshooters paid no heed to the ghouls’ expressions, reloading and raising their rifles to fire at the remaining four.

The true strength of the Battle Shield was not its defense, but the ability, through skilled control, to block incoming attacks while allowing its wielder to strike out freely.

Gunfire erupted again. The surviving ghouls leaped and dodged frantically, trying to evade the strange yellow pellets and occasionally attempting surprise attacks, only to be thwarted by the shields.

This was enough to drive the ghouls mad. Even with their limited wits, a flicker of anger appeared.

How could anyone play so unfairly? Was this not bullying?

Ordinarily, sharpshooters would not counterattack in such chaos, for fear of hitting their own. Against foes this quick, the best they could do was retreat. But now, protected by their muscle-bound companions, they need not worry about stray bullets—so long as they avoided aiming directly at their own.

As the saying goes, enough wild blows can bring down a master; under a storm of wild gunfire, one ghoul after another fell.

With the last ghoul’s thigh shattered, the ceaseless gunfire finally fell silent.

The sharpshooters reloaded, raised their rifles once more, and fired at the struggling ghouls on the ground, breaking every limb and joint to guarantee they could not move before ceasing fire.

“This is the vanguard. Thirteen ghouls captured, two targets rescued. Requesting reinforcements.”

Supported by Olina, Irene looked on, unable to calm her heart.

Ghouls that had taken hundreds of powerful hunters to fight had been dispatched by these black-haired humans with such ease.

“Olina, who are they?” Irene asked in a low voice.

Once again, she posed the question—though to a different person, it was the same. She refused to believe the legends, refused to believe that there truly existed some so-called higher humans.

“They are good people,” Olina replied, her face bright with a smile.

“They are my kindred spirits.”

“Good people?” Irene was stunned by Olina’s absurd answer.

“Yes, good people—and a group who bring miracles.” Olina’s eyes shone, her lips curved in a smile. “They will change this absurd world; I believe they will create a land where all are equal.”

Irene fell silent for several seconds. “That’s impossible. Life is born in ranks, some noble not by blood, but by strength. You, for example—without your gift, you could never be a princess.”

Irene herself was shaken by her younger sister’s near-mad proclamation. Such a thing—universal equality—was simply impossible. How could there exist a nation where all were equal?

She was not one of those foolish nobles, believing in birthright nobility. She recognized only strength; strength was the foundation of all. In this world, where there are the strong, there must be the weak. How could the strong ever consent to stand as equals with the weak?

At least, Irene would never allow ordinary folk with no power to stand as her equals.

Yet this impossible notion was embraced—even longed for—by the Sword of Dawn. It yearned for this even more than for the kingdom of Irene’s ideals.

“The glory of the Republic is that it turns the impossible into the possible. That’s what Qin Le told me. I can’t do it, but someone can. Qin Le can,” Olina declared with conviction.

To turn the impossible into the possible?

Irene could not believe it. She could not even imagine what a world of equality would look like.

Suddenly, the sky thundered. Irene looked up instinctively as a fierce wind howled—a jet-black steel monster soared overhead.

A creature forged entirely of steel, flapping bizarre wings, flew over the capital, gazing down upon the city.

It truly was a beast of steel! Heavy metal, yet it could take to the skies!

Irene was stunned, a flicker of understanding dawning within. Was this what it meant to turn the impossible into the possible?

“This is the helicopter squadron. Commencing a sweep of the slums. All ground units, attack as directed by the signal lights.”

Helicopter after helicopter lifted off from the palace in the heart of the capital, slicing through the sky, entering the ruins under the terrified gaze of a million souls.

Outside the ruins, squads of kingdom knights in heavy armor entered in formation, trailed by fully armed sharpshooters with rifles in hand.

Fingers on cold steel triggers, boots crunching on rubble, pitch-black eyes glinting beneath steel helmets, the scent of gunpowder subtly tainted the air.

Ruins, scorched earth, war, enemies—the familiar sensation returned.

They were ordinary people, bereft of any aura, yet they inspired a chilling dread, like demons risen from hell.

Even the kingdom knights clearing the way found their hearts chilled. There was something unnerving about these black-haired humans. Why was their killing intent so intense? They were like a host of shadow masters.

Under the blessing of the Sword of Dawn, machines built for slaughter were reborn. The Empire’s Tiger, the terror of nations and bane of armies, had awakened.

But this time, they were not the Empire’s Tiger—no longer waging war for war’s sake or slaughter for slaughter’s sake. Now, they were the Republic’s Blade, fighting for seven hundred million unseen compatriots, for the Sergeant Major.

They had no lofty ideals of universal equality, no grand ambition to build a nation free of oppression. They lacked even the skill to run a country, or to live as ordinary citizens. All they knew was how to kill, to destroy, to break armies.

“Sharpshooter units entering the ruins. Assisting helicopter forces in the purge. All units free to fire. Eliminate all suspicious targets.”

“For the Republic, the mission begins.”