Chapter 125: Today's Victory Does Not Guarantee Tomorrow's (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 125: Today's Victory Does Not Guarantee Tomorrow's (1)
"Fire! Kill them!" shouted the commander leading Azpen's light infantry unit.
Three soldiers at the front took aim and loosed their crossbows.
Thwack!
Three bolts whistled through the air. Evading projectiles fired from such a short distance was considered a legendary feat—something no one short of a master would even dare attempt.
Thud, thud.
Yet Rem dodged them simply by rolling forward the moment they were loosed.
Thunk!
The bolts slammed into the dirt right where he had been a split second before. It looked like a desperate, narrow miss, but because it was Rem, it didn't actually feel dangerous. He didn't lose a shred of momentum; he rolled at full speed, used his axe as a pivot to spring back up, and kept charging.
How can someone control their body like that?
Watching from behind, even Encrid couldn't help but admire the display.
"Just watch," Ragna muttered. If he hadn't kept holding him back, Encrid would have liked to pitch in, but there was no opportunity.
Starting with Rem, the platoon was wrapping things up on their own.
Before the three crossbowmen could even reload, Rem was within arm's reach. The enemy soldiers reflexively drew their shortswords. Their equipment was different from the pikemen; even if three or four pikemen had formed a spear wall, Rem wouldn't have blinked. Against three shortswords? They didn't stand a ghost of a chance.
The scene unfolded exactly as Encrid anticipated.
Slash! Thud! Crack!
As the axe sliced through the air, an enemy’s head was lopped off. Moving like a tempest, Rem drew trails of light with his blade. Everyone caught in those arcs died. His swings were so incredibly fast and fierce that by the time he pulled his axe from a split skull, the blood and brains only began to spill a beat later.
One soldier, his head split open, flailed his shortsword into empty air. Dead before his reflexes could even finish their final command, the man collapsed forward.
Blood gushed into the dirt. Leaving the fallen behind, Rem continued his rampage.
Meanwhile, Sachsen, who had slipped out of sight, reappeared behind the enemy commander. As the commander stood slack-jawed in shock at the sight of Rem, Sachsen slit his throat from behind.
Slice.
The commander’s neck opened, spraying blood in a violent spurt—the unmistakable spray of a severed carotid artery.
Sachsen moved again. Quietly, silently, his priorities were clear. He targeted the crossbowmen aiming at Encrid. He moved exactly as he thought, taking them from behind to slit their throats or pierce their lungs.
"Gark!"
The head of a soldier holding a crossbow jerked back. There, he met a pair of indifferent brown eyes tinged with a faint red light. To Sachsen, killing was mere manual labor—the epitome of numbness. The soldier met his end staring into those terrifying, hollow eyes.
Audin, meanwhile, was simply slapping away the enemies rushing him. Literally. Swinging his palms left and right to swat them away was more than enough.
Clang! Crack!
With a single slap, enemy soldiers were sent flying. Yellow teeth erupted from the mouth of a man who had been charging with a battle cry, scattering into the air like seeds. This wasn't even a fight. What could they do when a single slap sent them airborne?
Mac moved as well, proving he could pull his own weight. Back-to-back with Andrew, they protected Enri in the center, who repeatedly drew and released his shortbow.
Ragna, of course, was in a league of his own.
One step forward. He simply walked. Only death awaited those caught in the path of his swinging sword. One of the scouts lunged with a shortsword in each hand, but the encounter ended with just two flashes of Ragna’s blade.
Clang.
Deflecting the first strike, Ragna’s sword glided through the air like a swallow, tapping the enemy’s neck as it passed. A second mouth gaped open on the soldier’s throat with a wet tear. After swinging a few more times, Ragna shook his head and flicked the blood from his blade. He seemed highly dissatisfied with the weapon he was holding.
Seeing how he still hadn't bothered to get a proper sword despite his complaints, Encrid decided the man definitely wasn't normal.
Encrid himself had nothing to do. Not only was there no need for him to step in, but the skirmish had ended in the blink of an eye. While Mac, Andrew, and Enri killed two, the rest had been slaughtered by the others.
"Let's pull back," Encrid ordered.
Instead of marveling at the carnage, he looked at the bigger picture. What was the point of getting caught between two charging armies? For now, they needed to bypass the main force, retreat, and assess the situation.
As they slipped away to the flank, the enemy infantry—their shields bristling with arrows—clashed with the allied lines. Like long-lost lovers meeting to share a violent passion, the two armies collided. But instead of whispers and affection, they gouged out each other's eyes with spears.
