Chapter 212: A Truly Exquisite Dish
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 212: A Truly Exquisite Dish
The moment the tide of battle turned decisively, Marcus pulled his forces back instead of tightening the encirclement.
As the flags signaled a retreat and the horns blew the designated call, the Border Guard soldiers, who had been caught up in the heat of the slaughter, halted in their tracks.
"Hold! This is far enough!"
Starting with the advancing Turtle Heavy Infantry Company, the allied forces began to withdraw, prompting Rem to grumble.
"Tsk. We were just getting warmed up."
Blood dripped from the edge of Rem’s axe. Seeing him grin in such a state made several nearby allies, who had been about to cheer, quickly avert their eyes.
Even to Encrid, Rem’s momentum was terrifying. Surely the man wasn't such a lunatic that he would swing his axe at his own allies?
Though he might throw a punch or two, at least.
It was an idle thought. Even those hailed as knights were bound to succumb to fatigue during prolonged combat. Would Rem be any different? It was about time the precision of his swings began to dull, if only slightly.
The five of them had cut down dozens—no, over a hundred enemies. And it hadn't even taken them very long. Anyone who witnessed this battle would never be able to forget the names of the five standing in the center of the field.
Moreover, the moment Encrid had announced his name, the enemy had frozen. They were struck with terror. They were demoralized. Their spirit was shattered.
Marcus had essentially opened an escape route for the enemy at the perfect psychological moment.
Marcus glanced at Encrid’s group in the distance before turning his gaze elsewhere. He saw a blue flag rising high. It was the signal from the Border Guard unit that had maneuvered to the right flank.
They caught the detachment, too.
Looking at the casualties on the front line, calling this a landslide victory was almost an understatement. The enemy had been broken by just five people.
It was a victory of politics; a victory of schemes. A victory for the commander who had hidden Encrid so effectively.
"Are we not pursuing them?"
It was the 2nd Company Commander. He approached, panting as he spoke. Marcus shook his head.
"Let them go. Even a cornered rat will bite a cat, and even a cornered ghoul will use what little brain it has left."
Krais, who had quietly slipped into the command post—the place he deemed safest on the battlefield—mused to himself as he overheard the battalion commander.
He’s letting them go.
Even though it was a life-and-death struggle, did Marcus still consider them to be under the same umbrella of the kingdom?
It’s a shame, though.
But it was the commander’s choice. It wasn't Krais's place to step forward and object. Even without the Mad Company, they could have used the heavy infantry or the Border Guard to capture the enemy commander. Yet, Marcus was letting him walk.
He had no intention of capturing the enemy commander from the very beginning. Was he planning to use this opportunity to showcase the power of the Border Guard instead?
Still, a missed opportunity was a missed opportunity.
If we captured the enemy commander, the payoff later would be massive.
In exchange for capturing and releasing the enemy commander, they could have extracted a great deal from Martai.
Securing trade routes.
The Border Guard was now fully prepared to be reborn as a prominent trade territory in both name and deed. If so, securing trade routes—especially carving a path through the Martai region—would be of paramount importance. That would have been the easiest advantage to gain by capturing and negotiating with the enemy commander.
Was that all? No.
Ransom.
A man who called himself a general must have a substantial fortune. When a noble-class figure was captured, it was common practice to release them in exchange for Crona. This was a frequent occurrence even when dealing with hostile nations locked in mortal combat.
Moreover, wasn't he the mayor and general of Martai? Externally, they were allies. Martai was nicknamed the "mercenary territory," and Krais knew exactly how they amassed their Crona.
That was why it was such a waste.
We could have made an astronomical amount of Crona.
At this point, Battalion Commander Marcus was either a fool or a man devoid of greed.
He doesn't seem stupid, though.
Krais scratched his chin. One could tell by looking at his actions so far. The tactic of hiding Encrid and intentionally drawing the enemy in to strike was not something an idiot could pull off—let alone staking the entire battlefield's success on just a single person.
Was he bold to the point of recklessness?
It was a strategy so daring it bordered on madness. And the result of that strategy working was what lay before them now.
Cheers erupted toward the bright blue sky.
"Waaaaah!"
"Encriiiid!"
"If you cross us—!"
The soldiers raised their spears.
"—You die!"
Thud!
