zard spoke up apologetically.

“They were all killed or taken away when the barbarians attacked, Vice-Captain.”

“Then there is no one to translate his words?”

“For the moment, no.”

It was an awkward moment.

Everyone had a puzzled look on their faces.

“I speak a little Rococo.”

Vikir stepped forward.

Camu stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You can do that, too? What are you not good at?”

“Not very well.
I just know the basic vocabulary.”

Vikir stood in front of Camu.

Camu asked.

“Ask him where my half-brother is.
The girl you kidnapped in the last raid.
She has red hair, red eyes, and unusually white skin.
She’s about 12 years old.”

Vikir nodded, then turned to Rococo’s captive in front of him.

“מה עשית עם החטופה”

A short reply came back.


Vikir’s expression hardened for a moment.

Then he turned to the camel and shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

At that, the faces of all the Morg turned grim.

He had expected death when he was kidnapped, but hearing it was a different story.

Then, Camu stepped forward.

She growled in a low voice at her captive.

“When this war is over, your language will be the language of hell.”

Those were the last words the prisoner heard.

Camu said.

“The delegate from the Light Party is being treated now.
The Delegate of the Dark Party is now inspecting the opposite estate, and I, Morg Camu, a member of the Council and Deputy Fortressmaster, will make the judgment here.”

That was the end of the summary trial.

And now.

With a flick of his hand, Camu drew a circle of magic in the air.



A large iron skewer sprouted from the ground.

The iron elements hidden among the earth elements came together and exploded, and the skewer that formed impaled Rococo’s prisoner in one fell swoop.

From groin to crown.

The prisoner struggled, unable to even scream.

He was nailed high up in the air, impaled on a metal skewer.

Flames began to crackle beneath him.


The skewer burns.
In the blink of an eye, the camouflage had burned Rococo’s captive to death.

All the slaves who saw it looked at it in fear.

It was the same with the people of Morgue.

Purr, purr, purr, purr, purr!

The sound of someone being skewered and burned to a crisp.

Black powder scattered in the wind along with the smell of burning meat.

In front of that terrifying fire, the camel smiled nonchalantly.

“Let’s go.”

She grabbed Vikir from beside her and they were out of there in no time.

Everyone around them could only stare after them with a faint sense of dread.

* * *


Back behind the earthen wall, Vikir was a little surprised.

Not that he was surprised to see a man skewered alive and burning.

Vikir had spent decades rolling on the battlefields before his return, and had seen much worse.

It was the expression on the camo’s face that startled Vikir.

“……Blah, blah, blah!”

The camel had gone to a place where no one was around, and now it was crying.

His face contorted, his eyes red, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

Vikir’s mouth was half open in disbelief.

Oh, my God, to see the weather goddess crying.

Of course, she had seen it when she was eight years old, but it felt very different now that she was 15.

‘But I’m still 15,’ I thought.

After staring at the crying camel for a while, Vikir finally spoke up.

“……Why are you crying?”

“Why would I cry!”

The camel screeched and looked around for anyone to hear.

Vikir closed his mouth for a moment, then opened it again.

“You must have been very close to your brother.”

“I was.
She was very protective of me, an innocent, good child, not fit for Morg.”

After speaking, Camu squatted down against the earthen wall.

They were about the same height, but somehow she seemed much smaller now.

Vikir thought to himself.

“Don’t be so sad, he must have gone in peace.”

When Vikir offered his awkward words of comfort, the camel snapped back.

“Who do you think you are?”

The question was a mixture of anger and sadness.

Vikir noticed.

The camel understood him.

“I’m a genius.
I can’t talk, so I can’t listen.”


“Tell me straight.
Tell me if I heard right.”

Vikir could only nod with a heavy expression at Camus’ words.

Rococo’s captive’s last words hadn’t been “dead.


The Rokoko are a tribe of shamans and cannibals.

It is their custom to eat their captives.

Hearing Vikir’s confirmation, Camu began to tear up again.

“……I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.
I’m sorry for you.”

Camu cried and cried.

Vikir stood still beside her and remained silent.

Surprised that Morg Camu, the queen of red and black, of fire and skewers, would hide such a thing behind her mask.

……And after some time had passed.

Camu rose from her seat.

She dabbed at her cheeks with her sleeve, wiping away the dried tears.

She returned to her original cold expression.

She looked at Vikir, who stood off to the side.

“That wasn’t so bad.”


“I would have killed him if he’d shown any flimsy sympathy.”

There was no way a lowly threat from a fifteen-year-old girl was going to have any effect on a hundred-year-old man who’d seen it all, but Vikir gave a grim nod anyway.


Sometimes it’s comforting to just be there.

Not knowing what to do with a 15-year-old girl who was crying, staying still had paid off this time.

Next, Camu patted Vikir on the chest.

“No time to mourn, boy.
We need to recover and get revenge as soon as possible.”


“Come with me.
There’s something we need to do together.”

The camo sounded quite determined.

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