By the time Black and his companions returned to the battlefield, the fight was already over. The mercenaries were busy mopping up the area, while Ophelia stood alone off to one side. Unlike the others, her face bore no trace of the joy of victory, nor the relief of a battle won. On the contrary, she was pale, her complexion even slightly ashen, as she leaned against the cliff wall, gasping for breath.
The reason was simple: this was the first time Ophelia had ever killed someone.
During her time with Black, she had witnessed countless deaths, and she had thought she had grown numb to it. The fading of life was something she had never experienced before her resurrection, but afterward, it had become almost routine. So before this battle, she had kept reassuring herself: *I'm used to this. I'm used to it. I've grown accustomed to death.* After all, she herself had died once—how could she possibly be fazed by the deaths of others?
Besides, these Cyclops were not technically human. Killing them, she told herself, should not weigh on her conscience at all.
But the mage was different.
Strictly speaking, the two of them had never even engaged in a proper face-to-face fight. After waiting in vain for reinforcements, the robed mage had finally gritted his teeth and cast a portal spell, desperate to risk an escape. Naturally, this movement did not escape Ophelia's notice. With a sharp crack, her black whip lashed out again, shattering the portal before it could even activate. The poor mage was annihilated along with the spell, reduced to a gruesome pulp.
It was only after she confirmed that her enemy was truly dead that Ophelia finally came to her senses. In truth, from the very start of the battle, the former princess had been in a state of extreme tension, her every sense focused solely on the fight before her. The robed mage had still had the presence of mind to make tactical judgments mid-battle, but Ophelia had been so on edge that she barely knew what she was doing. She had reacted purely on instinct, relying on the reflexes she had honed during training. Especially when that fireball had hurtled toward her—she had frozen completely, staring at the rapidly expanding flames, her mind going blank. If her affinity hadn't happened to counter magic perfectly, that single strike alone would have left the young adjutant gravely injured, if not dead.
That close call had turned her into a nervous wreck. Her senses had been hyper-alert, her whip lashing out almost by reflex at every concentration of magical energy. It was for this reason that when she attacked the robed mage, she had held nothing back—and that was how the unfortunate man had met his end.
It was only when the sounds of slaughter around her gradually faded that the fog in Ophelia's mind began to lift. But when the memories of the battle came flooding back, the young woman could no longer contain herself.
She had watched Black kill countless times before, each time as effortlessly as slaughtering a chicken—drawing his sword and striking, with his enemies falling just as easily. Subconsciously, she had come to think of killing as something simple, something easy. But now that she had actually done it herself, she realized that the reality was nothing like what she had imagined.
She had barely gotten a clear look at the robed mage's face, but the sensations transmitted through the whip had been crystal clear—the feel of muscle tearing, bones shattering, even the twitching of dying nerves. It was all so sickening that it made her stomach churn. Killing the Cyclops had been bearable; their massive, bestial forms had made it easy to think of them as nothing more than wild beasts. But this time, she had killed a human being. She could almost feel his legs snapping under the force of her whip, his abdomen and chest being ripped open. The horror of it all was more than she could bear. She had dropped her weapon on the spot, stumbled to the wall, and retched violently.
By now, Black had reached her side. After striking his deal with Sidvi, he had immediately led the others back to the battlefield, arriving just as the fight was drawing to a close. He had already heard the full story from Charlotte and the orc captain. The captain was full of praise for Ophelia's performance—for a seasoned veteran who had fought in countless battles, he had never seen a commander who could anticipate every enemy move so perfectly, laying out a complete battle plan before the fight even began and leaving nothing to chance. For the orc captain, Ophelia had earned his absolute respect. To achieve such a victory in a complex terrain, without prior reconnaissance, and with no clear knowledge of the enemy's numbers—it was nothing short of a miracle.
But unlike the captain, who knew nothing of their secret, Charlotte remained calm and level-headed. She was well aware that Ophelia's strategy had been built entirely on the intelligence provided by the spectral maids. After being "captured" by the Cyclops, the maids had secretly memorized the layout of the encampment and the enemy's strength. Upon their deaths, this information had been shared with the others through their soul link—and it was this intelligence that had allowed Ophelia to execute her plan so flawlessly.
