{Chapter: 34: Harry Battle Madness}
Harry, mounted atop his warhorse and rallying his soldiers amidst the chaos of battle, suddenly blinked. The edges of his vision blurred, shadows creeping in at the corners like ink spilled over parchment. A sharp, unnatural vertigo seized him—an invisible, choking pressure clawing into his skull. His heartbeat quickened, not from the clash of steel or the thunder of hooves, but from something deeper, more primal. It was as if a voice, ancient and irresistible, was whispering from within the marrow of his bones.
Kill.
Kill everything.
Friend or foe, it didn't matter.
The blood must flow.
Harry's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Without even realizing it, he began to lift the blade—its point aimed directly at the back of his trusted guard, who stood mere paces in front of him, unaware. The young man had followed him loyally through countless campaigns. And yet now, the urge to run him through surged like a tidal wave crashing over his senses.
But Harry was no green recruit swayed by base instincts. Years of brutal training, discipline beaten into him by sweat, scars, and sheer will, screamed back against the compulsion. With a guttural cry, he forced himself to halt the motion, veins bulging at his temples as if in protest. The haze lifted just enough for him to regain clarity, though his head still pounded like war drums.
Before he could catch his breath or make sense of what had just occurred, a sharp whistling sound tore through the air behind him.
Instinct overtook pride. Harry flung himself from the saddle, sprawling unceremoniously onto the bloodstained ground. The blade meant for his neck carved the empty air where he had been just a heartbeat before. Dust, mud, and gore smeared his armor as he tumbled, rolled, then scrambled upright with the grace of a man who had long learned that dignity was a luxury on the battlefield.
He turned.
And what he saw sent a cold shiver crawling down his spine.
The assailant had been no enemy, no shadowy assassin—he recognized the face immediately. It was General Darion, a comrade-in-arms, a man who had fought alongside him for over a decade. But the Darion standing before him now was a stranger. His once-clear eyes burned with savage bloodlust, pupils dilated like a cornered beast's. His mouth curled into a feral grin, teeth bared like an animal who had forgotten language, loyalty, even self.
Darion made no further attempt on Harry's life. Instead, he turned and let out a wordless roar, bringing his sword down upon another knight beside him—Sir Brenwick, a nobleman of great prestige. The blade cleaved through Brenwick's shoulder armor as though it were paper, severing his arm in a single strike. Brenwick cried out, staggered, and then—without hesitation—whirled around and returned the favor, cleaving Darion's head clean from his shoulders.
Both men collapsed seconds later, lifeless.
Harry took a trembling step back. His gaze darted from face to face in the surrounding melee, desperately searching for sanity in the sea of madness. What he saw nearly made him retch.
The Yr Kingdom's army, once a disciplined force of more than 100,000 strong, had descended into utter bedlam. Save for perhaps a few hundred elite warriors—those who had reached the level of [Great Knight]—the entire host had lost all semblance of reason. They hacked, stabbed, and tore at one another with abandon, comrades becoming corpses in mere seconds.
Old friends turned on each other with savage efficiency. Brothers-in-arms drove swords into one another's chests, snarling like wolves over scraps of meat. Some dropped their weapons altogether, using bare hands to gouge eyes and crush throats. Others bit into exposed flesh, teeth snapping like wild dogs tasting blood for the first time.
The battlefield had become a vision from the deepest pit of hell. Armor clanged, steel screamed, but beneath it all was a darker, wetter symphony: the snapping of bones, the ripping of flesh, and the choking sobs of men who realized too late they could no longer tell ally from enemy.
Harry's legs almost gave out. This… this wasn't war.
This was carnage. Mass hysteria. A butcher's dream.
He rushed to regroup with the few rational knights who had managed to resist the madness, shouting orders, calling for ceasefires—anything. But it was like yelling into a hurricane. Those few who remained sane were too few, too scattered. Their voices were drowned beneath the screeching chaos.
As the cries of the slaughtered echoed around him, a dreadful memory resurfaced—the red light. The crimson flare that had burst across the sky like a second sun before all this began.
He lifted his eyes.
There, high atop the obsidian battlements of Grottofort, stood James Woz.
The Duke of Marton—stoic, impassive, untouched by the bloodshed raging below.
Their eyes locked across the distance. And for a fleeting moment, Harry felt as though he were being studied, not as a man, but as a specimen—like a wild beast observed through glass.
Rage surged through his chest, white-hot and unfiltered.
"James Woz!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury and disbelief. "Your Principality of Marton… you dare wield such a monstrous magical item?!"