They shouted, slamming the butts of their spears against the ground in unison. The morale of the surviving allies was higher than ever.
That was why it was all the more regrettable to Krais. If they had pursued the retreating enemy, they could have fought the most efficient battle yet. After all, an army is far more vulnerable when fleeing than in a head-on clash. The pursuer always held the absolute advantage.
"The cavalry is mostly wiped out, too, right?"
Marcus’s voice drifted over again. Krais perked up his ears.
"Yes, we got them all. Some of their cavalry had been kept in the rear from the start," the adjutant replied.
"If we hadn't opened an escape route, those bastards would have charged in and snatched that bastard Ulf right out of our hands."
Ah, so that’s what could have happened.
Krais nodded inwardly. It was an unexpected factor. Still, it would have been worth a try.
After that, Marcus remained silent for a while. The retreating enemy kicked up massive clouds of dust. Because the battlefield was packed with humans, no demonic beasts or monsters dared to linger nearby. A battle of this scale would make even a brainless ghoul turn and run.
As the silence stretched, the adjutant, perhaps finding it stifling, spoke up first.
"Shall we withdraw?"
It was indeed the moment to pull back, reorganize, and celebrate their victory. It wouldn't be bad to uncork some wine, wet their throats, and feast on their provisions.
But Krais found that idea highly inefficient.
What did we even gain from this battle?
To Krais, who measured everything in Crona, this battlefield had yielded nothing. The joy of survival? The thrill of crushing the enemy? What was the point of any of that if it didn't translate into profit? They were things that might turn into Crona later, but there was no immediate reward.
Still, just as Krais thought the battle was over and it was time to head back—
Marcus, who had remained silent despite the adjutant’s question, finally spoke.
"All forces, advance."
"...?"
Advance?
Krais tilted his head. This time, he couldn't hide his confusion. Fortunately, the only one who saw him was Finn, who was standing beside him as a guard.
"Why?" Finn asked.
"He says we’re advancing," Krais whispered. But advance where?
The adjutant standing beside Marcus also asked in surprise.
"Advance where, sir?"
"Where do you think?"
Krais could see Marcus’s face then. It was not the face of a commander drunk on victory. It was the expression of a politician or a merchant, pleased that things had gone exactly as intended.
Which meant it wasn't over yet.
"Let’s go," Marcus said, baring his fangs. At that bright, predatory smile, Krais realized his true intentions. Marcus’s teeth caught the light.
Glint.
Ah.
He never had any intention of letting this end as an unprofitable battle.
A brief realization struck Krais’s mind. A small but intense shiver ran through him. It felt as if he had been struck by an epiphany. Krais had learned something new.
If you let them go and then follow...
The enemy would head straight back to their own home. A cornered rat will bite a cat, but if you set it free, it will return to the nest filled with all the treasures it has gathered.
An opportunity to acquire wealth.
Krais’s thoughts raced one step further. He read Marcus’s intentions. Was this just pressure? A threat warning them never to strike the Border Guard again?
No way.
There was no way. If Martai cooperated, they could secure trade routes and various benefits. But what if they occupied the territory?
Then it would be a completely different story. The entire board would change. Trade routes wouldn't even be the main issue anymore. It would be like giving wings to the trade territory of the Border Guard.
Martai was nicknamed the mercenary territory of the East. Its military power, strength, and location were all highly useful. If only they could swallow it. If only they could digest it.
"A truly exquisite dish," Krais muttered.
Whether he heard it or not, Marcus spoke again, still baring his fangs. His teeth still reflected the light.
Glint.
"We are going to strike Martai."
Marcus ordered the advance, and the command was spread by the adjutant.
*
Naturally, the same command reached the ears of Encrid, who stood at the vanguard.
"An advance from here?"
In a brief moment, he processed several factors: what Krais had said, their current state, the morale of their forces, and any potential issues.
There were none. No, there was one lingering, unsettling issue. The five mages the enemy had hidden were nowhere to be seen. Were they a hidden trump card, or had they fled the moment they saw the tide of battle turn? There was no way to know.
Rather than calculating it in his head, Encrid understood Marcus’s intention through instinct.
He’s going to take the territory.
What would happen if the growing Border Guard swallowed Martai?
It’ll probably be good, I guess.
What did he care about the aftermath? Encrid simply did what he had to do.
