Chapter 208: Wall, My Ass
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 208: Wall, My Ass
“Cavalry, a detachment, and a group wearing drab cloaks.”
Sachsen had faithfully carried out Encrid’s orders.
Gazing at the forces positioned in the rear, he pinpointed their exact locations on the military map. He marked the parchment clearly and neatly, his precision resembling that of an artist. It was as easy on the eyes as it was to understand.
Encrid muttered a summary of the findings.
A portion of the cavalry held in reserve, a fierce-looking detachment roughly the size of a company, and finally, five cloaked figures.
The fact that a mere five people had caught Sachsen’s eye meant they were no ordinary men. It was a matter of sixth sense and intuition—purely a hunch, but one Sachsen had observed and reported. Encrid did not ignore it.
“What do you make of them?” Encrid asked, crossing his arms as Sachsen returned.
Sachsen was busy brushing dust off his armor. The particles he flicked away drifted through the air before settling on the parched earth. The weather remained sweltering; the season of cool breezes was still a distant hope, yet Sachsen wasn't sweating particularly heavily.
Was the task truly that easy, or was he simply acting nonchalant? Encrid waited for an answer, his mind wandering.
“I believe they are mages.”
Five mages.
The hand Martai had prepared was truly formidable.
What was the best move? Encrid didn't know, so he did what he always did: he badgered Krais.
“Alright, what do you think is the best course of action?”
He asked because he genuinely didn't know, yet he sounded completely confident. If you’re ignorant, just badger your subordinates—he was only doing as he had been taught.
“Do you think we’ll lose if we meet them in the field?” Big-Eyes asked back.
Encrid assessed the quality of the enemy soldiers, the intel he had gathered, and the strength of his own forces. He didn't think they would lose. Moreover, hadn't they put on a bit of a show earlier specifically to hide their true strength? Audin hadn't fought seriously, and Encrid hadn't gone out of his way to turn a simple 'tap' into a 'thud' either.
“This setup was designed for an all-out battle from the start. If we fight a street war inside the walls, our casualties will be ridiculously high.”
Krais’s eyes gleamed. Encrid understood, so he made his move. The final decision belonged to the battalion commander, but the consensus was clear: it was time for a decisive clash.
To the outside world, it would look like they were opening the gates and marching out despite being at a numerical disadvantage.
“I’m going to report.”
Encrid walked briskly to the command post and spoke to Marcus.
“This looks fun, Fiancé.”
The elf company commander, listening nearby, casually addressed him by that nickname. Amusingly, no one pointed it out. Perhaps they had all grown used to it, or perhaps they simply let it slide. The 1st Company Commander, the other officers, and even the battalion commander’s adjutant barely paid it any mind.
Since the adjutant also served as a scribe, he was writing diligently—Encrid wondered briefly if those three syllables, Fi-an-cé, would make it into the official record.
It made sense for everyone to ignore the banter. More important matters were being discussed than a bizarre nickname.
“We will handle the detachment held in reserve,” the Border Guard Captain spoke first, taking a highly proactive stance.
Marcus, of course, needed no prompting. The battalion commander ordered with a broad smile on his face:
“Open the gates.”
Watching the commander, a natural question arose in Encrid's mind. From his perspective, it was an incredibly obvious concern. No matter how much confidence they had, wasn't this pushing it?
“From a conventional perspective, this would be considered a suicide mission, wouldn't it?”
The difference in military strength was clear. Initiating a chaotic melee against such an opponent was madness. Normally, any commander who attempted such a move would be branded an idiot.
At those words, Marcus stared intently at Encrid.
“Is that what you think?”
Instead of answering, Encrid shook his head at the counter-question.
“Not really.”
And why would he? With Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Sachsen at his side, Encrid was not afraid, even if the enemy outnumbered them. He also preferred a battlefield where friend and foe were clearly distinguished over dragging the fight into the messy confines of street warfare. Not that street warfare would have particularly troubled him, either.
Above all... I don't think we'll lose.
That was the very first thought that came to his mind. Encrid knew how to weigh military strength and read the flow of battle; if he couldn't do at least that much, he wouldn't have survived this long.
“You declared your name, and they remained even after being told to withdraw. I believe it is now time to show them what that name means,” Marcus spoke with a gentle smile. Seeing how often he brought up the moment Encrid had declared his name, it must have left quite an impression.
Encrid nodded. “I will take the lead.”
The position he had always dreamed of—the very front of the battlefield. He was finally allowed to stand there. No one would stop him anymore.
Gripping his sword, Encrid took his first step through the open gates. One might have expected the friendly troops to show some anxiety, but...
“I heard the Troublemakers are heading out first?”
“Then we’re good.”
No one showed any unease. The enemy was only charging because they hadn't seen what they were truly up against. If the enemy had encountered them before, they would have changed their entire strategy the moment they realized the Mad Company was on the field.
Yet the Martai army remained nonchalant. Their reaction was almost insulting, as if they were saying, Go ahead, show us your little tricks.
This was, in a way, thanks to Marcus’s clever deception. Krais viewed this as a victory of politics—or perhaps a victory of cheap tricks. It had been highly effective to spread rumors about their forces, exaggerating some parts of the Mad Company's exploits while downplaying others.
In any case, victory was what mattered, regardless of the methods.
“I’m asking why we didn't just go for an all-out battle from the start. I almost bored myself to death waiting,” Rem said as he stepped forward.
Krais mentally rehearsed his explanation. Destroying the siege weapons had been unexpected, but there was a reason they had focused on getting on the enemy’s nerves rather than targeting their supply lines afterward.
Because we have to end this in one go.
If the fight dragged on, the side with fewer numbers would inevitably falter. Furthermore, the enemy had the backing of nearby nobles, while their side had just burned down a branch of the Black Sword. There was no telling what kind of dirty tricks the Black Sword might pull. Besides, hadn't they recently thrashed the cultists of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult as well?
