The Weight of Responsibility (8)
If war is a drama brimming with passion, as Antoine-Henri Jomini once said, then where in the play does this scene fall? At the very least, in the climax—and what role am I playing in it? The ruthless villain gunning down even my own allies? Or the tragic protagonist forced into it?
Whether it's one or the other depends entirely on the outcome of this gambit. And naturally, I wanted to be the tragic hero fighting to win—not the heartless villain slain by the righteous princess. Because I wanted to win.
"Kuh…!"
Once I shook off the infantry clinging to the wagons, a sudden charge wiped out a third of my guards. Not only that, but the crossbowmen firing from the rear got tangled up blocking the escape, suffering heavy losses to the pursuing infantry.
Yet the moment we broke free, things accelerated with ridiculous speed, as if all the pent-up tension had burst loose.
"Push them…!"
The centaurs latched onto the heavy cavalry with their massive frames, sacrificing themselves as archers if needed, faithfully executing orders. A glaring flaw in the system, blindly obeying even absurd commands. Exploiting it masterfully, we tied down the heavy cavalry's mobility at the cost of relatively few lives.
We unleashed our remaining arrows without mercy, then the centaur heavy cavalry charged the knights tumbling from their horses, trampling and subduing them to thin their numbers.
I can't kill them all. No time, no troops for that.
Even if it was working, I was sacrificing my own forces. Overall, we could land one big blow, but our losses wouldn't be light. The princess's infantry weren't slacking either, closing in while picking off our stragglers.
But one solid hit was enough.
Inflict maximum damage on the knights.
By killing their horses and stripping their mobility, we'd make it hard for them to chase our horse archers. In the meantime, I'd use the remaining cavalry's speed to whittle down the rest of the princess's army.
No matter how sturdy and fierce her infantry, they'd crumble under repeated charges and arrows from all sides. Even the best anti-cavalry troops can't swing backward forever.
Well, that's optimistic, but…
Reality proved it. Just as the princess's infantry had tired dodging arrows, our centaurs were exhausted from shooting, my guards from melee, and the crossbowmen from firing.
Meanwhile, her rested heavy cavalry resisted fiercely on pure stamina, matching our losses even as they took hits.
"Kieeeek…!!"
They fought so desperately that right before my eyes, as I led armored centaur heavies in a charge, an imperial knight's sword severed my soldiers' heads. No ego, yet the kill cams were brutally vivid.
Concentrated fire visibly whittled them down, but…
And then.
"…Waaaaah!!"
Her infantry charged in late, gasping for breath to support their allies—right along the path I'd taken with the centaur heavies. If I stayed put, I'd be the one surrounded.
"Move…!!"
Sensing we'd hit the limit on damaging her heavies, I yanked the reins. The centaurs mired in melee scrambled to break free.
Assessing numbers: most of my centaur horse archers caught in melee were dead. Many of her heavies survived, but most were unhorsed, reduced to infantry—disorganized and needing reform.
They'd lost their value as a unit for now. Before they recovered and reformed, I'd just sweep them with horse archers. A gamble, but a resounding success.
"…Regroup, regroup!!"
If.
If there wasn't someone here who could instantly reorganize them, form ranks, and reignite their morale with some miracle.
"It's not—over yet!!"
If the woman riddled with arrows, enduring the pain to rally her troops on horseback, wasn't here of all places.
This fight was mine.
…It should have been!
…Why does someone like that actually exist?
A few shouts from afar, and the arrow-pierced knights reformed in an instant. That was my thought.
Ah, this is such a pain.
*
I've never envied talent. Because talented people are just those who've found what they're good at.
The rarity of talent in the world boils down to luck in discovery. Like someone born modern excelling at flintknapping, or ancient folk great at shooting guns—simple as that.
So.
Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis. That platinum blonde girl must be stacked with fortunes upon fortunes.
What she loves. Her innate talent. The environment to shine. The odds of all aligning for one person?
I had no complaints about her luck. A reincarnated soul with past-life memories living a second chance has better odds anyway.
Just… a bit bitter.
Without my memories and knowledge, could I even be her rival?
The scene unfolding was that lopsided.
The gamble worked; I gained ground.
But her words undid it all.
This is straight-up cheating.
And worse: while I was tied up with her heavies, she—god knows how, borrowing her own guards' mounts—reentered the fray. Wounded enough I'd be bedridden, yet here she was.
She transcended my common sense in every way.
"Damn it… Navek crossbow squadron…!"
Calling centaur crossbowmen toward her distant guards—who'd also taken losses, so less effective now. Sole hope: she led from the front, not hiding behind.
Recklessness. If hit and she fell dead, history would call it that.
Her fifty-odd guards charged into another volley. And our horse archers, done with her heavies, turned on her.
Ironic, pouring weapons on the emperor's daughter without treason.
