Chapter 642 – Soul Battleground.

“Now this is something to look at…”

Bernir turned his gaze from the walls as large ballistae launched volleys of projectiles into the advancing undead army. It was not made up of specters alone. Zombies, ghouls, vampires, and even flesh golems marched forward in a relentless tide.

“Divine magic would probably do the trick here…”

He chuckled to himself as he watched, but the sound faded when the first volley struck. Iron-tipped bolts tore through rotting flesh and shattered brittle bone. Against the specters, however, the results were inconsistent. Some dispersed with shrill cries into pale mist, while others only recoiled before reforming moments later.

“Not as effective on the higher-tier wraiths, but the others are going down.”

While not all of these weapons were his own creations, each carried some measure of soul power within it. The tier three trial continued to grow larger in scale, drawing in more smiths like him. Some were even capable of producing similar works. Still, he was their leader, the one who decided what was made. The others could only produce imitations, creations that were at best eighty percent as powerful as what he himself could forge.

Bernir tightened his grip on the rough stone as the battlefield unfolded below. Smoke and mana erupted as the mages stationed on the battlements received the signal to fire. Balls of fire the size of a dragon’s egg tore through the air, supercharged with soul energy and a special array he had created himself.

“That one took a while to make, but I barely finished it in time.”

The longer the trial continued, the more he learned about his class. He could even fashion areas where others could stand to empower their skills. A group of war mages occupied one of the towers, standing within a formation he had created. Their abilities were enhanced and infused with the soul attribute, allowing their magic to burn through even higher-tier wraiths.

It was a true siege scenario, one he never thought he would take part in as one of its key figures. The true leader was still the lord clad in armor of his own making, but Bernir was the engine that drove the battle forward. He had limits to what he could personally accomplish, yet the success of the battle rested largely on his shoulders. He was responsible for the soul-infused weapons and for ensuring they were properly redistributed.

“It was quite a pain… how long have I been here for…”

The trial had lasted half a year, and this was the final battle, or so he hoped. There was little more he could prepare for. His days were filled not only with crafting but with constant research. He had to learn the strengths and habits of the guards, knights, and even the other craftsmen before deciding who received each item. It was a troublesome task, one his boss handled almost every day.

The battle raged on, and when the lich king revealed itself at the edge of the battlefield, the air itself seemed to recoil. The sky dimmed as color drained away, and a towering figure in tattered regalia emerged. Its crown floated above a skull wreathed in violet fire. The lesser undead surged forward in a frenzy, drawn by its presence.

“Soul Craftsman…”

“Aye, I’ll get to it.”

The lord, who resembled both of Bernir’s superiors, called out as the battle intensified. Even after crafting so much, his work was far from finished. The mage formations crackled as they deteriorated under strain, and the supply of ballista bolts was beginning to run low.

“A craftsman’s work is never done!”

He rushed off to repair the defensive machines, shouting instructions to the residents of the trial space.

“You there, head to the northern tower. Take care of the soul-infused arrows and do not let them run out.”

“Yes, Chief!”

He barked orders at his assistants, and they immediately scattered to carry out their tasks. Bernir wiped sweat and soot from his brow as another tremor rolled through the walls. Somewhere below, stone cracked not from a direct impact but from the sheer presence of the evil skeletal creature.

“Activate the barrier, do it now!”

Evil energies seeped from the front as the undead army advanced. Violet mist rolled forward, stopping only when it met a pale white shield. The battlefield was smothered in this mist, a strange phenomenon in which the undead thrived. It was one of the greatest problems facing the humans, as most people exposed to it would begin to turn into monsters upon contact. Only special equipment could grant resistance. Even so, there were far too many people to outfit, leaving Bernir to agonize over who should be chosen.

“They are breaking through. Ready the cannons!”

The monsters assaulted the walls from multiple sides, shattering the gates and flooding inside. Yet the battle was far from over. The fortress consisted of multiple outer walls and was divided into distinct districts. As the monsters surged inward, they were met with attacks from every direction. Arrows, ballista bolts, cannon fire, and even magic spells rained down upon them.

“This is truly a wondrous tactic, craftsman.”

“Hehe.”

Bernir chuckled as their lord praised him. Even the evolution of their stronghold had been left in his hands. He was responsible for designing the outer walls and the traps hidden within. In truth, Roland had helped him with the work. It was apparently an old fortress design that turned even a successful breach into a deadly snare for invading forces.

“Abandon the battlements. Move toward the inner stronghold!”

Their leader shouted the order as cascading demolition charges were set within the ground. As they withdrew, more and more monsters screamed in agony while their bodies were torn apart by the blasts. Slowly, the mist began to thin, and soon the battle pressed toward the inner sanctum where all remaining forces were stationed.

“Knights, follow me into battle!”

“To battle! For the stronghold!”

The knights went out to defend them, and the battle in the streets began. Bernir watched from the main castle as his workshop was engulfed in fire while the monsters attacked. He had stayed there for half a year, so even he felt a touch of sentimentality. It seemed this was the decisive moment, and there was nothing left for him to do, but he was not planning on simply resting.

“Chief, what are you doing? Just stay here and let the knights handle it!”

“Hah. Get out of my way.”

Bernir knew better than to listen to one of his assistants. They were not very trustworthy when it came to this trial and had many times attempted to stop him whenever he did something unforeseen. This was a trial for craftsmen, not for people possessing battle classes. Normally, that would mean waiting for the conclusion of the battle and hoping for the best, but he was not about to leave everything to fate.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

With armor covering his body, he kicked open the door and stormed out into the mist-covered city. Instantly, he coughed a few times, but the armor he wore shone faintly, protecting him from the curse carried by the air.

Bernir moved low and slow, keeping to the edges of collapsed buildings and half-burned market stalls. The mist clung to the streets like a living thing, swallowing sound and dulling sight. Here, away from the roar of the walls, the city felt dead already as if all life had been sucked away from it.

“Aye… this is worse than I thought.”

He tightened his grip on something resembling a long knife, not a weapon meant for open combat. The dagger’s hilt was wrapped in dark leather, unremarkable to the eye. Only Bernir could see the faint pulse of color buried within it. There wasn’t one but three pulses at once, the most that he could push into a soul weapon and his last creation.