“Boss...? What do you, what do you mean?”

“It means you’ll be taking over the role of that thing you followed.”

Ivan jerked his chin toward the headless orc shaman. The orc glanced at the shaman’s corpse and trembled.

“What... what do I, do I have to do?”

“Pick it up.”

He nudged the artifact lying on the ground with his toe. The staff spun across the ground to the orc’s feet. The orc’s gaze suddenly shifted toward it.

Greed that stood out even amid terror. There certainly seemed to be something to this object.

Ivan narrowed his eyes and studied the orc, who cautiously picked up the staff while watching for his reaction.

“Urgh...!!”

“Do you see something?”

He did not entirely trust the claim of foresight, but some bizarre spell did seem to be at work. The orc flinched and stared fixedly at the obsidian sphere attached to the staff’s tip for a long while.

Ivan slowly rested a hand at his waist. The axe handle felt cold between his fingers.

“What do you see?”

* * *

The orc blinked his small eyes.

—“Do not move.”

An unfamiliar voice echoed inside his head. A low voice like the growl of a predator. A voice that seemed to forge overwhelming terror and despair in some corner of his instincts, then drive them into his mind.

—“Do not move.”

The orc froze rigid. He could not look away from the staff. He did not know what it was or what magic it held, but there was one thing he could understand.

It was whispering the future.

A vision veiled his eyes. A chilling flash was hurtling toward his throat.

CRUNCH!!

“Uuaargh?!”

Horrified, the orc felt at his neck. He had vividly seen and felt the axe blade shearing through it and vanishing. He hastily clutched his neck, but there was no wound.

An illusion. Fumbling in terror, he raised his head. He understood instinctively: had he moved just then, that was how he would have died.

And there, before his eyes, death was looking down at him.

“I asked what you see.”

The posture was no different from before he had picked up the staff. Both arms hanging loosely at his sides, blue eyes gazing down without emotion, the outline of a body so utterly still that it was hard to tell whether he was even breathing.

Unchanged from the beginning, yet an entirely different being stood there.

Death stood there. Death given form was looking down at him. Impossible to resist. Impossible to oppose.

An overwhelming gulf.

Only now did he understand. Seeing the future this artifact, the Demon King’s Eye, showed him had made him realize it.

Whatever means he used, whatever he did, whichever choice he made among the countless possibilities of the future—the moment the being before him decided it, he would die.

Long ago, the orc had seen others like this. Beings clothed in mortal flesh who cast the presence of immortals.

Demons revered strength. Survival alone was their essence. And so, at last, the orc willingly bowed his head.

He was a hardened warrior who had traveled the vast distance from the demon residential zone to Krasilof, trusting in nothing but the “revelations shown by the Demon King’s Eye.”

And yet—no, precisely because of that.

Because he was skilled enough to recognize the strong, and the artifact had forcibly opened his eyes to their perspective, his spirit had broken before the stature of a being he could never reach through any amount of effort or chance.

The orc slowly lowered his head, pressed the staff firmly to his chest, and bowed respectfully.

“Spare, spare... my life.”

“Very well.”

Beneath the forest shadows, he heard “death” laugh. Yet even then, the blue eyes amid the shadows watched his hands without a trace of emotion.

—“Do not move.”

The staff warned him again. If he made even the slightest suspicious move, he would surely die. The orc shrank back in terror.

“So it really does show the future.”

Ivan slid his half-drawn axe back into his sword belt.

* * *

Esidisi was an exceptionally creative student. In truth, it took considerable creativity for a music student to emerge from Droan at all.

Most of that creativity went into embarrassing antics and delusions, but on a few special occasions, it also enabled her to learn with astonishing speed.

This was one such occasion.

[Be most wary of places you think are safe.]

This was Uncle Ivan’s teaching. Apart from a few very minor faults, Uncle Ivan was always right, so Esidisi tried to memorize every word of every lesson he gave her.

Therefore.

“Graaaargh!!”

Identifying the location and type of every trap Ivan and Counterintelligence Command had deployed throughout the forest, then turning them to her own use, was easy enough. Uncle Ivan had kindly left [Lessons] near every trap, after all. One could say that doubled her learning efficiency.

[There are no straight lines in nature.]

Simple rope traps, somewhat more complex net traps, and cunningly concealed pit traps beyond them. With camouflage brush perched on her head, Esidisi hid in silence and watched the orcs fall victim to the traps.

As she had once recalled, Esidisi was a master of concealment. Back at the Droan court, no one had ever seen through her hiding places. (The Huscarls adored Esidisi.)

‘Maybe I have a talent for intelligence work.’

Schools did not teach the sad truth that guerrilla warfare in a forest was not a qualification for an intelligence agent, and that intelligence agents did not actually go around hiding and lying in wait.

Ivan was the only intelligence agent Esidisi had ever seen. Since she was copying exactly what he did, she could only conclude that she might well be the successor to the world’s greatest intelligence agent.

Smiling proudly, Esidisi raised Bang-Bang the Second (conductor’s baton, two months old). It was time to finish those things off and wrap up her reconnaissance.

