Chapter 283: Fortunately, They Were Stupid
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 283: Fortunately, They Were Stupid
Huh. This is actually working out quite well.
Encrid had stood atop the platform and publicly declared his intent to dispatch assassins.
Of course, he had no intention of doing so—at least, not yet. Sending them now would have been a rookie mistake. Krais knew this all too well, which was exactly why he decided to weaponize Encrid’s words.
What would happen if they threatened to slit the enemy commander’s throat immediately? What if those words reached the enemy’s ears?
If it were me?
They would hesitate to make the first move. They would bolster their guards and double their sentries. If they were looking over their shoulders, they would be far less likely to order an all-out assault.
They’ll be even more cautious, constantly trying to read our moves.
Krais even went as far as staging "secret" troop movements under the cover of darkness. He subtly leaked information, practically begging the enemy spies to report it. He was squeezing every bit of utility out of Encrid’s public threat.
Even better than I expected.
His strategy was already predicated on both sides hesitating to attack while gauging each other's strength. It was bound to work, but Encrid’s single remark had made it twice as effective.
He really does have a sharp mind.
Though the Captain himself seemed to find thinking a chore, he was a deep thinker when it mattered. He was quick-witted, too.
And indeed, the plan worked perfectly.
The enemies, already hesitant, refrained from attacking and focused entirely on tightening their defenses. The number of torch stands lighting up the night increased. Friendly scouts rode so hard in every direction that both horses and riders were practically foaming at the mouth.
Even so, Krais couldn't shake his anxiety. What should he do then? Seeing things with one's own eyes usually eased the nerves. What he needed now were eyes.
And on the battlefield, the eyes were the scouts.
"The scouts will decide the outcome of this battle," Krais said.
Vengeance nodded more vigorously than ever. "Tell me about it."
After that, he drove his scouts like a man possessed.
"Run, all of you! If you get lazy, the other soldiers die! Pain is—!"
"What kills the weak!"
Though their chants seemed to grow stranger by the moment, the effect was undeniable. They moved with purpose.
The friendly forces gathered, reorganized, and spent the day preparing. As dawn broke, they marched out of the castle gates against the backdrop of a gloomy sky.
"All troops, forward!"
The voices of veteran soldiers, positioned as the core of each unit, echoed from all directions. Krais watched them, still feeling an ominous foreboding. It was always like this. He was always anxious, always filled with dread.
It’s fine, he told himself.
If things went south, he could just run. That thought gave him a small sense of relief, acting as an anchor that allowed his mind to function properly. A ship that had cast its anchor would not easily be swept away by the waves.
West of the Border Guard, the troops marched onto a wasteland unfit for farming. From a small hill slightly to the south, Krais watched the battlefield, escorted by two squads.
How would things unfold? Would it go according to plan? Or would the unexpected happen? Or would the enemy read his intentions and launch a counterattack?
What if they launch an all-out attack from both sides, squeezing us in a pincer movement?
That would be the worst-case scenario. There would be no way to stop it. Even if there were ten Encrids, some things were simply impossible.
"I'm bored, Big-Eyes," Rem grumbled.
The barbarian had tagged along as an escort, his axe resting on one shoulder. A murderous glint flickered in his half-closed eyes. His posture and gaze made it abundantly clear that he wanted to go out and slaughter something this very instant.
Krais was not his usual self. Ignoring the barbarian's attitude, he spoke calmly. "Just wait. You'll get to fight so much that you'll be begging to stop."
Right now, Krais's mind was working at full capacity. He was cramming everything into his head—the enemy's intentions, the enemy commanders' thoughts, their personalities, their decision-making tendencies—and analyzing it all.
It was a sharp, almost irritable response, but Rem uncharacteristically shut his mouth. Even to him, Krais seemed different from usual.
I guess this bastard is useful for something.
Rem was only a fool on the outside. He, too, knew how to think; it was just that he viewed everything through his own narrow lens.
Krais didn't even notice that Rem was behaving himself. His mind was still spinning furiously. In any case, the key lay in the small elite force. How they were deployed would decide the victory or defeat of this battle.
Amidst the dread and anxiety, Krais felt a strange thrill.
If everything goes according to plan...
...they might actually pull off a successful defense. He didn't worry about minor variables. Micro-level variables were for the troops on the ground to handle. Krais's mind naturally began to paint the next picture. What would it take to win more easily? What did they need?
What if we standardized the branches of service and unified their equipment?
