Chapter 65: The Demon Commander
The crushing victory on the Silva Plains was reported instantly to the royal capital Londinium via the far speech magic devices.
King Edward IV and his senior ministers, who had been watching the battle reports in the castle’s great council chamber, listened again and again with expressions of disbelief.
“…The Empire’s vanguard of five thousand was annihilated…?”
“Our casualties—only twenty dead, fifty wounded…?”
“Impossible… There can be no such one-sided battle… Surely this must be a mistake!”
But the dispatches from the field made clear that the miraculous victory was undeniable fact.
A one-sided slaughter by an unknown weapon called the magic cannon.
Enemy neutralized through a flawless information network and the destruction of their logistics.
And above all, the presence of a young commander who had coldly directed the whole operation as if moving chess pieces.
The council chamber filled with cries of joy.
A miraculous turnaround from a desperate situation.
Relief exhaled from every throat; many offered prayers of thanks to the gods.
Yet amid the euphoria, a number of the calmer nobles felt a different emotion.
Not joy. Not relief.
A spine-chilling awe.
A nameless fear of something not entirely human.
“…Terrifying.”
An old, wily civil noble murmured quietly.
“Zenon von Arkwright. That man far exceeds our imagination. …He has changed the very way war is fought.”
That same fear spread as outright panic through the ranks of the defeated Imperial army.
Wounded survivors and routs fled into the presence of Field Marshal Gaius, commander of the Empire’s main force, spilling out from the Silva Plains.
Each one seemed unnerved to the point of losing their reason.
“…A devil.”
One hardened veteran knight said, trembling.
“We didn’t face a man. A cold-blooded demon who rains iron from the sky, reads the minds of men, and manipulates the battlefield at will.”
“The commander was young. Handsome even. But his eyes were like those of the dead—no emotion at all.”
“We were toyed with. Danced on the palm of his hand…”
The survivors’ rambling testimonies shared a single common phrase: ‘Cold-blooded Zenon.’
That epithet, born of their terror, raced through the Imperial camp like wildfire.
It was no longer merely the name of a man.
It had become a new calamity on the field—an embodiment of irresistible, absurd violence.
Troops shuddered at even the whisper of that name.
As Field Marshal Gaius absorbed the reports, the deep furrows in his brow deepened further.
He too was a famed and battle-hardened commander known across the Empire.
Yet this conflict was unlike any he had faced—utterly alien.
“…Since when did Berstein produce such a monster?”
He placed a finger over the name “Zenon” on the map.
“Information and technology… I see. They’ve copied our methods and gone beyond them. …Interesting.”
There was not fear in his eyes now, but the light of a warrior who had found a worthy rival.
Meanwhile, the man behind that epithet—Zenon himself—stood in the Kingdom camp facing the captured General Vargas.
Vargas was a pitiful sight: arm in a sling, bandages around his head, yet his eyes were not dead.
He glared at the young commander who had utterly defeated him with hatred.
“…Kill me.”
Vargas spat the order.
“After suffering such humiliation, I cannot live. Do it—kill me. It is the courtesy owed to a defeated general.”
Zenon laughed disdainfully at the chivalric words.
“Kill you? Why would I do such an inefficient thing?”
“…What?”
“You still have use. Keeping you alive yields greater returns.”
Zenon shoved a surrender declaration in front of Vargas.
“Sign this. In your name and that of your troops, surrender to the Imperial main force.”
“…Don’t be ridiculous! Who would partake in such treachery?”
“Very well.”
Zenon stepped back casually, then quietly ordered Gray beside him:
“Gray. From the three thousand Imperial prisoners we captured, select one hundred and send them to the capital.”
“…To the capital?”
“Yes. They will be valuable labor for the capital’s redevelopment projects. Of course, we won’t pay wages. Let them work as slaves until they die.”
Those merciless words contorted Vargas’s face with rage.
“You—! Abuse of prisoners is forbidden by laws common to all nations!”
“Laws?”
Zenon’s blue eyes pierced Vargas.
“Who broke the law first? Your men attacked civilians, pillaged, and set fires. Is that permitted in the Empire?”
“…Ugh.”
“I simply hate irrationality.”
Zenon continued.
“If I keep you alive, perhaps your men’s lives will be spared. We can avoid pointless bloodshed. That is the most efficient option. But if you refuse, I will choose the next-best plan: exploit prisoners as labor, and use the profits they generate before they die to recoup the costs of this campaign. Which choice is better for you? Think carefully and answer.”
It was demonic bargaining.
The ultimate ultimatum—taking his men’s lives as hostages.
Vargas bit his lip until it bled and trembled.
The boy before him was not human after all.
He viewed hearts, pride, and mercy only as tools for calculation.
‘Cold-blooded Zenon.’
Vargas now understood the meaning of that epithet down to his bones.
And with the victory on the Silva Plains, that demonic moniker was seared into the hearts of friend and foe alike, accompanied by an absolute terror that would not soon fade.