Hidden not far from Merlin and the others, a "monster" crouched low among the trees.
Its entire body gleamed with a black metallic sheen, its lower half a massive scorpion, its upper half a humanoid torso encased in chitinous armor—a living shell.
Beneath that shell, blood-red eyes glowed faintly. Though his physical sight was poor, Girtablilu could still observe the clearing ahead clearly, using the linked senses of the demonic beasts surrounding it.
Now, his prey had walked neatly into his trap.
His poison had proven capable of corroding Uruk's walls. Once they realized the threat, they would surely send an elite unit to assassinate him. By anticipating that, he had prepared an ambush to cripple their fighting strength in one strike.
Everything was going perfectly. The enemy had moved exactly as he predicted.
A pity the enemy king herself hadn't come—he couldn't crush them all at once. But that was to be expected; few kings would personally step into a trap so obvious.
No matter. Once the wall was destroyed and Uruk burned, he would make that cold, arrogant king who dared oppose Mother scream in despair. He would inject her with his venom, drop by drop, and watch her writhe and die in exquisite agony.
The thought made Girtablilu's lip curl in a cruel smile.
How dare that obsolete king of men rebel against Mother Tiamat?
Using the beasts around him to project his voice through the forest, he intended to shatter his enemies' will before burying them alive beneath waves of beasts.
But before his mockery could finish, a calm, mocking voice reached him through his own network of beasts.
"'Scorpion Man' Girtablilu, was it? I heard you were called a 'Sage.' Then, as a Sage, when exactly did you start believing the illusion that it's your army surrounding us… and not we who have surrounded you?"
Girtablilu froze.
That voice—
It was the white-robed magus who had once single-handedly held back his army.
Impossible!
Why had he only noticed now?
He had assumed that such a valuable strategist would never personally join an assault so dangerous and ill-suited to a mage.
(Ophis: "He can't die anyway. And if he does, all the better.")
Had he realized it earlier, he could have altered his plan. But from the moment they entered the forest until the man spoke, Girtablilu had been completely blind to him.
He forced himself to stay calm—but then, the anomaly began.
The demonic beasts that had been waiting on his command suddenly grew restless.
Most scorpions, as any scholar could tell, had poor eyesight. Girtablilu wasn't fully a scorpion, but he had inherited that flaw to a degree. His vision barely rivaled that of an ordinary human—pitiful for a being of divine rank.
His earlier long-range sniping of Ophis had only been possible by borrowing the vision of his beasts.
Now, he still saw through their eyes—and what he saw made his blood run cold.
Countless flowers blooming out of nowhere amidst his army.
Black-armored warriors materializing among them, cutting down his beasts with impossible precision.
Those that fought back found their claws striking nothing but air—and then ripping into their own allies instead.
If his face hadn't been hidden beneath his armor, it would have been as dark as his shell.
Because through his beasts' vision, he saw those black warriors.
But through his own eyes—he saw nothing at all.
His troops were simply thrashing in chaos, tearing each other apart, collapsing for no reason.
This scene—he had witnessed it once before.
When that accursed magus had stopped his horde alone.
"An illusion…"
The instant they were struck, their minds were ensnared by illusion—believing themselves dead, their bodies followed, hearts stopping from sheer shock.
Or worse, they were actually being driven into killing one another.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
He knew too well—in this kind of battle, numbers were useless. Quality alone mattered.
And by relying on sheer quantity, he had dug his own grave.
With a sharp flick of his tail, Girtablilu impaled one of his own beasts that lunged at him, leaving a gaping hole in its chest.
In their eyes, he was already the commander of the black-armored enemy.
His orders were drowned out—or twisted—by illusion, leaving his low-intelligence troops unable to distinguish friend from foe.
His once-loyal army had become his enemies.
Then he had only one choice: kill the magus first.
But even as he thought it, several of the beasts whose eyes swept toward Merlin's direction showed him the impossible—
The white-robed magus standing there, smiling cheerfully—then waving.
A moment later, Merlin vanished completely from sight.
"…"
…Was that man trained in running away!?
Retreat. That was the only sane option. The beasts could be replaced.
But just as Girtablilu prepared to flee, a shiver ran down his spine.
Where were the other two?
Why had he forgotten them again?
He tensed, trying to move—
Too late.
"Too late!?"
With a furious roar, he drew two massive cleavers of black chitin and crossed them above his head.
A pure-white figure descended from the sky, the tri-colored sword in her hands blazing with raw, destructive force as it came down upon him.
The impact shattered the ground in a thunderous shockwave that sent beasts flying in all directions. Even Girtablilu, heavy as stone, sank several meters under the blow.
But with eight legs anchoring him, he didn't fall. Bracing himself, he twisted his arms and deflected the strike.
The figure flipped lightly with the recoil, landing in front of him.
"Destroy you."
Her voice was flat, cold—free of anger or emotion.
A simple statement of intent.
---
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