What Gaphin Left Behind (3)
Balkan muttered, "There are no elites in Hell's army."
When Havitz insisted on going to Tormia's capital, Balkan had offered one proposal: send the legion commanders' forces all over the world, then strike Bashka with the remaining five percent.
Paimon narrowed her eyes. "And we took terrible losses for that. Three of your precious friends came back half-paralyzed."
Even Balkan had been shocked by the result. He'd thought someone was joking when he first heard Natasha had been defeated by Maha's knight.
Paimon spoke again. "Isn't it time to stop pushing into Bashka? The living corpses can't move anyway. Ignore them. There aren't many humans left to bother, and it's only the innocent demons who're dying."
"Since when do you care about soldiers? And entering Bashka could cost even more lives," Balkan said.
"That's your delusion. Besides, Satan wants this. Change course to Bashka now."
Balkan did not answer.
'Havitz won't come back.'
Having watched Havitz for a long time, he felt it instinctively.
'Havitz's law far exceeds anything humans can predict. In other words, it's far more advantageous for Havitz to leave the battlefield.'
If that was true…
'Opportunity.'
Balkan's eyes gleamed.
'I won't go to Bashka. Or if I do, it'll be much later. For now, we break through the flower fields and advance into the central continent.'
Even if he was jailed for disobeying the king, a soldier's duty was to fight the best possible war.
"Advance for now."
At Balkan's order, a killing light returned to Paimon's eyes.
'Tch. Just a human.'
If he hadn't been Satan's favorite, she would have dragged him from his saddle and smashed him.
'Huh?'
At that moment a demon flew down from above and emitted an ultrasonic wave humans couldn't hear.
"Lady Paimon, we've located Satan's position. He's currently heading for Kashan. And—"
Paimon, who had listened without showing Balkan, felt the skin beneath one eye twitch.
"Heh heh."
After hearing the full report, a cold smile had already formed at the corner of her mouth.
Tormia was the fiercest theater of war, but clashes large and small were erupting across the world. With countless kingdoms destroyed, the Stars of rank four and below carried out their own missions.
Among them, the tasks assigned to the System Oversight Division's stars were humanitarian relief for humanity.
"Everywhere you look, it's war," said an old man with his white hair in disarray as he peered down from a cliff. "The world rewards fighters, but this work matters too. Creating situations where no one has to fight—that's valuable."
Arnold Rampa, a three-star resident of the System Oversight Division.
At 112 years old he was well versed in world affairs and, aside from occasionally having tea with Mongin Rover, had no notable activities. Yet he stood as the Division's second in command after the five-star Fried because he wielded an information magic called Telebird.
Its transmission radius could practically dominate a hemisphere of the planet. No one could rival the teleportation-power of the one who possessed the world's greatest teleportation-type Spirit Zone.
"Coo, good little thing."
Rampa bent his index finger and a blue-hued skylark burst forth, fluttering its wings.
"Enemy detected at Amore Hill. Estimated average combat strength: Grade A. Moving slowly toward Bekid Village."
He recorded the information and raised his finger; the Telebird shot off as a straight streak of light.
A young man in his twenties at Rampa's side spoke. "Grade A again."
A white-robed scholar from the East—handsome overall, though his eyelids drooped slightly. Rampa's satellite, Chongi.
"We can't expect the remnants of a fallen kingdom's army to handle that. Don't we need to send support?" Chongi asked.
"You'd need forces to spare. Don't get cocky just because you're young. Running away is the best option," Rampa said.
He bent his middle finger and a Telebird of crimson light was born. "I'll say it again: don't even bother changing your underwear—run. I won't take responsibility for what happens afterward."
Watching the red streak shoot to the horizon, Chongi clenched his fist. "Damn it! If only I'd learned combat magic—"
"Stop. A person should know his place. It's not that the one who learned combat magic is the one who fights; the one who fights learns combat magic. This suits you." Chongi's lips pouted.
"You said I had no talent before."
"You weren't focusing on the right thing. Honestly, you're not thinking about developing information magic—you go wasting it chasing women with some silly tricks. Do you think I don't see that?"
Chongi's face flushed. "W-who said I chased women? Have I ever even succeeded with a woman once?"
In his head, he had. Decent face, a clumsy but not unpleasant air, and a generally pleasant personality.
"You want to fall in love?" Rampa asked.
"Yes! Of course. Master, do you know what I'm most resentful about now that the world's gone to hell? Not having had a real, passionate romance."
"If you struggled in peaceful times, then it's over. Making butterflies out of light doesn't cut it with girls anymore. Strong men are what's in demand now."