James blinked, his expression one of mild surprise—as though Harry's outburst had interrupted a rather dull morning.
With a nonchalant yawn, he lifted a hand to his ear and scratched idly, then called down lazily, "This relic has been in Marton's vaults for over seven centuries. Maintained, protected, revered. A relic of the old world, yes—but not without cost."
His voice dropped slightly, and though his tone remained casual, it carried the weight of ancient threat.
"We didn't want to use it, truth be told. It's wasteful. But your beloved Principality of Ar crossed a line."
Harry clenched his jaw.
There was no reason to doubt him.
In this age of waning magic, no living mage could have conjured such chaos. Items of this caliber—artifacts from the golden age of spellcraft—were relics of a bygone era. Forged at a time when the world's magic flowed rich and wild. Now, centuries later, even maintaining such objects required vast resources, careful rituals, and entire bloodlines dedicated to preservation.
Harry knew the truth.
These magical relics, whether created as weapons or tools, had become irreplaceable. They were no longer just weapons of war—they were heirlooms of civilizations. And every time one was used…
It was lost.
Forever.
In this era, where the magic tide had ebbed and the arcane winds no longer stirred, using such an item was like burning the last pages of a sacred book for warmth. It was desperation. It was finality.
And Marton had chosen to burn one.
One less miracle in the world.
After years of consumption, there are only a few left.
And because the magical content of the world is decreasing, the cost of maintaining it every year is enough to make the nobles' scalps numb. Only the royal forces that control the principalities have the ability to support them over the years.
But even with such maintenance.
These powerful magic items, regardless of whether they were originally disposable items.
In this era when magic power is at a low ebb, everything will become disposable props!
So no one would dare to use these magical relics unless the situation was absolutely dire. Their activation came at too high a cost—both in magical resources and potential consequences. The last recorded use of such an artifact had been over fifty years ago, during a border conflict that nearly escalated into a continental war. Even then, only fragments of documentation survived, lost among redacted reports and crumbling scrolls.
So the price?
Over a hundred thousand men, turned against one another like rabid beasts, the land itself soaked in blood that would never wash clean.
Harry stood amidst the chaos, surrounded by dust, screams, and the metallic stench of blood, his armor dented and splattered. His limbs were heavy, and his spirit was crushed. Never in his life had he imagined such an overwhelming defeat—let alone through methods that defied logic and warfare itself.
As Harry stood amid the wreckage of his army, grief and fury battling for dominance in his chest, one horrifying realization dawned on him.
This wasn't just a battlefield.
It was a message.
And the world would hear it…
He looked up again, his eyes filled with disbelief and grief. So this is what they were hiding all along...
The Principality of Marton—long considered a moderately powerful force among the western territories—had been concealing something so terrifying, so deeply potent, that it could turn an entire army into mindless berserkers without lifting a single sword. For centuries, they'd hidden their ace without a whisper of rumor leaking out. No court spy, no merchant whisperer, no drunken noble had ever uttered a word.
This changes everything, Harry thought bitterly.
He clenched his fist, glancing at his comrades locked in senseless combat. Some of them had trained together for over a decade. They had shared drinks, shared tents during harsh winters, they had shared many noble women and whites together, even saved one another's lives in past campaigns. And now—they were clawing each other apart like frenzied animals, eyes vacant of humanity.
Harry's face twisted with sorrow and resignation. His voice broke with suppressed fury as he shouted up toward the battlements of the enemy city.
"Stop it! Cease this madness! James, for the gods' sake, put an end to it! We, the Principality of Ar, we surrender! You've won!"
There was a long silence from the high wall.
And then James Woz—crown prince of Marton, clad in dark violet silver armor embroidered with golden threads, standing tall and dignified despite the carnage below—raised his eyes toward Harry. His expression remained calm, almost bored, as if he had heard this plea many times before.
"I'm afraid it's not that simple," James replied, his voice carrying through the battlefield like an old bell. "That artifact... once activated, it cannot be stopped. Not by will. Not by magic. Not even by death. Its enchantment has a fixed duration. They will either collapse from exhaustion, die in battle, or regain their senses once the effect wears off."
He spoke the truth with such finality that it crushed any remaining hope Harry had of saving his troops. James did not mock him. He didn't need to. The truth was insult enough.
With that, James turned his back and gestured to his officers. "Prepare the capture units. When the enchantment fades, there will be survivors. Some will be broken, others barely breathing. Prioritize the ones most critically injured. Stabilize them. They are still useful and cannot die here!"
*****
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