Even so, Charlotte couldn't help but marvel. Her own "years" and "experiences" of combat far surpassed those of the mercenaries, yet in all her memory, she had never seen anyone fight like this. Battlefields were ever-changing; a single miscalculation could spell disaster. That was why Black, Messiah, Semia, and Judy never would have dreamed of using such an unorthodox method of command. As knights and commanders, they led from the front lines, fighting alongside their men while issuing orders. In fact, almost every commander on this continent fought this way. The idea of giving a set of strange, rigid orders before the battle and then making no adjustments whatsoever was simply unthinkable.
Black, of course, understood this perfectly well. Their victory had been due in large part to Ophelia's use of the terrain to neutralize the Cyclops' massive size, splitting them up and encircling them, while she herself engaged the enemy leader. These creatures were driven purely by instinct, lacking even the most basic intelligence—which was why the plan had succeeded so effortlessly. If there had been someone capable of commanding the Cyclops, Ophelia's clever scheme would have fallen apart in an instant.
Still, Black had no intention of being overly critical. After all, this was his adjutant's first time on a real battlefield—her first time leading troops, her first time taking a life. To have accomplished so much was already more than enough to be proud of.
So he simply stood quietly behind her, watching as her slender shoulders trembled, saying nothing. It was only when her ragged breathing began to steady that Black held out a handkerchief.
"You did well."
"Lord Black…"
Hearing his voice, Ophelia forced herself to turn around, taking the handkerchief with a look of embarrassment. She wiped the bile from the corner of her mouth, then faced the man before her, managing a smile that looked more like a grimace.
"The mission… it's complete…"
"You've worked hard, Miss Ophelia," Black replied, nodding with a smile. He reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "You look absolutely exhausted. Perhaps you should go back and rest?"
Ophelia hesitated for a split second at the suggestion. Then she took a deep breath and shook her head firmly.
"No, Lord Black. I'm fine."
Black raised an eyebrow at that.
In truth, his question had been a test. He knew full well that Ophelia had never taken a life before her resurrection. Though she had appeared calm on the surface, killing was not the same as slaughtering a chicken or gutting a fish. She had watched him kill more people than an entire army could muster, but watching and doing were two very different things—it was like watching a horror movie. At first, you might be scared, but after enough viewings, you grow desensitized to it.
But how many people could stay calm if they were suddenly thrust into that horror movie as the main character? That was the question.
So he had given Ophelia this test. Some people, after killing for the first time, are overcome with terror—they can never return to the battlefield, can never bear to see blood or death again. Others, however, cross that threshold and emerge stronger for it. If Ophelia had chosen to rest, it would have meant she was instinctively trying to escape the horrors of battle and killing. In that case, Black would have had no choice but to assign her to political duties behind the scenes, never allowing her to accompany him to the front lines again. For such a flaw could be fatal—a single moment of hesitation in battle could spell disaster for everyone involved.
But now, Ophelia had refused his offer. It meant that the former princess had the resolve and the willpower to push forward. And that made all the difference.
"I've fulfilled my duty, Lord Black," Ophelia said, taking a few more steadying breaths before reporting her achievements. "It may not have been pretty, but I succeeded."
Indeed, the battle had been a resounding success. Their fifty-man mercenary squad had suffered only three deaths and fifteen injuries, while the enemy had numbered two hundred and fifteen. To achieve such results against overwhelming odds was nothing short of extraordinary. While the mercenaries launched a two-pronged attack to draw the Cyclops' attention, Charlotte had led a few spectral maids around to the rear as ordered, setting the encampment ablaze and cutting off the monsters' only escape route. Trapped with no way out, the Cyclops had been either cut down by the mercenaries guarding the pass or incinerated in the fire—a truly pitiful end.
"Indeed you have," Black nodded, his gaze lingering on Ophelia with a meaningful look before he broke into a smile. "Now that you've completed your mission so brilliantly, Miss Ophelia—as your superior officer, I think I ought to give you a reward, don't I?"