Volume 10 Chapter 38 Portline Infiltration
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
”You’re out of your mind. I get that you want to protect your subordinates, but still…”
Klock scratched the back of his head, staring out over the sea. Behind him, the orange-scaled Merfolk folded her arms while the blue one pressed her palms together, both watching him in silence.
”I always thought this sort of job should be left to one’s underlings,” said the orange one dryly. “But for the captain himself to infiltrate enemy waters—how very like the Brave Knight.”
Primrose’s expression wavered between admiration and exasperation.
The sun was setting over Dayrid’s harbor. Only one small boat had been prepared. With little more than a pack slung over his shoulder, Klock Livorno stood ready to depart.
Not that I want to do this, he thought. Someone like Meina would be way better suited.
His mission: infiltrate enemy territory, find Fit, and bring her home. A noble cause on paper—but one that came far too close to suicide. Asking anyone else to do it would be the same as sending them to die.
Brigante already had Meina, their finest operative. She’d slipped into the Beast Country, stormed Slomvanilla, even reached the Cat Tower—all legendary feats. If anyone could handle this, it would be her.
But Klock couldn’t bring himself to say, Go risk your life for me. Not to the woman he loved.
So he’d left both Suzette and Meina out of the plan. They’d stay behind, none the wiser. Portline would be his burden alone.
”Ship there, return with Primlena’s help. If we’re chased, I’ll need your speed. Counting on you,” he said.
”Acknowledged,” replied Primlena. “But are you sure about this?”
”I’ll be fine. Done this sort of thing before.”
The real problem will be explaining it to Suzette afterward, he thought grimly. Sneaking into enemy territory? Yeah, that’s crazy. Even Meina might scowl at him for this.
”Do you feel responsible for sending Fit?” Primlena’s voice was soft beside him. She brushed against his arm, leaning lightly into him.
”…Yeah. I mean, it was just a recon mission, right? I knew it was risky, but I didn’t feel it. I just… asked too easily.”
Reconnaissance meant sending a small team into possibly hostile ground. It was dangerous by definition. But he’d been too optimistic. She won’t have to fight, he’d told himself.
”You humans are fragile,” said Primlena. “Unlike us, your lives can be snuffed out with ease. Next time, judge more carefully. You have us, remember?”
”…Yeah.”
She didn’t tell him not to worry. Instead, she quietly rebuked him—with kindness. Her hand found his, warm and steady.
”Then I’m off,” he said. “If I don’t make it back—”
”I’ll ask Suzette,” she replied smoothly. “Understood. May the Sanctum guard you.”
Primrose watched from the pier as Klock stepped into the small boat. Despite its size, with Merfolk around, even the open sea felt safe.
The boat slipped away, vanishing into the twilight spread across the Reginna Strait.
＊ * *
”Klock…”
”What is it?”
Hours had passed, the boat rocking gently under a sky devoid of land or light. The air smelled of salt and night.
”You’re about to sneak into enemy territory,” Primlena said. “That’s no different from heading onto a battlefield.”
”Yeah.”
”…And this is how a warrior prepares for battle?” she murmured, half incredulous.
He had her in his arms, his rough hands shamelessly exploring her soft body. Primlena, stripped bare to the waist, leaned against him as his palms shaped and pressed her breasts. Pale and firm, they yielded to his touch like waves to the shore.
”Helps me relax,” he said, voice low.
”If this truly steadies you, then do as you will,” she sighed.
She didn’t resist. As his partner, she let him seek comfort in her touch. He knew she was humoring him, yet her warmth eased the weight pressing on his shoulders. Since they’d entered the night sea, tension had been coiled tight inside him. Voluntarily infiltrating enemy ground—yeah, that was madness. But with Primlena beside him, he could still breathe.
Her presence helped. Her body helped. He didn’t even bother to deny it.
So he leaned into her, half for strength, half for the simple comfort of the woman who would someday be his wife. Her faintly troubled expression only made her more endearing.
The small wooden boat drifted, its motion so gentle it was hard to tell if they were moving at all. Neither of them was rowing, yet the vessel cut straight through the dark waves without pause.
The secret was the glimmering shadow that rose beneath them.
At first glance it seemed like a fish, scales flashing with rainbow light.