"If you’re tired, you can sit this one out," he gently advised the other four.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"My name is Ragna, and I can still run."
"Haha, Brother Company Commander. Let us go."
Rem, Ragna, and Audin spoke in turn, while Sachsen silently swung his sword through the air before tossing it aside. He then scanned the ground and picked up a relatively intact arming sword.
When Encrid stared at him, Sachsen muttered, "The blade was damaged."
Though it was called an advance, there was no need to rush. Marcus’s intention was clear: a quick march at a moderate pace to maintain morale.
Encrid, of course, was at the vanguard.
"Ragna, were you mocking me earlier?" Encrid asked as they walked.
Ragna tilted his head. "I only spoke with absolute sincerity. My name is Ragna, the man who never backs down. That is who I am."
Hearing that, Rem chimed in from the side, "My name is Rem!" and began to cackle.
They were never normal to begin with, but now they had definitely become a pack of lunatics. Encrid thought so and kept walking.
As he walked, the sunlight beat down on his back. Since they were heading east, it was the light of the setting sun in the west. For a brief moment, a Border Guard soldier looking at his back thought Encrid seemed to be glowing.
Of course, it was an illusion. A mirage. But it was true that he had achieved exploits glorious enough to make him shine.
A soldier with a knack for improvising lyrics began to hum a song. The lyrics were crude and the melody was ordinary—just a mashup of tunes heard somewhere before—but everyone joined in to shout the final lines in unison.
"Who is the flower of battle?"
"The infantry!"
"Who is the strongest in the Border Guard?"
"The madmen!"
It was a troublesome song. Encrid chuckled to himself as he walked ahead. It finally hit him that they had become the undisputed strongest group within the army.
Cheers, shouts, and a song with ridiculous lyrics like "My name is Encrid!" continued.
"Do you like it?" Rem asked from beside him. His smirking face was annoying, but Encrid didn't bother pointing it out.
"It’s not bad."
*
Marcus did not rush. There was no need to show themselves to the enemy yet.
It was half a day after General Ulf had entered his territory. Quietly and silently, like lynxes, they began to set up camp in front of the city.
Ulf had no resources to spare for sending scouts to the rear. It was only natural. It was a defeat—a crushing defeat. He had only managed to return alive because the enemy had opened a path for him. How could he have the peace of mind to look back?
He had returned with his shoulders slumped.
"That miserable bastard."
Ulf resolved that next time, he would definitely slit Marcus’s throat.
Slam!
In his frustration, self-loathing, and humiliation, he slammed his fist against the wall. A section of the wood dented inward.
"The bathwater has been heated, sir."
It was the chief attendant of the inner castle.
"Understood."
It was time to disarm, wash, and suppress the various emotions welling up inside him—fatigue, irritation, and shame—before resting. Ulf, not even wanting to see his wife and daughter, headed to his office.
Let’s sleep on the cot today. That would be best.
He entered his office with that intention, but there was no way sleep would come. It wasn't long after that the office door burst open. The adjutant rushed in alongside a messenger in extreme haste.
Ulf, wearing only a silk shirt, raised himself from the cot.
"What is it?"
The moment he asked, cold sweat broke out down his back. Tension gripped his heart like a vice.
"We are surrounded!" the adjutant cried.
"By whom?"
Had someone attacked after watching them lose to the Border Guard? From where? Could it be a trap laid by Count Molsen?
"It’s the Border Guard standing army!"
The reporting soldier’s eyes shook uncontrollably. He was clearly out of his mind with panic. Not that Ulf was in any state to notice.
"...What?"
Ulf’s mouth fell open in shock. Why on earth were those bastards here? They had fought just a day ago, and they had let him go. So why were they here?
When he questioned the adjutant with his eyes, the man could only stammer.
"What do we do, sir?"
Drip.
Without realizing it, a drop of drool fell from the corner of Ulf’s mouth.
Everything had gone to hell. A defeat, depleted forces with shattered morale, having ground down the troops of a noble ally, and even breaking the sword Count Molsen had given him. It was his own fault for misjudging the Border Guard’s strength.
Drip.
A second drop of drool fell from Ulf’s mouth. Neither the adjutant nor the messenger found it disgusting. They, too, were in a state of complete, paralyzing panic.