Presently, what was our Saintess doing after enduring the long, exhausting trek to the Kazdel frontier? She was currently strolling through the heart of the fortification camp under the intense, burning gaze of every single person present, looking completely and utterly lost for things to do.
Naturally, the fact that an empty void had formed around her person wasn't entirely her own fault. The massive gap was primarily caused by the ten colossal wyverns resting quietly behind her frame, their golden slitted eyes deadlocked onto anyone who dared to take a step toward her.
If a normal mercenary happened to catch the direct glare of those primeval predators, the suffocating aura rolling off their scales was enough to make a seasoned killer's heart skip a beat, offering them a very vivid, terrifying brush with absolute suffocation.
Jeanne, however, simply sat on a wooden crate near the center of the yard, completely accustomed to being left entirely to her own devices. She passed the time idly running her fingers through little Fafnir's soft hair, letting her mind wander through a barrage of completely random thoughts.
One might wonder why she didn't simply banish the massive beasts back into the spiritual void and summon them only when a fresh crisis emerged, which would at least spare the local defenders the agony of staring at them in perpetual terror.
There was a highly practical variable behind this decision. Unlike a dedicated sentry detail, Jeanne couldn't spend twelve hours a day manually scanning the ridgelines to ensure a fresh wave of the Regent's forces wasn't attempting a quiet encirclement. Maintaining that level of active awareness would take a massive toll on her own mental stamina.
But these wyverns were an entirely different story! Their baseline tracking instincts were sharper than the finest hunting hounds on the continent. The moment a hostile entity harboring hidden malice crossed into the perimeter, these ancient predators would instantly sniff out the disturbance.
Still, utilizing a legion of wyverns as basic camp sentries was an act of hilarious extravagance. Anyone with an ounce of military sense would look at this layout and accuse the Saintess of being completely, shamelessly wasteful.
Yet, the dragons belonged to her, and how she chose to employ her personal assets was entirely her own business. The surrounding Sarkaz could only cast looks of deep, burning envy toward her seat, their eyes screaming that they would give their left arms just to possess a pair of wings of their own.
As she sat there drowning in sheer boredom, Jeanne suddenly blinked, realizing she had completely forgotten to transmit a proper situational update back to the command deck of the landship.
When the Doctor received the report via the short-wave array, her tone didn't carry a single trace of surprise, as if Jeanne systematically erasing an entire army with zero casualties was a completely mundane, expected development.
Then again, given that tier of raw destructive power, what adversary could possibly mount a viable defense? The only detail that slightly amused the strategist was how rapidly the enemy lines had shattered into a total rout; those hardened mercenaries shouldn't have looked that pathetic.
"Then I shall officially leave the security of the gateway in your hands," the Doctor remarked through the static, her tone incredibly relaxed. Though she had fully anticipated a flawless victory, hearing the formal confirmation still lifted a massive logistical weight from her shoulders, filling her voice with genuine cheer. "Our vanguard is projected to cross into your sector by tomorrow afternoon. Until the hull clears the pass, the security of that entire valley rests with you!"
Hearing the strategist unceremoniously dump the entire burden of camp defense onto her back, Jeanne offered an internal volley of deep, silent condemnation. She couldn't help but feel that this eccentric tactician was becoming increasingly shameless by the week—worse still, she hadn't even been told if this sudden field deployment included a bonus on her paycheck!
Under the watchful eyes of the garrison, Jeanne simply stared blankly into space, adopting a posture that suggested the ongoing rebuilding efforts and shuffling patrols around her had absolutely nothing to do with her world.
Not far from her makeshift seat, Hoederer stood alongside his fellow captains, quietly evaluating the girl who, from a purely chronological standpoint, looked like nothing more than an innocent young lady.
As he watched her, his attention was inevitably dragged back to the massive, leather-winged shapes resting behind her. Though he possessed zero historical data regarding their true taxonomy, his survival instincts had no trouble recognizing their terrifying lethality.
"What are you staring at? The squad was screaming your name over at the central tent and you didn't even blink. I thought you had passed out on your feet." Ines strode up to his side, her sharp voice breaking the heavy spell that had settled over the mercenary captain.
Hoederer adjusted his grip on his blade, maintaining his steady gaze toward the center of the camp for a long moment before finally looking back at his partner.