”Primrity,” he called.
Primlena lifted her head. “We’re almost there, aren’t we?”
From behind the boat surfaced Primrity, the iridescent-scaled Merfolk. Others followed—two, maybe three more—answering Primlena’s call for aid. With so many of them guiding it, even a raft could have crossed the sea.
Primrity’s eyes narrowed. We’re close, her look seemed to say. Yet Primlena only turned, pressing her bare chest against Klock once more. He drew her in, burying his face between her breasts, kissing her skin, tasting her warmth.
Her breath caught, a soft sound slipping past her lips. That sound—half sigh, half moan—made Klock’s mind go white.
Watching them, Primrity leaned an elbow on the side of the boat and sighed. Some things never change.
It had been a long time since Klock felt this way.
He stepped onto the rocky shore without looking back. Behind him, the women waited in the dark. He crouched low, raised one hand in a signal, and the faint bubbling of the sinking boat faded into silence. From his belt, he drew a knife, eyes sweeping the shadows before moving swiftly inland.
Different from Rushelora… and maybe the first time since the Albenian capital that I’ve had to sneak through a port like this. That time had been hell—Suzette wounded, Elna hunting us, a desperate escape, Cianie’s squad on our heels, and finally that insane ride on the sea dragon.
Compared to that, rescuing a captured ally shouldn’t be anything to lose sleep over. The real question was whether Fit and the others were still alive.
Seven days had passed since the recon team vanished. If they’d been caught the first day, there was no hope. But if it happened three or four days in, maybe they were still being interrogated—still breathing. Not unharmed, surely, but alive.
(Kispe.)
He reached out to the contracted demon through the thin thread linking their worlds.
(I believe we can assume there’s a magic detection barrier. See those small towers around the docks?)
He ducked beneath an abandoned cart and peered through the shadows. Sure enough, two-meter-high spires dotted the wharf like forgotten posts—magic towers, faintly pulsing. Defense measures placed by the Demonkin.
(Hey… you didn’t see what I was doing with Primlena earlier, did you?)
(You mean when Master buried his face in her breasts and whimpered like a lost child? Oh, I saw everything. But don’t be embarrassed—men seek comfort in a woman’s chest, it’s only natural. You may come to me too, if you wish. Call me “Mama,” won’t you?)
(Shut it, brat.)
Though Klock had entered alone, Kispe hovered on the other side of reality, watching through his eyes. She couldn’t descend; the moment she did, the barrier would flare. He’d left her waiting at the Crimson Spire, just as Primlena stayed in the sea—both out of detection range.
He darted across the docks, slipping between cargo sheds. Inside the nearest building: no lights, no sound, no movement. Every structure around him looked the same—warehouses, not passenger halls. Finding captives here would mean combing through each one.
(If I came down, I could locate them instantly.)
(You’ll stay put.)
Kispe’s voice was a constant whisper in his mind. For now, she was nothing more than a guide, an emergency measure he couldn’t afford to use yet. If the Demonkin still didn’t know the succubi had defected, then her existence was his trump card.
(Even for a backwater port, this place is sprawling. Searching alone seems terribly inefficient. Any clue where to start?)
(If I were them, I’d keep the monsters on the plains and the hostages close to the docks. Easier to move them that way.)
(So, the pier first. Dangerous, meeting the Majin face to face… but thrilling, no?)
(Why do you sound so happy about that?)
He gripped a window frame and pushed. It didn’t budge. He tried another—this one opened too fast, clattering loudly against the frame.
(Master…?)
(Relax, my hand slipped.)
A soft giggle echoed through his skull. He ignored it and slipped inside. Burlap sacks were stacked to the ceiling, choking the room with dust. He didn’t bother checking what was inside; too dark to see, and the smell of old grain filled the air. No movement, no voices. First building—clear.
(This is going to take forever.)
He moved carefully; each building cost precious minutes. This would be a long, grinding search.
(For a human, yes. A Demonkin would finish faster. Of course, I’d never let you go soft midway through.)
(What the hell are you talking about now?)
Her teasing slipped between the tension like a knife, and though he scowled, it kept him steady. He wasn’t bored—not with her in his head.
