All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 651

An hour later, the courtyard finally went quiet in the only way a battlefield ever did.

Not peaceful.

Just… done.

The last of the royal guard died hard.

They didn’t break like the workers did. Even without the king, the “guards” still had stubborn training burned into their bodies, shields locking out of habit, spears jabbing at angles that had killed men before. But habit wasn’t coordination. Habit didn’t adapt. Habit didn’t replace a brain.

So Ludger and the others carved them down piece by piece.

Harold’s swings slowed, but never stopped. Selene’s fists became heavy, then she started kicking more, using weight instead of speed. Cor’s walls turned smaller and nastier, placed exactly where they’d steal footing or split a rush. Aleia’s arrows became rare, precious things, each one a decision.

And Ludger… Ludger kept moving with those two silver swords like he was running on debt.

He wasn’t clean. He wasn’t elegant. He was efficient. Every cut ended something. Every step was aimed at the next target. Every breath was stolen from exhaustion and turned into one more kill.

When the final guard fell, its shield slipping from numb limbs, its spear clattering across broken stone, none of them cheered.

They just… stopped.

The five of them ended up on the ground in a rough circle amid chitin shards and drying gore, backs against rubble, staring at the gray sky like it might offer answers or mercy.

It offered neither.

From the shattered streets beyond the courtyard, they could see movement pouring in.

Imperial armies. From all directions.

Four containment jaws finally closing completely around the heart of Rokram. Lines of soldiers advanced cautiously now, stepping over bodies, mages scanning for any last organized surge.

The ant castle still stood, cracked, skewered, ugly. But the swarm around it was broken. The battle was over. The first force to reach the castle wasn’t Varik’s western command.

It was Torvares.

Their banners emerged through the haze like dark shapes against smoke. Heavy infantry moved in disciplined rows, blades wet. And among them, impossible to miss even in the chaos, were Lionsguard fighters marching with that particular grim calm that came from surviving too many “impossible” jobs.

At the front, two figures led like they had a right to be there.

Arslan… and Viola.

Their swords were drenched in monster blood, armor stained and battered, hair wind-tossed and wild with combat. They looked like they’d carved their way through hell just to reach this point, and maybe they had.

When they saw the five exhausted bodies slumped on the ground, Harold breathing like a wounded bear, Selene lying flat with one arm over her eyes, Cor sitting perfectly upright despite looking half-dead, Aleia with her bow across her lap like she might fall asleep on it,  they didn’t ask if the fight was still on.

They knew.

The way the ants milled without purpose. The way the courtyard had become a graveyard. The way the castle itself looked skewered and cracked from the inside.

Confirmation hit the arriving troops like a wave. The battle was over. But Arslan didn’t slow.

The moment his eyes found Ludger, blood smeared across his face and ribs, clothes hanging in shredded strips, hands still gripping those silver swords like he’d forgotten how to let go—Arslan’s expression snapped into something raw.

He shoved past men and rubble and rushed straight to him.

“Ludger—”

Ludger lifted a hand, tired and annoyed at the panic even as his own vision swam at the edges.

“Relax,” he rasped. “It’s not… mainly my blood.”

Arslan froze for half a heartbeat, eyes scanning him anyway like a man trying to count injuries through grime and gore.

Viola arrived a second later, breathing hard, eyes wide as she took in the state of him. Her face tightened with something dangerously close to anger.

Ludger tried to sit up straighter, but his body didn’t cooperate much. Arslan’s jaw clenched.

Because Ludger’s words didn’t match what Arslan’s eyes were seeing. Blood or not… Ludger’s clothes being in tatters told another story.

Arslan stared at Ludger’s shredded coat and the dried smears on his skin for one long second, then he exhaled through his nose like a man accepting that yelling wouldn’t fix anything.

He stepped closer and offered a hand.

“Get up,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not bringing you home with permanent damage.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the horizon, toward where the fighting had been, toward where Elaine was not, and still somehow felt present.

“I wouldn’t survive Elaine’s wrath.”

Ludger’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He took the hand.

Arslan hauled him up with careful force, gentle for anyone else, but firm enough that Ludger didn’t have the option of collapsing back down. Ludger’s legs wobbled on the first step, then steadied.

Viola was already at his side, her gaze sweeping him up and down with that sharp Torvares intensity that made people confess sins they hadn’t committed. Her eyes snagged on the silver hilts over his back.

She leaned in, squinting.

“What are those?”

Ludger reached back as if he’d forgotten the weight was there, fingers brushing the hilt.

“Spoils of war,” he said simply.

Viola’s brows rose. “From inside?”

Ludger didn’t answer that directly.

She looked at his torn clothes again, at the cuts, at the way he was standing on stubbornness and habit, and her expression sharpened.

“Was the opponent strong?”

Ludger gave a small shrug, then immediately regretted it when his ribs complained.