Crunch! Squish!
Spearheads tore through flesh. Allies died, and enemies died. But the tide of battle had already tilted.
It was the first large-scale battle of the campaign. Thanks to the Border Guard's ambush and a slightly overexcited Rem running wild, it was a crushing victory.
And where had this victory begun? With the Mad Independent Platoon, of course—starting from the platoon leader who ran his mouth, all the way to Andrew who actually swung his sword.
"Uwooooh! Get lost!"
"We won!"
"Madmen! It's the madmen!"
Still, there's no need to call us madmen so openly, Encrid thought.
The eyes of the infantry—the allied soldiers—were fixed on one spot: the group drenched in blood. It was the Independent Platoon. While everyone else bore the heavy traces of battle, Encrid, standing in the center, was completely clean. He wasn't even out of breath. He hadn't swung his sword once. He hadn't even been allowed to throw a single dagger.
Recover your body first. The collective will of his platoon members had been clear.
"It's the Mad Independent Platoon!"
"Encrid! Enki! You're handsome!"
"Awesome! You guys are incredible!"
Cheers from those drunk on victory showered over Encrid and his men. No matter who had performed the best, this was Encrid's platoon. Naturally, the crowd chanted his name.
Should I do something? Wave my hand? Encrid wondered.
But he hadn't even swung his sword. Aside from that very first skirmish, he had stayed back, while the actual fighting had been done by the infantry—the true flowers of the battlefield. Why were they welcoming him so enthusiastically?
"For an Independent Platoon with less than ten members, leaving this big of an impression means we've done our job. Truly," Krais said, slipping out from wherever he had been hiding to join them.
"That's true. But why does it feel like no one is looking for me?"
Probably because of your karma, Encrid thought, but he didn't say it aloud. There was no need to ruin the mood. Instead, he patted Rem on the shoulder.
"Good work."
Rem smirked. Ragna retrieved his chipped sword and offered his thoughts.
"I need to get a new sword."
He spoke with an attitude that made it clear he couldn't care less about the cheering crowd.
The infantry, enjoying the brief joy of victory, were soon ordered to fall back. The allied commander did not overextend to pursue the enemy. From now on, morale was on their side. The tables had completely turned.
Krais watched the situation unfold, pondering the variables. What could they be planning? To survive and scavenge spoils, one needed to calculate every possibility. Krais did exactly that.
It wasn't a particularly difficult task to guess the enemy's intentions. Since they played tricks with sorcery on the previous battlefield... won't they try some similar trickery again?
"Let's rest," Encrid said upon returning to the barracks. It was time to recover.
"Everyone is exempt from guard duty and all other details."
A messenger arrived to deliver the order. Encrid wondered if the Elf Company Commander would pay them another visit, but it didn't happen.
Would today's victory guarantee tomorrow's? No one knew. Taking the high ground didn't mean the war was won. Even now, the high command would be holding a fierce strategy meeting to maintain their momentum.
Encrid's prediction was spot on. Marcus was not drunk on victory.
*
"Seeing them retreat like that, those bastards must have something up their sleeves. You said they played tricks with sorcery before? Any signs of that?"
"None, sir," the adjutant answered.
The officers stood in a circle around a wide map table. Sorcery? They wouldn't fall for the same trick twice. They had hired a shaman of their own—an old woman from the homeland. Though she lacked the talent to cast spells herself, she could sense if the enemy was weaving mana. That alone was enough.
As far as Marcus was concerned, the world of sorcery was none of his business. He only needed the facts.
"If Azpen deploys asymmetric forces, a portion of the Red Cloak Knights will support us immediately."
If the enemy mobilized knights or mages, they were prepared. Marcus nodded. He was a commander who felt the atmosphere of the battlefield through his skin. Though he was a strategist, he was ultimately someone who rode the flow of the battle. Even so...
I really didn't want to push in.
The enemy had retreated as if baiting them. Following them gave him a chill down his spine, as if a banshee had breathed on the back of his neck. Since he was imagining a monster that froze human hearts with its wails, his gut feeling was clearly bad. Marcus had ended the engagement there.
"Casualties for the Border Guard?"
"Two dead, sir."
No matter how skilled an elite soldier was, death was a constant companion on the battlefield. Even so, losing only two was a stellar performance. The number of enemy soldiers killed by the Border Guard numbered in the dozens. In particular, the blow dealt to the enemy's longbow unit was devastating.
