By the time Michael returned to the camp, the worst had already passed.
From above, the place looked oddly peaceful—if one ignored the scorched ground, shattered trees, and faint traces of blood staining the earth.
The fires had long died out, leaving behind blackened trails.
A strange calm had settled over the area, like the air itself was trying to forget the chaos that had erupted earlier.
Yet just outside the perimeter of the camp, the truth lay in plain sight—mangled monster corpses strewn in disarray, some burned, others sliced apart, a few with shattered skulls or pierced hearts. It was a massacre.
Michael’s eyes then shifted to his armored humanoid undead who stood motionless as if waiting for orders.
Without hesitation, Michael leaned forward on Gale’s back and pointed downward. The undead griffin let out a low screech and began descending in a spiral.
The knights noticed him before he even landed.
One of them raised a hand and called out, “Sir Mic has returned!”
More voices followed. “Welcome back, Sir Mic!”
“Good to see you alive, sir!”
Michael stepped off Gale’s back as soon as they touched down, nodding at the greeting knights.
Their faces were tired, armor dented and cloaked in grime, but there was no fear in their eyes when they looked at him now. Only respect.
It was subtle, but real.
He wondered what had happened.
Previously, the knights’ respect had seemed superficial, a polite facade. But now, it felt like genuine acknowledgement.
Was it due to his undead?
Perhaps the outcome of the battle had earned him a new level of regard.
The casualty count seemed relatively low, which might have contributed to the change.
He gave a short wave and swept his hand forward. “Dismiss.”
All his undead vanished in a swirl of dark mist.
Whispers broke out immediately.
“Did you see that?”
“They just—vanished!”
“How many does he have?”
Michael ignored the murmurs.
“Where’s Sir Verren?” he asked, scanning the camp.
A younger knight straightened and answered quickly. “Resting inside the ship, sir.”
Michael nodded. “Good. Let him rest.”
Recalling the old man’s deeds a while ago, if he still had strength after all this, he wasn’t human any more.
Probably a freak.
Michael’s gaze turned toward the forest for a moment before returning to the aftermath around him.
Charred bark. Cratered dirt. Collapsed tents.
Near the central tent, several long mats had been laid out on the ground.
Injured knights were lined up in neat rows, their armor stripped away to reveal bleeding wounds, cracked bones, or deep bruises.
He watched as several people in robes moved briskly through the rows, applying salves and bandages with practiced speed.
A few of them carried leather satchels filled with small, crystal vials—health potions.
Only the most injured were given those.
One knight, unconscious with a gaping wound across his abdomen, was carefully lifted so a potion could be poured directly into his mouth.
Another healer cracked a second vial and gently dabbed it onto the wound, causing faint tendrils of green light to sizzle through the skin as it began closing.
For the others, the treatment was far more measured.
Diluted potions—recognizable by their pale coloration—were poured onto bandages and pressed against wounds before the fabric was tightly bound around the limb or torso.
Occasionally, a sip was allowed if the knight had trouble breathing or moving.
Michael raised an eyebrow.
All what he saw was quite efficient.
One knight winced as a healer dabbed a wet cloth over a gash on his thigh. “That stings like hell,” he muttered.
“Good,” the healer replied, without sympathy. “Means it’s working.”
Michael’s lips twitched.
Knowing he wasn’t needed at the camp, Michael returned to his room aboard the flying ship—surprisingly still mostly intact—and quickly fell asleep.
He hadn’t fought any truly difficult battles, but the chain of events had left him mentally drained.
A few hours later, he opened his eyes. After a quick clean up and changing his clothes, he made his way to the top deck of the ship.
It was bright outside, suggesting it was nearing noon—or perhaps already past it.
The monsters had attacked deep into the night. Though a lot had happened, the battle ended quickly due to the large gap in power levels. There had been no long, drawn-out conflict.
On the deck, Michael spotted Verren. He was slightly surprised to see him there, but still made his way over.
The older man noticed him immediately and greeted him with a nod.
Michael walked across the wooden deck with steady steps, the breeze brushing against his face.
His eyes were fixed on the old man leaning casually against the railing.
Sir Verren.
The man looked quite… energetic.
But despite the subtle liveliness in his frame, his expression remained as flat as ever—serious, composed, like stone.
His face gave away nothing, but something told Michael the knight had a lot on his mind.
Michael was about to speak, wondering how he’d talk about what happened with the monster but Sir Verren beat him to it.
“I sent one of the knights out to scout the surrounding forest,” Verren said plainly, still staring into the sky. “He returned just an hour ago.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “And?”
The old man turned his head, eyes calm but unreadable. “Sir Mic, your prowess leaves me speechless.”
Michael blinked.
A strange expression subtly appeared on his face.
He seemed to have an idea of what happened.
Verren continued, his tone still neutral, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of disbelief—or perhaps awe. “Hundreds. Hundreds of monster corpses. The aura on most of them… at least Grand-tier.”
********
An hour ago.
Verren sat alone in the ship’s command room.
He needed to think.
Hundreds of monsters.
Slain.
In multiple directions.
The scout who had made it back couldn’t even find what to express exclusively.
Confusion? Fear? Awe? Respect? Caution?
The scout somehow showed all.
“Sir Mic.”
There was no fear in Verren.
At least, not so much if one was to ignore his slightly trembling hands.