"It's nothing," he murmured, his voice low. "I am simply trying to deduce what corner of Terra spawned that young lady. I have spent my entire life navigating the wars of Kazdel, and I have never once encountered a soul capable of taming such horrific monsters."
"Is it not perfectly obvious?" Ines replied, her tone completely deadpan as she crossed her arms. "She is a foreign asset brought in by the high command of Babel. If the Demon King had possessed a weapon of this magnitude during the early days of the succession crisis, the civil war would have been permanently settled years ago."
Despite her detached words, a trace of severe caution flashed deep within Ines's eyes whenever her gaze brushed past Jeanne's frame, a subtle hint of fear lingering beneath her cool exterior.
"Have you attempted to utilize your sight on her?" Hoederer asked, his curiosity piqued. "To see if this... operator is a person we can safely converse with, or perhaps form an alliance with down the road?"
Under normal circumstances, Ines's immediate reflex upon encountering a powerful stranger was to read their "shadow"—the deep, spiritual reflection of an individual's true soul. It was her ultimate anchor in the wastes, allowing her to instantly decipher an entity's underlying malice or virtue without being deceived by elegant words or trained expressions.
A person could spend a lifetime training their face to lie, but the human soul possessed zero capacity for deception. What you truly were was laid completely bare within the shadow.
Yet, Hoederer was entirely certain that Ines hadn't directed a single spell toward Jeanne since her arrival. Why she had chosen to suppress her greatest asset remained a mystery to him.
Faced with the question, Ines fell into an uncharacteristic, heavy silence. She stared fixedly at the armored girl for a long, agonizing watch before letting out a soft, exhausted sigh.
"I harbor a profound instinct that if I dare to cast my threads into that girl's shadow, it will become the single most catastrophic mistake of my entire life," Ines whispered, her shoulders tensing slightly. "I cannot define what exactly is waiting within that light, but my blood is screaming at me to stay away."
It was a primitive warning system, the hardwired survival radar of a badlands mercenary telling her that some boundaries were never meant to be crossed. Furthermore, Jeanne answered directly to Babel, and their squad was merely a paid vanguard on a temporary contract. There was zero practical reason to risk her sanity over a secret that didn't belong to them.
"Then... let us drop the matter entirely," Hoederer agreed, shifting his weight as he prepared to turn away. He had zero desire to unearth a hidden variable that might bring an avalanche of unnecessary trouble down on their company. "We should keep our distance."
"In that case, march yourself over to the medical tent and get those lacerations bound," Ines snapped, her tone returning to its sharp, familiar edge as she nudged him forward. "The Babel handlers are surprisingly soft-hearted; they actually authorized their own medical crates for our crew's recovery. With the amount of blood you've lost, you'll be a liability if a fresh skirmish breaks out."
The two mercenaries quickened their pace, exiting the central courtyard with a level of haste that left a few of their subordinates looking on with confusion.
The remaining Sarkaz raiders, however, remained completely transfixed by the scene. They loitered near the edges of the camp, desperately trying to study how Jeanne interacted with her dragons, hoping to reverse-engineer even a single command structure that they might employ on common beasts of the wasteland.
Within an hour, the entire camp had completely forgotten about the approaching landship. Every mind was single-mindedly consumed by a burning desire to learn the art of dragon-taming—ideally, a simple, foolproof trick they could apply immediately!
Sensing the thick, unblinking wall of eyes pressing in on her position, Jeanne finally ran out of patience. She pushed herself up from the crate, scooped up Fafnir, and retreated into the privacy of her command tent to escape the scrutiny. She left her massive wyverns behind as an outer line, their low, rumbling growls effortlessly scattering any overambified scouts who tried to creep too close to the canvas.
Yet, the raw fascination running through the Sarkaz lines couldn't be easily suppressed. When Rhodes Island finally crossed the mountain passes the following afternoon, its immense, titan-class hull actually drew fewer eyes than the prehistoric beasts lounging near the trenches.
After all, a mercenary company could never dream of owning a mobile fortress, but a dragon? If a man saved his coin, survived enough campaigns, and found a black-market nest, perhaps he could secure a single egg to hatch.
Who could possibly say no to a towering, majestic beast that held absolute command over the open sky? To possess a mount of that magnitude, a Sarkaz would willingly empty his vaults and risk everything he owned.