Rewrite That Witch
CH1238 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 1238: An Army of One

The conference convened in the sanatorium’s main hall.

Nearly every professional martial artist in Prism City had been summoned. But Roland counted roughly three hundred seats filled — well below the roster. Beyond those killed or injured in the battle, a significant number had simply not shown up. Amateur martial artists, most of them, people who had joined the Association in quieter times and found that a massive Erosion outbreak recalibrated their commitment.

Garcia condemned them without moderation. She said that abandoning an awakened Force of Nature was an insult to the gift itself. She said they would regret it when the Fallen Evils finished what they’d started.

Roland consoled her. He didn’t say what he privately believed: that the Association was a loose structure with no binding authority over its members, that in a modern society, loyalty of that kind required cultivation and couldn’t be demanded, and that some people, presented with genuine danger, simply chose to live instead.

He had anticipated the direction the meeting would take.

Rock laid it out plainly. Since the attack on Prism City, Fallen Evil aggression against the Awakened had intensified. No solid evidence yet, but the pattern suggested a new enemy in the Erosion — one capable of commanding Fallen Evils with deliberate intent. The war had entered a new stage. The Association would reorganize, patrol more systematically, and mount a coordinated defense. The enemy was adapting. Human beings were now fighting from behind.

Rock’s proposal: all martial artists, members and newcomers alike, should base themselves at the sanatorium until order was restored. The sanatorium could be defended. He asked them to recognize the danger and close ranks.

It was a sound morale address. Roland thought it would work — the information alone would draw some wavering amateurs back. Whether they stayed depended entirely on what happened next. If the Fallen Evils gained ground, people would flee again. No speech held against that kind of arithmetic.

The countermeasures followed. Three strategies: request reinforcements from martial artists in other cities to cover the manpower deficit; continue the Martial Artist Contest as bait, with the Defender and the assembled corps waiting in ambush for whatever came; and establish patrol teams, each responsible for a defined area, capable of mutual support and rapid converging once intelligence came through.

Conservative, given how little they actually knew. But reasonable.

When the group leaders began selecting team members, a loud, competitive energy filled the hall. Roland wanted no part of it. He was, in a meaningful sense, an army unto himself — and an army that answered to different intelligence than the Association possessed. He had no interest in a structure that would slow his core collection or expose his methods.

No one asked him to join. The Association barely knew him. He stood at the edge of the room and watched the teams form around him like weather systems he had no intention of entering.

Then Fei Yuhan walked across the room and stopped in front of him.

She had invited only two people. He was one of them.

Roland declined without hesitation.

Garcia’s jaw dropped. Even she, who was not easily impressed, had spoken of Fei Yuhan with something approaching reverence. Garcia asked him to reconsider. Roland took his time, then walked her through his reasoning: he was more useful alone. His hunting license was proof enough. His previous record spoke for itself.

Garcia was not entirely convinced, but she let it go.

What stayed with Roland was the identity of the other person Fei Yuhan had invited.

Valkries.

It was ten o’clock by the time Roland turned the key in his apartment door. Zero was asleep. Roland moved through the dark living room, out through the warehouse side door, and up to the second floor of the Rose Café.

More than fifty Taquila ancient witches bowed in unison. The room was packed — shoulder to shoulder, the air warm with the faint smell of whatever they’d been eating during the day. In the old Union age, fifty combat witches was a small battle. Here they were crowded into a café storeroom, and Roland felt a familiar twist of something between absurdity and affection.

“Any luck?”

He looked at Faldi.

“The flies from the Bug Nest picked up several fading magic reactions,” she replied, scrolling the map on her phone. She still handled the interface like someone who distrusted it, but she had learned to manage. “Normally that means God’s Stones of Retaliation nearby, or a target concealing its power. If neither applies —”

“Someone died,” Roland said.

“Someone died.” Faldi nodded. “Based on the direction, they likely passed through here.” She pointed at a pier on the inner river. The riverbank. Always the riverbank.

“My flies can’t cover that distance. I contacted Ling for ground observation. An hour ago she confirmed a significant number of Fallen Evils at the pier.”

“Well done,” Roland said, and he meant it simply. This was the reason he needed no Association team. The Taquila witches located, and the Taquila witches killed, and neither required anyone else’s permission.

“I believe you’re all ready,” he said.

“Issue your command, Your Majesty,” the witches said together — one voice assembled from fifty.

Their morale was high. They’d spent the day eating and moving through the Dream World’s streets and laughing at things Roland couldn’t always follow, and now they wanted to use what their bodies still knew how to do.

For them, fighting and feasting were the same kind of homecoming.

“Everyone — go,” Roland said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Discussion

Suggest a change