"Tch, so that's why I'm learning combat magic—"
Rampa snorted and turned his head. "How about meeting someone from the stars or satellites? There are decent maidens among them. If they're three-star or below, I could set you up."
"Stars?"
As his eyes swept the heavens, Chongi recalled the faces of various stars and grimaced. "No thanks. They're all weird."
"Ha! Outwardly maybe, but they're soft inside. Besides, if you set your standards that high…"
Rampa's expression suddenly hardened.
Chongi felt the same chill and, without either of them speaking, both lowered their posture.
"Conceal."
Chongi opened a veil of light and waited as a marching force passed below the hill.
At the front strode a demon with multiple twisted horns curving back like a bison's, brown skin, and four arms.
If you judged by features alone…Bassago? It was Bassago, commander of Hell's Third Legion.
Why was he here? Had the entire Third Legion pulled out from the front?
Division commanders followed behind Bassago: a woman who looked like a corpse, a man whose right arm dragged along the ground, a monster with exposed ribs and entrails.
"Chongi."
Rampa called, but Chongi didn't answer. His face had gone pale.
"—Chongi, analyze."
Speed and accuracy were the essence of information transmission. It wasn't enough to send it fast and far; one had to judge the situation objectively.
"First," Chongi swallowed, "all the division commanders are S-rank or above. That female form might even be double-D level."
Even without prior data on the Third Legion, his rough assessment was accurate.
"And the one at the front—" Chongi ground his teeth and said with difficulty, "—is probably Triple-S…"
Rampa's eye twitched. "I don't know what stage that denotes, but it's far above S."
Rampa smiled slightly.
'Chongi has no prior data on the Third Legion,' Rampa thought. He'd deliberately withheld enemy information from Chongi for special training.
'He's never experienced anything like Triple-S. Yet he analyzes it accurately—'
It was clear evidence that Chongi's sense reached realms humans couldn't perceive.
'A prodigy of intuition.'
"Not bad for a guess. But if you deliver information using vague terms like that, the receiver will be confused. You see with your eyes, but the receiver imagines. Without clear definitions, they might feel terror."
"How should I define it then?"
"G1, G2, G3. Ranks beyond ranks. Since you can't quantify force concretely, divide it into perceived levels. Here, G usually stands for gravity."
"Like gravity?"
"Anything. A fundamental force acting in this world. If you wanted to remove gravity, how would you do it?"
Chongi frowned. "Impossible. You could momentarily counteract it, but as long as the world exists, you can't remove it."
"That's the idea. G1."
"You get the idea, right? I use gravity because the receiver will feel it most neutrally. Things like tsunamis, typhoons, lightning, or volcanoes have personality and invite subjective interpretation. If you say 'typhoon-class,' most picture speed or violence."
Chongi understood. "But if an enemy requires you to imagine G1-level strength, how do you beat it?"
"That's not for the information-transmitter to decide. Another G1 or a G2 will take it down."
Rampa held up his fingers. "G2 is twice the gravity, G3 is three times. Nothing beyond that. You mustn't invent higher grades. Why? Because—"
"People lose objectivity; it becomes hard to relate," Chongi finished.
"Right. A normal person can only imagine something up to about three times as real. Anyway, the one coming is named Bassago. I don't know the demon world's exact ranks, but if I had to classify him, he could be a G2-level disaster." Chongi answered as he'd been taught.
"That's not the information-transmitter's concern," Rampa said. "What I want to know is why he's here. My intel says the top legion commanders all went to Tormia. If one returned for some reason…"
Rampa's words trailed off. Not blinking, lost in thought, deep furrows formed across his brow.
"Damn."
Chongi felt unease. When a coarse word left his master's mouth, he knew how the world situation could change.
"W-why? What is it?"
Rampa propped his chin on his hand. 'Should I send the info now? No, I can't be certain yet. It could be an error judging the whole by a strange variable. But if my suspicion is right…'
He ground his teeth. 'I have no choice but to confirm directly while doing high-speed transmission.'
Rising, Rampa said, "I'll circle the world for a moment. It won't take long. Hold this place. Trust your sense."
"W-what? Me? Master, you said I'm never allowed into real combat until you die! Because I'll ruin the world."
"You're going to die soon anyway. You do it."
"Wait! Master—"
Before Chongi could finish, Rampa's body flared into light and shot into the sky.
The teleportation distance produced by the world's greatest teleportation-type Spirit Zone was beyond imagination.
Kiiiiiiing.
With the roar still in the air, Chongi stared blankly as his master receded. Every ten kilometers or so, photon transmissions—golden birds—were fired along the trajectory.
Real-time transmission magic, Goldbird.
Countless streaks of light spun like a spectacle and arced toward the cathedral.