…But recklessness and courage are a razor's edge. Successful recklessness is courage; failed courage, recklessness.
"Haaah—!!"
Incoherent shout, knights tumbling beside her with thuds—yet the white-helmed rider at the fore never slowed. Arrows glanced off; she gripped her couched lance with elbow, enduring.
Charging straight at me, smack in centaur central.
Ridiculous.
But not mere grit: her reformed heavies charged our archers amid melee chaos. Exhausted infantry closed in. We'd flanked her heavies, but they counterattacked, guards and foot relieving from outside—encirclement shattered.
Déjà vu.
Just like last mock battle. I prepare, she counters; I break through, face-off again.
Difference: no escape now. Front: princess. Rear: heavies. Left: infantry. Turn anywhere, meet them.
…Induced? Or inducing? Hard to say.
Either way, best choice wasn't flight.
…No running left.
Raising my hand, my centaur heavies roughly reformed. Simultaneously, the struggling Navek crossbowmen and cavalry skirted gaps to flank.
Running just gets us chased; blocks their detour too.
Better clash head-on. Why repeat this? No choice when cornered.
You think I wanted to run?
Maybe some irritation mixed in. Irrational, some might say.
───I want to win.
That impulse shook my voice.
"───Charge!!"
Throat-rending shout; centaur heavies slammed her knights. Twenty paces: both accelerated. Ten: weapons aimed. Collision: metal crunching, flesh shredding.
"…Haaah!"
Through the gap, the princess plunged—like a hero threading giant centaur ranks.
I knew it'd be like this…!
Size, skill—she loses to centaurs. Yet I believed: she'd breach this wall to me.
Transcending sense before? She'd do it again.
She did.
Natural one-on-one. Tactics irrelevant; pure personal valor now, in this brief clash.
Obviously, outmatched in arms and skill, I'd never fancied beating her in melee.
"…?!"
Next instant, her armored breath hitched—unexpected.
As she thrust, I'd jammed my decorative sword onto her blade's flat.
"Wha…?!"
Last time I fled; now swinging? Shocked, breath bursting.
Her fluster? Irrelevant.
This was the plan.
"…Fire!!"
Then, metal shards screamed past: flanking Navek crossbowmen unloaded on the pinned princess.
"You i—."
Idiot? Maybe. Firing into point-blank melee risked our own—but against this monster piercing heavies unscathed? What choice?
Irrelevant to us rolling on dirt.
Thud!
Stabbing pain crossed; heat burst from me; we tumbled roughly.
Painfully. Clanging metal, scraping dirt, armor crushing in embrace.
"Guh…!"
"Kahk…!"
By the time knight-centaur hooves faded, we wallowed in mud—screams and groans indistinguishable.
"…Ha… Hic."
"…Hoo, hoo."
…For a moment, it struck me as absurd. Embracing the princess, rolling in dirt? Emperor hears, heads roll.
But ironically, the thick intruder was in me.
"…Kuhk!"
During charge, she'd somehow stabbed my gut; tumbling tore it worse.
And game not over: crossbows failed instant kill. Secret weapon's dignity? Shot.
To that mess, I grumbled softly.
"Damn it… Same trick won't work, huh…."
"…Told you it won't next time… Thought I was joking?"
Hearing, she replied—sword still buried, steadily.
Blood dripping from her too: survived instant death, but fatal.
"What lunatic… Throws away subordinates, then himself as bait…."
"Well… It's not real, right…."
"…."
Strength ebbed from her pinning armor. My consciousness faded, breath labored.
One exhale, vision blurring—I whispered what only now could.
"…Hey, Your Highness."
"…."
"That responsibility thing… heavier than you think."
I'd clawed an edge from dire odds—yet she closed it in a blink.
And foes ahead? Maybe not her level, but superior in something.
Among them, lose to no one but her? Tough burden, suddenly felt.
"…It's fine."
"…."
"…I'll… han…."
"──?"
From unexpecting grumble, unfinished words leaked.
What? Context? Draining mind couldn't grasp.
Just.
"…Heh."
She… laughed? Faint illusion lingered.
Click, click.
*
Consciousness snapped back; senses numbly void.
"…."
"…."
Arena hushed. Numbness blurred, but murmurs drifted.
Didn't register; phantom gut pain had me clutching.
Not a real blade, but hurts like hell.
So the TA's explanation till I returned? Total blur.
Princess…
Glancing numbly: she looked off too, but demurely beside me.
Awkward for chat; I sat.
"…………Haa."
Meanwhile, podium-bound Professor Montecuccoli brooded silently, sighing endlessly.
Deeply displeased, irritably crumpling his papyrus—atmosphere tensing till he barked.
"Enough! I know your basics now!"
Scanning us, not eyeing anyone, he unilaterally declared:
"…Teaching such showy students is so pathetic, I want to retire!"