Chương 369: The Assassin’s Choice

The snow battered the battlefield with more fury than before. Wind howled through torn tents and shredded banners, whipping the fabric into the air with a harsh, constant rhythm that nearly drowned out every other sound. The cold was merciless, so sharp Eleanor could barely feel her own body. Even beneath layers of cloth, coat, and steel, the frost seemed to pierce straight through the armor and settle in her bones. Each breath escaped in quick white clouds, proof that she was still alive, barely.

She drew an arrow from her quiver with trembling hands. The bow creaked as she pulled the string back, then snapped forward with a dry twang. The arrow sliced through the storm and buried itself in the face of a charging undead. It fell backward, but Eleanor was already moving. She stepped over the corpse, yanked the arrow free from its skull, wiped it clean on her sleeve, and nocked it again. Every arrow mattered. The camp had been ambushed; supply chests lay scattered somewhere under the snow.

And conjuring new arrows cost mana, something she couldn't afford to waste. A warped scream echoed in the distance. Then another. And another. The sound rippled through the blizzard like a twisted chant. The undead howled in intervals, as if speaking in a corrupted tongue. With every response, Eleanor's stomach tightened. She glanced at the timer strapped to her wrist. [Estimated Time Until End: 03 hours: 00 minutes: 07 seconds] That countdown was a curse made visible.

Everyone knew what it meant, the time until the defense fell, the time until everything ended. It was what kept them going, clinging to that fragile hope that the main group, somewhere beyond the storm, was still fighting the tutorial bosses. But the longer the clock ticked, the more that hope tasted like poison. Eleanor could feel it gnawing at her thoughts. The same question stabbed at her over and over: what if the main group was already gone? What if no one was fighting for them anymore?

Were they just waiting to die here? The thought was dangerous, and she knew she wasn't the only one who had it. All it would take was one soldier breaking ranks, running for the castle, and others would follow. One after another, like falling stones, until no one was left to hold the line. A sharp crack snapped her back to reality. An undead lunged at her, eyes dim and mouth gaping in a guttural roar. Eleanor stepped back and drew the knife from her belt.

Her strike was clean; the blade slipped beneath the creature's jaw and burst through the back of its skull. She shoved it away with her knee, panting hard. Before the blood could freeze, she tore the blade free, sheathed it, and already had another arrow in hand. She fired at a warden emerging from the white mist. The arrow struck its helm, sending it staggering before it collapsed into the snow. But more shapes moved behind it, organized, deliberate. They weren't just beasts.

They used the storm itself as cover, waiting for the right moment to strike, like wolves hunting in a pack. The air was thick—heavy with fear and the cold stench of smoke. When she looked toward the horizon, all she could see was a wall of snow rolling forward like a living thing. Worse than the storm, though, was the darkness. Every distant camp was fading one by one, the glow of their fires dying in a slow, dreadful sequence, as if the souls of the defenders were being snuffed out with them.

Behind her, visibility was almost gone, but faint orange points still flickered through the haze—torches fighting to survive the wind.

"They're putting out the damn fires!" Gilbert's voice cut through the storm. Eleanor turned just in time to see a warden kicking snow over a campfire.

"Don't let them!" someone shouted back, panic in their tone. She nocked an arrow and released it, then another, then another. The creature fell, collapsing in the snow before it could finish the job. These monsters weren't attacking at random. They were coordinated. Deliberate.

"Those bastards… this all started because of the generals!" a soldier yelled, his voice trembling between anger and fear. He wasn't wrong. The undead weren't mindless. They had command. Organization. And that made them infinitely more dangerous.

"He's coming again!" a voice cried from the blizzard. The ground began to tremble under heavy steps. Eleanor lifted her gaze—and there it was. A massive silhouette pushing through the storm, slower than before, but so heavy it warped the air around it. The general. His armor was different from the others—reinforced, forged from black metal that reflected none of the firelight. It didn't gleam. It devoured. Each movement echoed with a deep, metallic weight that the wind couldn't drown out.

For a fleeting moment, Eleanor wondered if the darkness itself was part of him—something alive, something that moved when he did. Then his eyes ignited. Red light burned within the sockets, not just glowing but seething—rage made visible. The guttural roar that followed tightened her stomach, and the answering howls from the horde sent a chill down her spine. The sound rolled like thunder across the camps, shaking the air. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She turned to her right. In the neighboring camp, the same thing was happening—monsters moving in unison, advancing in formation. It wasn't chaos. It was a strategy. A coordinated offensive. The general charged. Arrows peppered his chest and shoulders, bouncing harmlessly off the armor. He didn't even flinch. The first line broke beneath his shield, soldiers crushed and thrown aside as he forced his way through.