Under normal circumstances, the battle was won. Now, the enemy had only two desperate moves left: retreat, or deploy asymmetric forces. Therefore, all Marcus had to do was relentlessly run scouts to monitor their movements.
There was no battle the next day. Though Marcus deployed twice the usual number of scouts, they found nothing. "Turtle" was supposed to be the nickname of the Naurilian heavy infantry, but the enemy was the one hiding in their shell. They refused to show their hand, and encounters between scouting parties were rare. They had hunkered down strictly within their camp.
Are they telling us to come in?
The ominous feeling lingered, making him hesitate.
"If we strike now, it's a complete victory. If they've prepared something in their camp, can't we just rain arrows down and wipe them out?"
"We don't even need arrows. We can surround them, set their tents on fire, and test them with our pikemen."
"How about moving the Border Guard to block their retreat from behind?"
The officers offered their opinions, but Marcus remained firm.
"We wait."
He decided to maintain the status quo. It was a decision based on intuition—the same gut feeling that had saved him on countless battlefields. The enemy still had a card to play.
*
The Azpen commander had clearly seen the enemy's strength. Naurilia's tactics were the same as always: stirring things up with the Border Guard. Marcus’s tactics were also predictable—concentrating forces to overturn the battlefield in a single blow.
It had worked. They had been hit from an unexpected direction, and the momentum had shifted.
So what?
I've seen everything the enemy has prepared. Now, how will you block what I send next?
Idiots hiding behind women's skirts, the commander cursed inwardly, sensing victory. It was time for his real battlefield to begin. He would start by killing that arrogant bastard from before—the one they called a madman. The one who insulted him with that "ghoul head" comment. The one with the axe.
That a small force could change the course of a battle was something the knight class had already proven. In that case, did that small force absolutely have to be knights?
The Azpen commander had taken inspiration from this and prepared a hidden dagger. No, it wouldn't stop at a mere dagger. His hidden dagger would become a warhammer that would smash the entire battlefield to pieces.
*
A single day was more than enough for Encrid to fully recover. A day of complete rest, free from duty, with high-quality meals to fill his stomach.
Encrid had a brief dream during the night, though it faded quickly. A specter of his past had appeared—a mercenary who had taught him that skill and character did not always go hand in hand. It wasn't a pleasant memory, so he didn't dwell on it.
At any rate, the combination of Audin's divine power and elven medicine was potent. He wondered if he would ever enjoy such luxury again.
"It seems to be thanks to the medicine I sent," the Elf Company Commander said, visiting early in the morning.
Encrid was in the middle of training, drenched in sweat. He was practicing the Isolation Technique. Audin had told him it was now time to train his joints. He sometimes thought Audin made him do the strangest things, but in the end, it was always beneficial—a tempering process that made his body stronger. His own recovery was proof of that.
Lying face down with his toes and palms on the ground, he pushed his body up, extending and flexing his wrists. At first, he thought it would be easy, but after a few repetitions, it became an immense struggle. It felt as though a heavy weight was pressing directly onto his joints.
One gaze belonged to the elf, watching with arms crossed. Another was the gaze of the leopard, which had quickly regained its vitality. Behind them, the large, sadistic pervert Audin watched with a pleased expression. Right in front of the barracks, the barbarian Rem crouched and watched.
In addition, there were Sachsen’s gloomy, reddish-brown eyes. And Enri, who kept scribbling and erasing something on the ground, lost in thought. Finally, the lazy genius Ragna was waiting nearby, clutching his sword.
"Did you have business with me?" Encrid asked the Company Commander as he finished his morning training.
The elf stared straight at Encrid with green eyes. "No."
Then why are you still standing there? Encrid asked with his eyes, but it had no effect.
"Are we doing this now?" Ragna asked from the side. He had won the right to go first through a bet.
That meant sparring.
Encrid was in good enough shape to fight now. Moving his body didn't cause any major strain. He turned his gaze to Ragna, who looked like an impatient child.
Why did he want to spar so badly? Encrid didn't know. But it didn't matter. After all, had he ever truly understood these people?
Encrid gripped his sword. First, just one, holding the grip with both hands. The tip of the sword pointed diagonally toward the sky.
There was another sword hanging at his waist. Everyone saw it, yet they all remained silent.
Encrid wanted to satisfy their expectations. A fierce desire boiled within him.