He pressed on, checking one warehouse after another. Some reeked of rot, others were just abandoned. Crates lay open, cargo spoiled and forgotten since the occupation. No guards anywhere. Maybe only a handful of Demonkin remained here.
(The Demonkin advance force that reached the Human Continent numbered around a thousand. There can’t be more than a few dozen stationed here.)
(So they’re relying on monsters for manpower. Figures. If you’re going to start a war, at least fight it yourself.)
(Ah, but wars between continents rarely win hearts. Soldiers lose their zeal the farther they stray from home. They fight bravely to defend, but not to conquer. And when losses mount, their courage fades—blame turns inward, resentment festers. Monsters don’t complain. They obey.)
He said nothing, only tightened his grip on the knife. The docks were lined with wooden piers and half-sunken ships, small vessels likely meant to ferry supplies back to Dayrid. No voices. No beasts. The monsters must have been stationed inland.
An hour passed before something new caught his eye.
(…There’s light.)
A single building ahead glowed faintly orange. Candlelight flickered behind the window. Someone was inside.
He crouched beneath the sill, breath held, and listened. Silence. Carefully, he peered through the gap.
A warehouse—one large chamber, cargo piled high but not enough to hide what was happening within.
Two shapes moved together in the dim light.
(My. Seems someone’s having a bit of fun.)
A woman lay pinned to the floor—slumped, pale, utterly spent. A man in formal attire had been pressed over her, an ugly, hateful presence in that dim room.
Klock raised an eyebrow and let out a low breath.
(…Do you recognize them?)
(A scout from the recon. I don’t know the name, but she’s one of the adventurers.)
The fallen figure was one he knew by sight—one of the Brigante party. In their force the men and women balanced near evenly; of course women had been part of that reconnaissance. If this was one of them, then the recon team being held here was no longer a suspicion but a fact.
(From what I can tell, the woman’s gone. The Demonkin treat humans cruelly; they keep what they wish and discard the rest. It looks like he’d been using her before this.)
Klock exhaled, a bitter, hollow sound.
All the while those who had once looked down on humans would still reduce them to tools when convenient. Maybe it was that the fair folk and succubi had drifted so far from humanity that the line blurred—but deep down, Majin were not so different in base instinct.
He drew in another breath and let it out slow. The scene before him was a ruin of dignity and life. The enemy was exposed and utterly vulnerable.
Time was short. If he hesitated, the chance to act cleanly would vanish.
The black blade at his side thrummed in sympathy, a living thing answering its master’s need. Its reach extended roughly twenty-five meters—less effective with obstructions, but more than enough here. The distance to the target, through the window and across the room, was well within that range.
…There was no choice.
If he failed to act, there would be no mercy from those who had done this. He owed retribution; more than that, he owed his comrades and the dead the dignity of swift justice.
He could have used blunt force, driven the pommel into a skull. That would have been a strike—but this had to be more than brutality for brutality’s sake. This was a reckoning.
In the world there was a place called the Grand Cathedral, a metaphorical underworld where the lost and the fallen lingered in memory. If he let this slide now, the chorus of their ghosts would never forgive him.
Peering through the window to steady his sight, he fixed on the man’s neck and let the blade sing.
The slash leapt outward—through glass, over stacked sacks, into the room where the attacker crouched.
There was a momentary absence of resistance; no solid, satisfying thud, only the sense of the air cleaving and a body crumpling.
In the dimness on the far side of the room the man’s form went still. Blood bloomed and fell; the light in the space shifted as death rearranged the scene.
(…Well done.)
Klock circled to the doorway and slipped inside. No living humans remained. On the straw mat lay the fallen woman; nearby, the man who had abused his power was collapsed and already dead.
(Oh my. See, Master—he met his end and could not even leave an heir. A pathetic end for one so crude.)
(If he found some small comfort in his last breath, then let that be the end of it.)
Kispe’s sharp laughter echoed in his mind, odd and cold against the weight of what he’d done. Klock frowned, the action leaving a sour taste despite its necessity.
(No other bodies. Most of the blood here is his.)
(The others? Likely taken as prey by the monsters, or worse.)
His anger flared—hot, animal. The chances of survivors dimmed by the thought that some had likely been dragged off into the dark. Fit, if she’d been here… he could only hope. Even that hope was thinning.
(Maybe we should leave.)