Snow exploded upward as he slammed into the cannon emplacement, his strike so powerful it sent a shockwave through the ground. The cannon fired almost simultaneously, the shot colliding with the general's chest. The blast threw the creature backward—but the recoil shattered the central fire pit. The flames flared wildly for a heartbeat before being swallowed whole by the wind. And then, darkness. Total and absolute. The screams began moments later.

Luke and the others emerged from the snow-covered trees, returning to the place they had left hours ago. But the scene was unrecognizable now—a white hell. The blizzard had swallowed the battlefield whole. The wind slashed at their faces like blades of ice, and the storm's roar was so deafening they had to shout just to hear one another. Winter itself felt alive there, furious, as if it had decided to consume everything. Mason led the way with the maids, flanked by a small group of soldiers.

They trudged forward slowly, carving a path through the drifts. Undead sprinted past them toward the forest, drawn by the distant sounds of battle. The group reacted instinctively—steel and magic cut through the storm, clearing a way forward. Charlie broke off to the flank, her blade slick with frozen blood. Ronan, surrounded by his men, barked orders through the chaos.

"You made it!" Quinn ran toward them, voice trembling between exhaustion and relief.

"You actually killed the Midnight Lord!" Ronan was breathing hard. Snow clung to his face, his eyes hollow with fatigue.

"You know what needs to be done," Erza said flatly.

"Start evacuating the civilians from the fortress," Allison added. Ronan's gaze drifted toward the white expanse where the wind erased everything beyond a few meters.

"I don't have good news," he said, his tone heavy.

"Since when is that new?" Jack asked, trying to sound steady. Ronan lowered his eyes.

"Because there aren't as many enemies here as there should be." Confusion flickered through the group.

"They've moved. The generals cut through the flanks. While we focused on the central assault, they split off. They're surrounding the fortress." He looked up, eyes hardening.

"I need your help. If you take out a few of the generals, we can reopen the front." Anne, who hadn't spoken until then, murmured under her breath, almost to herself.

"Time's… running out." Ronan nodded grimly.

"I can't get the civilians out while the generals are attacking. They're coming from our flank. If I try now, I'm sure most of them will die. I need time—an hour, maybe—to get the children and the elderly to safety." Erza raised her hand, impatient. Her face was tight, but the exhaustion behind her eyes betrayed how much she'd already fought.

"We've done enough for them. The path to the castle's clearer now. They'll have to find their own way."

"Please!" someone cried from behind.

"Eleanor and the others are still there," Ronan said, desperation bleeding into his voice.

"They're holding back the enemy to protect the fortress. We're scattered, every group isolated. They won't last much longer." Luke stayed silent as the others argued. The wind struck his face, cold and relentless. On his visor, a notification pulsed. [Estimated Time Until End: 02 hours: 58 minutes: 46 seconds]"We already killed the Midnight Lord," Allison said.

"And we have a weapon for the Witch." They'd been warned about the potion. A risky plan, but the only card they had left.

"Two bosses still stand, Rhiannon," Erza replied, steady and unyielding.

"And nothing guarantees the Witch falls to an acid vial. Look what this place sent at us, a Level 99 Lord. The next one will be Rank D. You think that's going to be easy?" Silence pressed down on them. The wind seemed to grow louder, filling the space between words.

"If we stop now to hunt generals, we waste time," Erza continued.

"People will die either way. Better to save some than watch everyone die." No one answered. Snow fell thick, erasing footprints and covering trails. Luke lowered his gaze. His hand rested on the pendant. Inside his pocket dimension, Angelica's body lay still, and in his other hand he held her bow. Memories sliced through him like knives: the Haven, the children, the people counting on them. Eleanor lost in the blizzard. Cecilia and so many others, maybe missing, maybe dead.

He felt the weight of the choice settle on his shoulders.

"One hour," he said finally, breaking the hush.

"We can at least help people for an hour. We take down a few generals, give them a chance." Erza turned toward him, disbelief plain on her face.

"You're serious? We have three hours to kill two Rank D monsters, and you want to waste time? Do you know what it's like to fight something two ranks above you? It's an ant trying to bite a dog." Ronan moved to speak, but the tension between them was a minefield, one wrong word and everything would blow.

"I won't take a single step toward a needless death," Erza snapped.

"We go to the castle. We kill the Witch and the King. Then we come back and help whoever's left." Luke fixed his eyes on Ronan.

"If we do that, will they still be alive when we return?" Ronan hesitated. The wind nearly stole his answer.

"If the soldiers fall, the fortress falls. Civilians don't stand a chance. I'm sorry for slinging this burden at you, but help me now and I'll get them out. If we don't, it'll be a massacre."

"Shit." Erza rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. For all her training and her edge, something human lingered, enough to make her falter. She looked back at Luke.

"What are you going to do, assassin? There's no point in me going to the castle if you stay behind. Or worse, what if you come with us but your conscience makes you miss a strike and we all die because of it?"