They had slapped the faces of every major power they were on bad terms with, one after another. A prolonged conflict offered them nothing but exposure.
Krais had envisioned this from the start: ending everything in a single, decisive battle. To do that, the enemy’s attention had to be entirely focused here. They had to be provoked. They had to lose their tempers and commit to a direct confrontation.
It was a strategy of psychological warfare.
“Just because,” Krais said, not bothering to explain it to Rem. Encrid understood with just a few words, but explaining it to Rem would take too long. Sometimes, it was best to save one’s breath.
That’s just who I am, Krais muttered to himself. Besides, nothing would change even if Rem knew.
“Damn it.” Rem smirked and stepped forward. Even though he realized Krais was keeping quiet, he wasn't annoyed. The only thing that mattered was that it was finally time to swing his axe.
Krais trusted his squad members. He believed their martial prowess would become something overwhelming.
Right?
Still, a sliver of anxiety crept in. It was simply his nature.
It was the same for Marcus. He, too, had stepped out fully armed. Although he was positioned in the rear with his guards, he stood alongside his foot soldiers. Marcus looked out over the battlefield with a commander’s eyes. Encrid’s performance at the vanguard would decide the fate of this battle.
It is nerve-wracking, indeed.
But it was the best option.
“I’m nervous,” the adjutant said.
Thinking his adjutant had read his mind, Marcus was inwardly startled, but he didn't let it show. He maintained his composure and asked, “Are you?”
“Will we be alright?”
“Of course.”
He answered with absolute confidence. Commanders were a breed of people who had to exude certainty, even in the face of death.
In Marcus’s eyes, the enemy’s main force was advancing in formation.
“Forwaaaard!”
At the shout of the enemy leader, the vanguard marched in unison. After taking a single step—
“Ha!”
Their collective battle cry rang out, shaking the very air. A wave of dust rolled toward the Border Guard. Their military discipline was imposing, the sheer pressure rattling the minds of the soldiers. This was the power of well-trained elite troops.
But the Border Guard Standing Army was no joke either. They were battle-hardened veterans who had survived the mountains, the wilds, monsters, and the forces of Azpen.
“All troooops!” the 3rd Company Commander bellowed. His booming voice reached every ally on the field. “Forward!”
At his sharp command, the main friendly force took a step.
Thud.
“Hah!”
They struck back, raising their morale in kind. Regardless of this exchange, the Mad Company was already advancing, strolling casually into the "no-man's-land" between the two armies.
Just as the chaotic melee was about to begin... a commotion arose at the front of the enemy lines. Something was charging into the space where the two armies confronted each other.
The timing was impeccable—an artistic tactical move launched while both armies were still sizing each other up.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The ground began to shake. As the earth trembled, the source of the vibration came into view. It was a light cavalry unit, their horses’ heads and shoulders reinforced with iron plates. The enemy’s spears, kicking up clouds of dust, led the way.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The sound of galloping hooves pierced the air. If they hit the main force, the casualties would be devastating.
At the head of the cavalry was the commander of the Crestless Troops.
Marcus had kept the cavalry’s position in mind, constantly deploying scouts to monitor them, yet they had burst out from an unexpected direction. These were the ones marked on the map by the Mad Company—a hidden dagger the enemy had kept in reserve.
That dagger was now hurtling toward the main force, and right in its path stood the Mad Company.
“They’re going to get trampled to death!” the adjutant shouted.
Marcus thought the man was making a habit of stealing his lines, though Marcus only said them in his head. A commander must never spread anxiety.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The speed of the charge was terrifying. Before a galloping cavalry charge, infantry were no different from rotten twigs; they would be crushed, broken, and shattered.
Marcus trusted Encrid. He trusted the potential of that unit. But even against cavalry? Against a charge of absolute, lethal intent?
It was an unexpected strike. The Martai bastards had pulled their trump card right from the start.
*
The commander of Viscount Vantra’s army had declared he would lead the charge. A man named Greg had protested, but the commander had dismissed him.
“Breaking the enemy’s morale and crushing their momentum from the start is the basic rule of warfare.”
This was the strategy of a man who led a noble’s cavalry, not the petty tactics of some local territory. He was different from some backwater infantry captain. Greg had been forced to admit the man’s logic was efficient and lethal.
The commander deployed fifty elite cavalrymen. Though they were light cavalry, they were still a force of nature. Normally, they shaved off the enemy’s flanks, but today, their opponents were mere infantry. A direct collision would be a slaughter.
“We will sweep away the front of these arrogant Border Guard country bumpkins. Any objections?”
“None!” the fifty riders roared.
“Let’s go.”
They charged, calculating the exact distance for the assault. As he readied his horse, the commander sneered. What an idiot.
He remembered the reports from the pioneer village.
“Crazy Encrid’s Wall? Bullshit.”
He had made up his mind then. If he ever met this bluffing bastard, he would crush him. Originally, he had planned to cut out half the man’s tongue, but now it looked like he would be taking his head instead.
Their cavalry wore light armor, and the riders favored the glaive. They were a unit nicknamed the “Pikemen-catchers.” By securing the shafts of their weapons to their flanks and saddles, they rode in a formation designed to slice through infantry as they swept past. When the speed of a horse was combined with a sharp blade, the result was a terrifying, unstoppable slash.
The handful of infantry—fewer than ten men—standing directly in their path were merely an appetizer. Their true target was the main enemy force. This would be a glorious sweep through the vanguard.
The commander was swept up in ecstasy. He was mounted; the opponents were mere foot soldiers. It was an absolute advantage. With boiling blood and a racing heart, the commander roared:
“Wall, my ass!”