Rimuru turned his back on Acht, dismissing him entirely.
He swept his gaze over the battlefield. His drafted vampire army had been reduced to about a third of its original size.
The Einzbern forces, however, were utterly decimated; only a few dozen combat homunculi remained standing in a tight, defensive ring around the keep.
Even if Acht managed to boot up heavier golem units from the deeper vaults, they wouldn't be enough to push the Dead Apostles out anytime soon.
Satisfied that the Einzberns had been sufficiently kneecapped, Rimuru walked casually through the carnage toward the edge of the forest.
Altrouge was perched delicately on the thick branch of a frozen pine, watching him approach.
"Your call, Princess," Rimuru said softly, looking up at her. "I originally planned to slaughter every homunculus on the premises, spare Acht, and level their manufacturing facilities. But considering the Einzberns have auxiliary units scattered across the globe… total eradication is pointless."
"If the objective was simply to trigger absolute chaos, we've hit the quota. But if you want to irreversibly escalate the war between your faction and the Mage's Association… my tactical recommendation is…"
"That's enough for today."
Altrouge cut him off, her legs swinging idly off the branch. She blinked her crimson eyes. "My familiars just sent word. The Church's hounds have picked up the scent. They're closing in on this sector."
She looked past him at the smoking ruins of the courtyard, then back to Rimuru, a teasing smile curving her lips.
"Still… such a grand, theatrical invasion, and you're walking away empty-handed? Doesn't that damage the terrifying reputation you're trying to build?" She giggled. "Don't you want to let your new troops pillage the vaults?"
"…No." Rimuru shook his head, a hint of distaste in his voice. "I don't have the stomach for senseless looting. My objectives were to secure the scabbard and ignite a turf war. We've accomplished the latter…"
"But you didn't get your scabbard, did you?" she pointed out, tilting her head.
"Which is exactly why the search continues." Rimuru's lips curved upward beneath the mask. "So, if you truly want to reward my stellar performance tonight… lend me some more troops. This time, I need British Dead Apostles."
"Britain?"
Altrouge arched a delicate eyebrow. "That is a dreadful place for us. Isn't the Clock Tower's backyard supposed to be your absolute domain? Why do you need my pawns?"
"My political authority is absolute within the Clock Tower, and by extension, London," Rimuru replied, his tone dry.
"While I fully intend to eventually hold the entire magus world in the palm of my hand, right now, my 'fame' across the rest of the British Isles is just that, fame."
"And ironically… being a beloved celebrity severely restricts my operational freedom."
I can't exactly be seen digging up the countryside looking for Arthurian relics.
"Ah. I understand. The burdens of maintaining a pristine public image."
Altrouge bared her little fangs in a delighted grin. She thought it over for a few seconds, her head bobbing slightly.
"Tearing Germany apart, and then immediately crossing the channel to terrorize Britain. What a delightfully chaotic itinerary."
"I'll lend you the troops. But in exchange, you're going to do something for me."
"Naturally." Rimuru offered a flawless, courtly bow. "My Princess."
…
Inside a massive cathedral in Croatia.
An elderly priest stood before an altar, his eyes closed in feverish prayer. His lips moved rapidly in silent incantations.
Above the polished mahogany pulpit, a heavy quill floated in mid-air, furiously scratching invisible ink onto nothingness.
At that exact moment, in hidden dioceses across the Vatican, Italy, and London, identical pieces of parchment were rapidly filling with text, the ink bleeding into the paper out of thin air.
A synchronized, high-tier intelligence broadcast.
"This is an absolute outrage!"
In a dimly lit, subterranean conference room, a shadowy figure slammed his fist onto a heavy oak table, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated fury. "Defecting to the Dead Apostles is one thing! But to blatantly, publicly provoke us like this…!"
"Control yourself, Father Alexander," another voice cut in from the gloom. "Remember the sequence of events. He eradicated the previous Eighth Ancestor before he defected. We still don't know the exact mechanism behind his conversion…"
"The mechanism?! Bah! What else could it be? She is the Queen of the Dead Apostles for a reason!" Alexander spat.
