Chapter Thirty-six: The Cunning Fat Man

“Yes!”
The pale-faced Semily nodded and recounted the method Will had described earlier to Charlesberg, word for word. Throughout, Charlesberg remained silent, only nodding slightly once Semily had finished.
“So, if the magician encounters any mishap along the way, this method becomes completely useless?”
Charlesberg cast a cool glance at Semily as he spoke.
“N-no, that’s not it, Count! There shouldn’t be any problem, because—”
Sweat began to bead on Semily’s face at Charlesberg’s words. He hurried to explain, but Charlesberg silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“Mr. Semily, do you see? My men are bleeding steadily! If this solution were truly as simple as you claim, why have I yet to see a single spark on the mountain? According to your timing, he should have felled all the trees and set the blaze by now. But look—nothing has happened!”
Though Charlesberg appeared plump and soft as a mound of cotton, in this moment he radiated authority. Every word pressed Semily, whose face flushed with embarrassment. He found himself unable to utter a single retort.
Because Charlesberg spoke loudly, Wester and the others nearby heard everything. Lise, the most hot-tempered among them, was about to stride over and argue with Charlesberg, but Wester caught her arm, pulling her back and whispering in her ear, “Don’t worry, Semily will manage.”
“Well then, Mr. Semily, if you have no other methods, you’ll have no choice but to follow my orders from now on, and together we’ll deal with these starving wolves…”
Charlesberg’s words were like a spell—Semily almost nodded in agreement on the spot. But as the pale-faced magician replayed the count’s earlier words in his mind, he suddenly stiffened, realizing he had nearly fallen for the ploy.
No other way? Follow his orders? This was all a scheme to command the magicians. Charlesberg could order his soldiers to slit their own throats without hesitation, but Semily and his companions were different—they were magicians! Members of the Imperial Magicians’ Guild! Imperial law specifically protected them, granting them special status; not even nobles or the royal family could deploy the Guild’s power at will.
Charlesberg had seemed friendly, seeking Semily’s advice on how to escape, but his true purpose had been to ensnare them, laying a subtle trap for the unwary.
What a cunning fat man!
Semily composed himself, restoring his calm. When he raised his head, his expression was once again serene. He addressed Charlesberg: “Count, you must be jesting. Even if Will failed to complete his task on the mountain, do not forget—we are magicians. In such a concentrated situation, our magic can achieve far more than ordinary spirit warriors. And with your soldiers supporting us, together we can surely deal with these wolves.”
“Oh?”
Charlesberg was momentarily taken aback, especially at Semily’s deliberate emphasis on “we” and “your soldiers.” Shrewd as he was, Charlesberg caught the implication immediately—yet, because of the magicians’ special status, even as a count he could not force them. He could only snort softly in his heart while a rare smile crossed his face.
“Very well, very well. I was too anxious. If that’s the case, please cast a few spells to draw the Storm Howlers’ attention. My cavalry will use the opportunity to break up the pack. Once the wolves are scattered, they’ll no longer be a threat.”
“Agreed.”
Semily nodded, about to instruct Lise, Wester, and the other more advanced magicians to prepare. But just then, a faint light appeared on the distant mountainside. In the blink of an eye, the fire grew several times in size—so intense it seemed the entire mountain was ablaze. The flames spread rapidly, and then, as if a flood had burst its banks, an avalanche of crimson fire surged down from the summit!
“It’s Will!”
Semily’s eyes shone, his face alight with excitement. He spun to shout at Charlesberg, “Count, our magician has succeeded!”
“I see it,” Charlesberg replied coolly, his gaze locked on the torrent of fire pouring down the slope, making no move to act.

“Count, why aren’t you giving the order?”
Seeing the flames nearly sweep to the mountain’s base, Semily grew anxious, frowning as he called to Charlesberg.
With a heavy snort, Charlesberg glanced sidelong at Semily and sneered, “What, do you think I’m deliberately holding back? Hmph! Mr. Semily, in war as in business, timing is everything. If you strike without precision, you’ll only suffer losses!”
Semily was left speechless, and just then, the fire reached the foot of the mountain. Some wolves had already been overtaken by the searing flames, but still Charlesberg gave no order. His eyes narrowed to slits, he watched the spectacle intently.
A chorus of howls erupted as the sudden blaze threw the wolf pack into chaos. Wolves in the rear scrambled in panic, while many Storm Howlers, their bodies ablaze with crimson fire, darted about shrieking in agony. In their panic, they brushed against their fellows, spreading the flames even further. Against such a densely packed horde, fire was indeed the most effective weapon.
Witnessing the scene, Charlesberg clenched his jaw, his fleshy face twitching. He drew a deep breath, then suddenly swept his arm through the air and shouted,
“Archers, ready! Cavalry, mount up! The rest of you—prepare for the final assault!”