In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

Chapter 35

Frantically wracking his brain, Orpheus realized the situation might work to his advantage.

That stubborn necromancer had always been difficult to control.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

All he needed to do was outfit one of the dead bandits in a hood and carry on as planned.

Radiance's ultimate goal was to restore faith by staging a theatrical triumph.

The barony's unfortunate inhabitants, turned into unwitting fanatics, would play their roles in the grand performance.

Orpheus felt no pity for them.

To him, they should consider it an honor to serve as tools for the glory of Radiance.

"All proceeds as intended," he muttered.

When the holy knights arrived, they would annihilate the fanatics, allowing the Blood Quill to be sealed once more.

But there was no need to inform the world of its re-sealing.

Instead, the clergy of Radiance would demand that all citizens across the continent receive monthly blessings to ensure the Quill's containment.

Recalling the applause he had received when proposing this plan to Radiance's leadership, Orpheus's chest swelled with pride.

"This isn't a conspiracy," he thought. "It's Radiance's guidance for a wayward world. Let there be light!"

As dusk fell over the forest, Alfred hefted the unconscious necromancer onto his shoulder.

"Such a fine gift for my grandson," he mused with a faint smile.

Count Charles ascended a hill on his chimera, surveying the chaotic formations of the allied forces below. The sight was headache-inducing. He had been aware that the coalition army's capabilities varied widely, but he had underestimated just how disorganized they were.

Barely into the march, the troops had already descended into disorder. The pace of the march had to match the slowest units, making any effort to maintain cohesion nearly impossible.

No matter how much the vanguard, the 1st Corps, accelerated, it was futile. The 2nd Corps lagged behind by half the distance, followed by the 3rd Corps, and somewhere far at the rear, the 4th Corps, responsible for logistics, was completely out of sight.

Count Charles's frustrations mounted further when a message arrived from the 4th Corps. They reported that they could not keep up with the march because they lacked sufficient beasts of burden, forcing soldiers to pull the supply wagons themselves.

The count fumed as he read the dispatch.

"What kind of unit is this? How could they possibly be short of animals for the wagons?"

His adjutant quietly provided an explanation.

"Your Excellency, the 4th Corps includes Baron Kensington. It seems their supply wagons rely on his war beasts for transport, which leaves no spare livestock. Additionally, the oxen we sent were used as food for the beasts, and the horses were allocated to replace those lost by knights during yesterday's skirmish. Baron Kensington has stated that if his war beasts are deprived of food or overburdened, he will send them back to his territory."

"Th-that...!" Charles spluttered, suppressing his anger. "Fine. Fine! Tell them to follow as best they can."

The reasoning was sound. In a confrontation with a necromancer, three war beasts were a significant asset.

Moreover, each soldier carried at least a day's worth of rations, so the delay of the supply wagons was manageable.

After all, Charles himself had maneuvered to assign the 4th Corps to logistical duties. He reassured himself that the slow pace of the other corps meant they could all rendezvous at the camp that night.

While the sluggish pace of the march had been justified, a new conflict arose among the minor nobles of the 4th Corps.

Someone had to oversee the soldiers transporting the supplies, but no one wanted the task.

Baron Kensington scanned the gathered knights and nobles, hoping someone would volunteer.

"Come now," he urged, "it's crucial that we safeguard the supplies. Someone responsible, diligent, and capable must stay behind to lead the corps. Who will step forward?"

The group collectively avoided eye contact, each hoping someone else would take on the dull and thankless duty.

Michael, observing the standstill, realized he would have to step in once more. Without decisive leadership, the corps would never make it to camp by nightfall.

"Let's do it this way," Michael proposed. "Whoever stays behind to oversee the supplies will still receive an equal share of the spoils."

Even then, no one volunteered. The nobles grumbled inwardly—what use was a share of the spoils when the thrill of combat and plunder lay ahead?

Baron Kensington felt his frustration rising. He, of all people, wanted to be part of the vanguard. As one of the poorest nobles present, he could ill afford to pass up the chance for loot.

"Michael, you're the most intelligent and capable among us," chimed in Baron Brun, one of the senior nobles, with a sly smile. "Surely you're the best candidate for this task."

Michael shot a glare at Brun that could have pierced steel.

Before he could respond, his father, Baron Crassus, stepped forward.

"Is that how you treat the architect of this plan?" he rebuked. "If no one else will take the responsibility, I will. My son still has much to learn through firsthand experience in battle. It's only right that the older generation handles this."

Michael looked at his father, deeply moved. While the elder Crassus often played his role as a parent in his own gruff way, Michael truly appreciated the gesture this time.

Baron Crassus's declaration prompted several other senior knights to step forward, all of them experienced veterans without heirs to risk in battle.

Their collective agreement silenced Brun, who retreated sheepishly, realizing he'd drawn the ire of the older knights.

With the looting, or rather, the "village reclamation force" decided, Baron Kensington mounted his griffon and soared into the skies.

He flew cautiously, mindful not to climb so high that he'd be spotted by other corps, nor too low to risk hitting tree branches. His mission was to scout for villages worth reclaiming, where his mounted team could follow.

Though it pained him to push his treasured war beasts to their limits, he steeled himself—profits awaited.