Bizarre Love Triangle (7): Winds Laden with Heat, Steel, Roars, and Blood Howl Across the Battlefield
A fierce gale laden with heat, steel, cheers, and blood swept across the battlefield.
Slash! Like something out of a slasher flick, the beastkin berserkers advanced step by step, slicing through the necks of the soldiers desperately holding the line. Their overheated bodies from the intense combat cooled in the wind, steam rising from their breaths and skin. The metal weapons of those at the forefront were caked in blood, and the long, blood-red iron bars lifted toward the sky before crashing down again.
“Raaargh—!!”
With eerie screams, they swung their massive weapons, met only by the shields raised by my infantry line. The shields were already far more battered than at the initial deployment, pushed back considerably, but somehow my infantry endured even in these extreme conditions. They looked on the verge of collapse at any moment, but it was thanks to the Lusitanian pilgrims' instinct to maximize survival by sticking to their units. Of course, if this dragged on, even they would break and rout, but delaying that even a little was a positive effect. Thanks to them, even after this chaotic melee, our forces hadn't tangled up as badly as I'd feared.
And in this situation, it was my side that had relatively maintained its formation. Erna's beastkin charge at the front was insanely ferocious and hard to withstand, but their very nature was crumpling their own lines.
Drunk on the heat of battle, they forget their duty.
That was the northern beastkin's greatest weakness as an army. They had organization and power that rivaled anyone, but their violent tendencies made them dive too deeply into the fight too easily. High combat spirit wasn't bad for soldiers, of course, but obsessing over it didn't automatically make a good soldier. Soldiers ultimately had to execute their commander's orders well.
As warriors, these pilgrims might fall short, but as soldiers, they had their strengths. I hadn't expected them to hold completely, but their spontaneous, organic unit-level actions were shining through.
So far, so good.
The problem was that we had almost no reserves left. In the end, I'd thrown in all the heavy infantry I'd been holding back to prevent a frontal breakthrough, but we were still 'holding'—being slowly pushed back.
And no matter how amazing the princess was, or how determined the margrave was to hold, it would take time. To gauge whether we'd collapse in that span or not, I needed to play another card.
The issue was...
This gap in strength is too weird.
I'd been puzzling over it while somehow rallying the troops, but the difference in forces was blatantly off. This wasn't a game, so there were no visible stat bars. I had to judge the power gap myself—that was skill in itself. If I failed, then that was my level.
But from countless war histories in my past life and here, I vaguely knew. Even with racial differences, this wasn't a gap that could be bridged. Species had diverged with extreme traits, but weighing pros and cons, they usually balanced out. If not, humans' empire couldn't have conquered them all. Right now, those berserkers were rampaging uncontrollably, tiring far faster than us—but still pushing. Didn't that mean their baseline was much higher? Like boosting the average stats of those troops.
Either way, I need to hit them harder and break their momentum.
Morale and momentum were flows. Get swept up, and you're done. Turn the tide with a headwind, and it becomes your momentum. With the enemy berserking madly and our side controlled but retreating, there was fortunately something I could try.
“Maaan—!!”
Amid it all, our lady advanced alone, unflagging, toppling heavy infantry one by one. The white-and-black fur peeking from under her helmet was blood-soaked, and her rhomphaia in both hands no longer showed any metallic sheen. Seeing her grin in that state—that's the real demon.
But I had no intention of facing her. She wasn't someone I could beat anyway, and if I died, it was over. And the action I was about to take required me to jump in personally. I couldn't mimic that monster's screams, but as commander, I had to lead the charge for this to work.
I pulled back my guards bit by bit to create distance, then hurriedly led them to the left flank of the infantry front line. The one spot in my infantry line not reinforced with heavy infantry—purely light pilgrim infantry holding it. And thus, the side that had stuck to passive defense rather than frontal clashes early on.
I charged toward them, shouting at the top of my lungs.
“Fall back! Fall back! The three units on the left flank, withdraw 20 paces with me! Stay calm! We can win this!”
“Fall back, sir!”
“20 paces! 20 paces back!”
On a fierce battlefield, suddenly pulling back could spiral uncontrollably. Soldiers didn't all grasp the strategy; seeing one flee triggered self-preservation instincts. Being able to create space while withdrawing meant they were elites. And these Lusitanian pilgrims I brought were masters at fluid maneuvers across the field. With me leading directly, I figured we could avoid a total collapse.
And as those pilgrims suddenly pulled back, creating a 20-pace gap between my infantry's left and center—normally a deadly move. But I attempted it because frenzied warriors wouldn't exploit the gap.
“Uwaaaagh!!”
“Killll!!”
The berserkers, wary of the sudden retreat, soon charged toward our backs before we even covered 20 paces. Naturally, instead of targeting the formation gap, they went for the 'immediate enemy' in a frenzy.
My job was clear.
“Front! Face front and hold!”
Thus, I led the charge back at the berserkers who'd broken from their wedge formation. The problem: they had momentum from charging, unleashing powerful attacks, while our side had to pivot sharply even over short distance. That's where reserves came in.