(Search for the others?)
(Feels futile.)
He had come to rescue, to save the living. If nothing remained, there would be no point to keep risking lives on a long, hopeless sweep. Still, the urge to try—no matter how small the chance—stung like a fresh wound.
(If survivors existed, he’d find them; if not, he would mark this place with justice and move on to hunt those responsible.)
He turned for the door to leave when footsteps echoed—a sound measured and purposeful, at least two sets.
Someone was coming.
Panic flickered; then pragmatism set in. He scanned the room. Burlap sacks were stacked in confusing clumps; a few were empty and could be used as a makeshift concealment. Grabbing one, he slid into the narrow gap between the piles and pulled it over himself until only darkness remained around his eyes.
The door slammed open.
A trio of Demonkin men entered, voices rough with surprise and a hint of alarm.
They’d been drawn by the light—by the candle and the scene it had revealed. Standing over the corpse of their comrade, they looked at the dead woman and then at the room, thinking first of blame and then of how the alarm might spread.
Klock watched them through the weave of the sack, every muscle coiled. If they called for others, escape would be far harder. If he struck now, he might clear a path and buy time. The choice lay in the first breath he took when the moment came.
If he didn’t act now, the situation would spiral out of control.
A flick of a hand—”Flame.”
Fire sparked across the floor, spreading in a heartbeat until the entire room glowed in trembling orange. One of the Demonkin stepped back, squinting at the light.
”I’ll report this.”
”Go.”
The man bolted for the exit, his boots hammering the wood. Too fast to intercept—too late to stop him.
”That strike… was this an ambush?” another muttered.
”The neck’s cleanly severed. Whoever did this struck from the shadows—a trained sword fighter, most likely.”
They were scanning the room now. Of course they were. The corpses told them everything.
Damn it. They’ll search here first.
If he waited, discovery was certain. The only way out was to strike first, before they turned.
The knife at his hip pulsed faintly, the way a hunting hound might shiver before the chase. Any flare of magic would be noticed instantly; there was no margin for error. Two of them remained in the room, kicking at the stacked sacks to check for movement.
The moment both turned their backs, Klock whispered in his mind—Now.
There was no swing, no movement. Only the sound of air cutting.
A gurgled cry broke out as one man’s neck split open. Not a clean severing, but enough to end him. The second turned toward the noise, eyes wide—giving Klock the opening for another invisible strike. The knife obeyed, silent and merciless.
Both men collapsed almost at once.
Good. Time to move.
He could stay, confirm the kills, burn everything—but the messenger had already gone. Any moment now the whole port would be crawling with soldiers. He couldn’t save anyone tonight. Fit and the others would have to wait for vengeance.
Klock kicked through the window and dove out into the cold night. Shards clattered across the cobblestones. He landed hard, rolled, and broke into a sprint toward the sea.
”Over there! He’s running!”
Shouts burst behind him, followed by a rush of footsteps—too many. The still port erupted into chaos.
You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought, lungs burning. They were awake already? At this hour?
Too many voices, too quick a response. They hadn’t been sleeping. There must’ve been a night shift—half the garrison, maybe more.
Should he turn and strike again? No. Showing his blade too often would cost its advantage. That weapon was lethal only while unseen.
Just run. If it comes to it, fight.
He knew his limits. The knife was deadly, but he wasn’t. A single fire spell could end him; and against a group, every spell could be fatal. He was an assassin, not a soldier. Survival meant retreat.
The sea glimmered faintly ahead. If he could just reach it—Primlena and the others would be waiting. Salvation shimmered a few hundred meters away.
But suddenly, his legs grew heavy.
(Master…?) Kispe’s voice trembled in his mind.
”What—what’s happening…?” he gasped.
His sprint faltered to a stumble, then stopped entirely. Breath ragged, he fell to his knees, clutching his chest as exhaustion flooded every nerve.
It wasn’t mere fatigue—it was as if his life were being siphoned away.
(Master. Turn around—now!)
Her voice forced him to obey. Slowly, trembling, he looked back.
Someone was walking toward him.
One hand outstretched, a finger pointed lazily his way.
Behind the figure, the pursuing Demonkin had collapsed, gasping, too weak to stand. Their own energy drained from their bodies, just as his was.