"If even a Magician like Zelretch was corrupted into a vampire after a single bite, what hope did a foolish, arrogant magus have?! Exterminating heretics is a job for the Burial Agency! Those Clock Tower fools playing with fire always end up burning the world!"
"I wouldn't be so quick to shift the blame, Alexander."
A third voice echoed through the candlelight, smooth, arrogant, and dripping with mockery.
"Even if he was forcibly converted, a magus of his caliber should have reacted like Zelretch, with absolute, eternal hatred for the Dead Apostles. Instead, he not only inherited the title of the White Knight, but he actually convinced the Black Princess to act as his personal attack dog to secure some mythical scabbard. That level of cooperation implies willingness."
"What exactly are you implying, Faust?" Alexander snapped, glaring at the shadow across the table. "Are you saying my decisions pushed him into her arms?!"
"Did they not?" Faust chuckled softly. "As I recall, Your Eminence was the one who stubbornly classified him as the White Knight from the very beginning. You authorized the deployment of a Grand Inquisitor to hunt him down… and look at the result."
"Even Inquisitor Vissela died at his hands…"
"You arrogant little…!"
"Enough. Both of you."
The commanding voice of an older priest severed the argument instantly. The flickering candlelight illuminated his weary, deeply lined face.
"Given the intelligence available at the time, Father Alexander's tactical assessment was logically sound," the leader stated firmly. "However… we are dealing with a magus of unprecedented caliber."
The leader leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames.
"Furthermore, he is fundamentally different from his predecessor. He is supremely confident. He is wildly arrogant. Unlike the vast majority of the Twenty-Seven Ancestors, who prefer to cower in their territories and avoid our gaze…"
"The moment he took the throne, he launched a massive invasion and announced to the entire world that a new, hyper-ambitious Ancestor had been born."
The leader slowly crossed his legs, surveying the shadows in the room.
"Think about the geopolitical ramifications, gentlemen. Altrouge Brunestud has always possessed catastrophic, world-ending power. But she lacks the temperament for conquest. She doesn't know how to govern an empire, nor does she care to. Her only real interest is antagonizing Trhvmn Ortenrosse."
"But now? What happens if this new White Knight… possesses the tactical mind and ambition of a second White Wing Lord?"
"If you pair his strategic intellect with Altrouge's raw, apocalyptic firepower… what kind of nightmare will that birth?"
"…"
The suffocating weight of that hypothesis plunged the entire room into silence. Even the hot-headed Alexander couldn't formulate a rebuttal.
"In summary," the leader finally sighed, breaking the quiet. "We have already shared this intelligence with the Mage's Association. Let them sift through their own ranks to uncover the true identity of this new White Knight."
"But if your theory is correct," Faust murmured, the mockery gone from his voice. "If he truly is a tactician capable of rivaling Ortenrosse… we have to eliminate him before he fully consolidates his power base."
"Eliminate him? With who?" a cynical voice piped up from the far end of the table. "Grand Inquisitor Vissela is already dead. The official report might say he fell to the Black Princess, but… come now. Knowing her royal temperament, do you honestly believe she would lower herself to personally execute a mortal Inquisitor? The Knight killed him."
"Sigh…"
A long, heavy sigh echoed through the chamber, drawing everyone's attention back to the leader.
"If our standard forces are insufficient… then we simply wait for the replies to our broadcast."
"The intelligence has already been relayed to the Mage's Association… and to them."
"The Burial Agency."
The Burial Agency.
The mere mention of the name caused the temperature in the room to drop. Every priest and bishop fell deathly silent.
Nominally, it was an executive branch of the Holy Church. In reality, it was an entirely independent, horrifically overpowered congregation of monsters wearing the cloth. They wielded absolute authority. They had the political power to execute the Pope himself if they deemed him heretical.
To the traditional, politically minded clergy sitting in this room, calling in the Burial Agency wasn't a tactical decision.
It was unleashing a plague to cure a fever.
….
+20 chapters on my p@tr3on: Kazuma_trash
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