Day six of being stranded.

The (New) Hero’s Party had now become a full-fledged scouting team.

All thanks to a good teacher.

* * *

Demon King was not merely a sovereign’s title.

In a world where worth had to be proven through strength, among a people who considered struggle alone their essence, if they could nevertheless lower the blades they pointed at one another for a time, in pursuit of a single purpose—

That was faith in the Demon King. A beacon toward better lands, better lives, a better world; a cross-shaped star that dispelled the darkness; a cradle for the weak and a fortress for warriors.

And so.

“Though you wander through the valley of death.”

“Fear not, for I shall keep you safe.”

Orcs were generally thought to be dim-witted. In most cases, this was true. They devoted their entire capacity for learning to combat. Yet if there was one thing even they could recite from memory, it was a prayer to the Demon King.

The surviving orcs whispered, each wearing a reverent expression and gripping his weapon tightly.

“I am the cross-shaped star of the darkest night.”

“I am the beacon upon the storm-tossed sea.”

“I am your cradle and your fortress.”

“Fear not, for I shall keep you safe.”

Neither the glory of their former service in the [Second Dragon General’s 103rd Infantry Battalion, 23rd Strike Team] nor their present humiliation in the [Kadaron Plains Internment Camp, Northwestern Demon Residential Zone, Third Quadrant]—no title or history could adequately describe what they were now.

Now, each was simply a demon at prayer.

Their prayers finished, the orcs rose.

“Filthy humans.”

One orc muttered through gritted teeth. The few survivors shouted their agreement.

Somehow, the humans had known in advance to lay every sort of trap in the land the Demon King himself had revealed to them. They had launched a sudden ambush during the march and abducted the high shaman and all the champions. As the orcs avoided the traps, two or three warriors—sometimes as many as five—would vanish before they knew it.

After wandering about in search of them, only four remained. Worse still, not a single leader was left to guide them. With even the Demon King’s Eye gone, the orcs floundered in despair.

RUSTLE.

Just then, they heard brush parting beyond the clearing where they had gathered. The orcs gripped their weapons and sprang up, glaring at the bushes.

Was this the end? At least they would meet a death that would please Tumor.

As they readied themselves for their final battle with a warrior’s resolve—

“You—is this everyone?”

“Ignak?! Y-you’re alive?”

“Yes.”

An orc emerged, his staff tapping against the ground. It was Ignak, one of the missing champions, the lowest-ranked among them. The orcs wept at the sight of the artifact in his hand.

“How?! What happened to Lord Rotzrog?”

“I was the only one who made it back alive.”

His face dark, Ignak shook the staff.

“At the last moment, Rotzrog handed me this and bought me time. The humans have surrounded this forest.”

“Then this will be our final battle. May Tumor protect us.”

“It’s too soon to give up.”

“... What?”

Ignak swept a resolute gaze over the orcs.

“I’m told there are human noble brats here enjoying a little ‘camping’ holiday. Apparently, a few of our warriors were ‘hunted’ for their amusement. Then why shouldn’t we do the same?”

If children who had never even experienced war were gathering in little groups to play house, couldn’t they take those youngsters prisoner and escape this hellish forest?

Gripping the Demon King’s Eye tightly, Ignak declared:

“I, too, can see revelations, brothers. I may not be able to see as far into the future as Rotzrog, but follow me, and let us return home alive.”

“But Ignak, what about the ‘revelation’ Rotzrog saw?”

“We must find another shaman back home and return. None of us can interpret the Demon King’s revelations ourselves.”

This operation was a failure. The moment they lost their shaman, no one remained who could verify the “Demon King’s revelation” he claimed to have seen.

But that did not mean they could all go down in a blaze of glory. If they failed to tell their people back home what had happened, those people would surely wait for them endlessly and slowly waste away.

Someone, at least, had to return alive.

Persuaded by Ignak’s words, the orcs nodded.

* * *

In a forest at night, a flame made an all-too-visible target.

A campfire crackled in the middle of the forest, scattering red sparks as it burned. Thick white smoke swayed above it.

A band of orcs was walking toward it, gleaming spears and swords held high. Resolute and unafraid.

* * *

—“Targets sighted.”

Elpihera whispered with one eye shut, the thumb and forefinger of her other hand touching to form a circle before her open eye. She had combined a farsight spell and a darkvision spell on the spot, recreating them as new magic.

The forest’s darkness no longer posed a problem for her. Perched in a tree, she maintained the spell between her fingers and watched the orcs below. Hearing her voice, Esidisi waved her hand.

RUSTLE!

Across the campfire, a fist rose from the bushes and lowered once.

Acknowledged. Ready. That was what it meant.

In a forest at night, a flame made a highly visible target. This was “common sense” Ivan had taught them. Like all the advice he routinely gave, it could be interpreted in two ways.

Being highly visible meant a greater risk of being spotted by predators. But conversely, bait was meant to lure prey from somewhere it could easily be seen.

Now hunters in their own right, the budding scouts (university students in their twenties) watched the approaching orcs with cold eyes.