(I see. He’s the commander here.)
(You know him?)
The man drew closer, unhurried, until ten meters separated them. Then he stopped.
”Human spy,” the man said, his tone calm, disdainful. “To slip through detection wards… impressive, for such an inferior race.”
He didn’t advance, only watched. Young, almost scholarly in appearance, yet with eyes like frost. The insignia on his chest caught the moonlight—a silver crest Klock recognized immediately.
A Federation insignia…? He’d seen that emblem before. Fennec, the Golden Count—they’d worn the same mark.
(That’s Roldi of the Demonkin, Kispe murmured. Right hand of Lord Bandanzine. A vanguard general, feared and honored among their kind.
(So—a big name.)
(He’s said to possess a Unique Skill: Frailty. A weakening aura. Now we know why your recon team never returned.)
Frailty—the name fit too well. The overwhelming exhaustion crushing his body wasn’t from fear or injury, but from Roldi’s very presence. Even his own troops behind him had succumbed.
”So,” Roldi said, tilting his head. “That face… You’re Klock Livorno. Captain of Brigante. Husband of Hero Anna. One of the so-called Brave Knights.”
Klock stared, too drained to respond.
Roldi’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “What’s this? The captain himself, sneaking into enemy lines? Did arrogance blind you, Knight? Or did you simply underestimate us?” He laughed, the sound sharp and joyless. “Hah! What a fool you are! Truly, the gods send their jesters early tonight!”
Notes:
• Primrose – a female Merfolk and mayor’s wife of Dayrid, instrumental in maintaining the town’s false allegiance to the Demon Lord’s Army to protect its citizens, seeking Sanctuary’s aid against the impending threat.
• Meina – She is a golden-haired catgirl employee of the beastman (Larana the cat woman) Inn, appeared performing fellatio, desperate and tear-streaked, with an inexperienced yet earnest approach to her work.
• Fit – Solo archer adventurer; first appears at Barreith volunteer gathering, introduces herself to Klock and group, joining Brave Knight against Demon Lord’s Army
• Slomvanilla – The white fortress, also known as the empress’s residence; a gigantic bedroom on the scale of a fortress.
• Suzette – The older maid from Viscount Fennec. The head maid at the Viscount Fennec’s villa. She is confident, clear-spoken, and professional.
• Primlena – Orange-haired merfolk priestess, fierce yet elegant | First v8c3 | Sister of Sea General Primjune, subordinate to Primrity | Once captured and violated by Klock, now obsessed with reclaiming honor | Commands Obsidian Riders on giant fish, fights with trident | Seeks to drag Klock to Seabed Temple for marriage trial or execution | Unique note: revenge-driven siren bride who masks fury under ritual grace
• Primrity – Merfolk commander with rainbow-shattered fins and commanding amber eyes | First in v8c8 | Calm, strategic, and fiercely protective of her clan | Elder sister of Primlena | Led the Fishkin troops during the town uprising but ordered a full retreat upon realizing Hero Anna was present | Unique note: level-headed leader who will abandon even the Demon Lord’s orders to preserve her people’s future
• Rushelora – A port where demons are allowed to stay at embassies under special circumstances. It is a location where humans and demons have trade relations.
• Cianie – A noble girl with a fluffy white and light blue dress, indicating her high status. She has a hesitant and flustered personality but is kind and courteous. Her relationship with Klock begins as an accidental encounter and develops into a romantic interest. She has a fiancé but expresses feelings for Klock, complicating their relationship.
• Elna – Female. A young apprentice mage. Her appearance is that of a child with white hair reaching her shoulders. She wears a black hooded mantle with strange patterns. Her relationship is as an apprentice to Hermine, the Great Mage. Her power involves advanced magic, including spatial teleportation. Her combat style is magical, and she is described as childish and easily provoked.
• Bandanzine – They are one of the Four Heavenly Kings, appeared as a warrior with a dignified gaze, known for their frontline combat prowess.
• Roldi – A male subordinate of Bandanzine, executes orders efficiently, tasked with commanding forces in Orrid and coordinating the invasion strategy.
• Anna – The legendary Hero, chosen to defeat the Demon Lord. Her past life is Sylvia Croce. She is described as a heavenly being with overwhelming skill and a merciless attitude.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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