“Everyone, charge...!”
“—Kill them all!!”
The pilgrims I'd positioned behind the left front before moving struck the berserkers' flanks as they lunged at our troops. They hurled held-back javelins, swung spears and swords in a charge, hammering the exposed sides.
And not just that. The narrow 20-pace gap between my front lines? It wasn't empty for nothing. Amid the chaos, I'd pulled slingers early to conserve ammo—they needed space to shine. Up close on flat ground, angles were bad... but with this pocket, death poured from their hands.
Thud—boom!!
A berserker's helmet right before us shook with a massive crack, and warriors began toppling one by one from the slingers' direction.
“Grah—argh!!”
“Ambush...!”
Of course, no ambush. Just stabbing the gap they'd overlooked in frenzy. To those charging right to my face only to get crossfired from three sides, it must've seemed absurd.
“...!”
In that instant, one flank of the beastkin berserkers—who'd been pushing us to the ends of the earth—melted away.
“Kill!”
“Slaughter the barbarians!!”
Venting pent-up frustration, the left-flank pilgrim units—having endured massive casualties—charged madly too.
And this was clearly unforeseen even for Erna, who nearly broke through the heavies alone. Her puzzled glance back from afar, focused only on swinging her blade, said it all. That tiny hesitation rippled through the beastkin pushing behind her.
It created a brief lull in the raging battle. Erna had to rush back to regroup, and without her, even berserkers couldn't fully collapse the center in their fatigued state...!
My expectations were confirmed by events beyond our field.
Thud-thud-thud!!
First, a small cavalry unit bearing Ruticia Margraviate insignia approached the beastkin, shaking the earth. Then, beyond them, imperial knights charging from out of sight. The princess's cavalry—trampling Ruticia remnants—delivered the final blow.
*
“Ahahaha...”
Albert von Beletia, Margrave of Ruticia, barely escaped with his shattered forces, dismounting at the beastkin infantry rear. Spotting Erna amid the disrupted lines to assess, all he could muster was a pathetic laugh.
“What, you're already here.”
“I tried to hold... but bluster alone gets you nowhere.”
Her weary retort met his deflated tone. He'd given Erna half his max resources, leaving him half his usual strength. So he'd planned to feign numbers with extended lines and low-tier troops, pinning the princess's center without reserves—preventing support.
If she attacked anyway, Erna's elite-heavy force—resource-packed and refined—could break his defense. Then, a dilemma: rescue the baron, and he'd charge her rear in favorable terrain, intercepting her cavalry.
But she didn't support the baron, nor did Erna break through. Somehow sensing it, she'd bulldozed his low-tier front. Casualties on her cavalry too, sure... but smashing his unit anyway. Both anvil and hammer battered, Erna left with weary berserkers. Now her cavalry rampaged freely—northern warriors couldn't hold.
Tsk. Got too excited.
A bit longer, and Erna could've pushed the baron. Despite losses, her resource advantage held. Without fixating on frontline hacking, reorganizing for another charge could've sealed it. But obsessed with winning personally, she dove in over commanding—exploited by the baron. That's why she couldn't end it before the princess arrived.
Musing on that, the sweat-drenched margrave removed his helmet facing her.
“No point dragging this further, right, my lady?”
“Huh? What're you saying? It ain't over.”
“True, but we're at a disadvantage... and look at the situation.”
“I'll win it.”
She wasn't yielding. Surrounded, cavalry lost—but she had forces left. Charge personally, behead baron and princess—victory.
“Mm... I get the idea, but the princess maybe, the baron won't go down easy. He'd flee to the end before letting that happen.”
“Won't know till I try!”
Stubborn pride swept her. But underneath, shame dominated: Damn... he pushed this far for me... can't lose without doing anything...
Albert glanced around. Respecting their parley, princess and baron hadn't ordered yet. But they'd pounce like vultures once it ended. Short on time, he reached out—placing his hand on her bloodied helmet beside her averted, gritted-teeth face, slowly lifting it off.
“...W-what the hell?”
“You've done enough. Must've been tough dragging me along. No need to force a win.”
“H-hey, still...!”
“If the odds were good, maybe... but you overexerting...”
He cleared his throat, then smiled softly at her face—flushed ends, wolf ears flattened by the upright helmet, soaked in sweat.
“And fake blood or not... doesn't feel great seeing my fiancée covered in it.”
“...!”
Erna blinked blankly, as if the words baffled her. Unable to hide her pupil's tremor—even if the helmet might've—she bowed her head helplessly.
“Ah... damn. People might hear, and you say that...!”
“It's fine. The stands don't pick up chats like this.”
“Youuu...!”
She steamed, sighed deeply, slapped her cheeks twice, then finally nodded.
“Next time, I'll smash both for real...!”
Albert couldn't fathom her burning rivalry with those two... but felt a twinge of bitterness, hiding it behind a smile.
Moments later.
A blue screen reading Victory appeared over Princess Charlotte and Baron Hebel's fields of vision, as they finished reorganizing for a final assault.