“Eh,” he said, flat as ever. “It was all right.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

Ludger glanced at Arslan, then back at Viola, and the corner of his mouth lifted in the driest imitation of confidence.

“Enough to make me use ten percent of my power,” he said.

There was a beat of silence.

Arslan’s grip on his arm tightened just a little, like he was deciding whether to drag Ludger home by force. Viola stared at him, deadpan.

“…Ten percent,” she repeated, like she was tasting the lie.

Ludger’s expression didn’t change.

But his eyes did, just a flicker.

Because even he knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded.

And that was half the point.

Varik arrived with the western command staff like a tide that had finally remembered it was supposed to be in charge.

He looked worse than he sounded, dust on his cloak, a notch in his breastplate, dried ichor on his gauntlet, but his eyes were sharp and awake. He took in the courtyard, the broken royal guards, the skewered castle, and the way the ants were now moving like headless insects instead of an army.

Then his gaze found Ludger.

Varik didn’t smile. He just nodded once, slow and deliberate, like a seal stamped onto a report. Mission accomplished. But the air didn’t relax. Not all the way.

Because victory in an empire was rarely just victory. It was paperwork, politics, blame, and people looking for a way to turn a win into leverage.

Ludger felt it in the way some officers stared too long at the ant castle, at the gaping damage, at the unnatural ice pillar that had speared it clean through. Not awe. Not gratitude.

Calculation.

And then the courtyard’s “done” feeling cracked again.

A new rhythm approached from the east.

Heavy. Organized. Perfectly spaced.

Even without Seismic Sense, you could hear it: boots landing in unison, wheels rolling in measured cadence, the disciplined silence of people who’d been trained to treat chaos like an inconvenience.

A second army emerged through the ruined avenues and smoke haze.

Not regional troops. Not rushed reinforcements. This was a force from the capital.

Their banners were clean—too clean for a battlefield that had chewed everyone else. Their armor matched in design and polish, plates fitted with obvious funding. Their formation held even while stepping over corpses. Even their mages moved in disciplined rows, staffs capped in gilded fittings, mana lanterns floating in controlled patterns like they’d rehearsed the walk.

They looked like something hard to crack.

Spearmen with tall shields formed the front in layered ranks, shield edges overlapping like scales. Behind them marched halberdiers with heavy polearms, heads kept low, eyes forward. Cavalry moved on the flanks, armored mounts, riders straight-backed, lances at a ready rest rather than waving for glory. Between blocks of infantry rolled rune-wagons, compact siege carts with etched plates and crystal arrays, guarded like treasures.

And they didn’t come in rushing.

They came in claiming.

A wedge opened in their center and a man rode forward.

He carried a golden spear.

Not “gold-colored.” Real gold-work, shaft plated and banded, the head shaped like a long leaf of polished metal with engraved lines that caught the light even through smoke. The weapon didn’t look ceremonial. It looked dangerous in the way well-made things were dangerous—balanced, confident, and used to being obeyed.

The man holding it didn’t announce himself with shouting.

He didn’t need to.

He wore the kind of presence that made other commanders instinctively step aside, like the world had learned to accommodate him before he arrived.

Ludger watched him and felt something minor but irritating: he’d never heard of the guy.

Which meant either the man was new…

…or Ludger had been spending too much time in border towns and labyrinths while the capital brewed its own monsters.

Varik’s jaw tightened.

He took one step toward Ludger, close enough that his voice wouldn’t carry, eyes still fixed on the approaching capital wedge.

“Whatever happens,” Varik whispered, “say you were only following orders.”

Ludger glanced at him, then back at the golden spear and the immaculate ranks behind it.

His mouth twitched.

He shrugged, small, tired, honest.

“I can’t promise that,” Ludger said.

Varik’s expression flickered, half irritation, half dread.

Because “I was following orders” was how you survived court politics.

And Ludger… Ludger looked like the kind of person who might tell the truth even when the truth was expensive.

The man with the golden spear rode into the broken courtyard like he was entering a room he already owned.

His soldiers stopped behind him in perfect formation, shields set, ranks steady, mages still. The capital wedge didn’t spread out to loot corpses or gawk at the ant castle. They held position like a wall waiting to be told which direction to fall.

The spear-man’s gaze swept the scene.

Harold’s blood-smeared armor. Cor’s staff. Aleia’s bow. Selene’s ruined knuckles. Arslan and Viola standing like they’d just fought their way out of a furnace. Ludger in shredded clothes, too calm for how wrecked he looked.

He didn’t greet anyone.

Didn’t ask names.

Didn’t offer congratulations.

He simply looked, cold, assessing, as if he were reading a ledger and deciding what needed to be corrected.

Then his eyes landed on Varik.

And stayed there.

Silence stretched.

The spear-man didn’t move. The golden spear rested upright in one hand like an exclamation mark. His expression was controlled, almost blank, but the pressure behind it was unmistakable: explain.

Finally he spoke, voice even and quiet, and somehow louder than shouting.

“What happened here?”

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