His thoughts flowed, sketching out the future. Standardized equipment, reorganizing the soldiers into units that utilized the same tactics based on that gear. Powerful soldiers moving like the limbs of their commander—a standardized army forged through rigorous training.
He had heard that the Imperial soldiers fought that way. If so, wouldn't it be possible for the Border Guard Standing Army as well? A small group of exceptionally talented individuals would be kept separate, but the rest of the units would possess a uniform strength. The standardization of forces.
With standardized branches and equipment... even soldiers who might lose in a duel... will win in battles of company-scale or larger.
While small-scale elite skirmishes were important, large-scale battles were equally crucial. To win a large-scale battle, uniformity was key. They could lose the one-on-ones and the ten-on-tens, as long as they won the hundred-on-hundreds.
This was a new realization he had reached while watching his allies assemble. Coining terms like swordsmen, spearmen, and shield-bearers, Krais quietly organized his thoughts. He figured this idea would come in handy or be worth selling off at some point in the future.
*
When the Border Guard Standing Army actually marched out, Viscount Tarnin was suddenly seized with fear.
"To me, pain is—!"
"Joy!"
"Bring it on!"
At a glance, they seemed to outnumber his own forces, and their equipment looked superior.
"Don't be afraid. That's exactly what they want," said Lycanos, a warrior from the Black Sword.
The handle of a weapon jutted up over his shoulder; he wore a mace slung diagonally across his back. The round iron head of the mace, which peeked out past his hip, was studded with sharp spikes. It was a weapon that looked incredibly heavy just by looking at it.
Lycanos's forearms were as thick as an average woman's thigh, and he wore leather gloves reinforced with iron plates. He looked like the kind of man who could crush a human skull without breaking a sweat. In fact, he was capable of doing almost everything Tarnin imagined—like crushing a skull with his bare hands.
In other words, he was a renowned powerhouse even within the Black Sword. He was a man whom no one could command, save for the leader of the band.
"No, but what on earth are those cultists doing?"
"Those bastards are probably just waiting to see which way the wind blows."
Lycanos was an excellent warrior who fought well, but he wasn't particularly bright. Tarnin was even worse.
One of the nobles, who had been nervously reading the room, quietly spoke up. "The rumors inside the Border Guard are terrible. There's a long line of people ready to flee at any moment."
He was a noble who had fled from the territory. Viscount Tarnin furrowed his brow at those words. If their interior was so rotten and broken, then what was the meaning of the display before them?
"Pain!"
"Agony!"
"I want to hurt!"
"Make me hurt!"
Were they just crazy? Had they all taken some kind of drug together?
"...When I left, their army wasn't even properly controlled," the noble's voice trailed off.
Lycanos wanted to split the man's skull open right then and there, but he held back. It didn't matter anyway.
"Just match their moves for now!"
If they launched an all-out war now, would the cultists react? What about Azpen across the border? Probably not. They were all filthy, self-serving bastards. If his own forces were depleted here, there might not be a next time. He couldn't risk getting stabbed in the back by those cultists.
"Damn it all, we only crush the ones who attack us!"
He said this, believing it to be a reasonable response. One of Viscount Tarnin's subordinates pursed his lips.
If we launch an all-out attack right now, the cultist forces and Azpen will join in. Then it'll be over.
He hesitated for a moment, then kept his mouth shut. If he spoke up now, he would immediately be accused of being a spy obsessed with the cult.
"Y-You! You're a spy, aren't you?!"
Sure enough, the fat pig Viscount Tarnin was already slapping the noble who had come from the Border Guard. A thick palm collided with the man's cheek, producing a crisp harmony.
Slap!
"Argh! Oh, mercy! No, I'm not! I'm really not! When I left, the army's morale was absolute garbage!"
The slapped noble collapsed to the ground, crying out in distress.
"Cut the bullshit!"
Tarnin unleashed his pent-up anger on the noble. The man begged for his life, rubbing his hands together. Seeing a man get thoroughly trampled like that, the subordinate's urge to speak vanished completely.
The higher-ups will figure it out.
He gave up on the idea. Lycanos did as he said. The battle took on a pattern of merely matching the enemy's moves.
"Once they bleed each other a bit, that's when we move."
The Wolf Bishop acted exactly as Lycanos expected.
There's no need for the blood of our believers to be spilled first.
The cultist forces held their breath. The assassination squad hadn't come yesterday, but who was to say they wouldn't come today? A messenger from the Black Sword arrived, spouting nonsense about helping them immediately.
"We must keep the Martai garrison in check and prepare for assassinations."
A flat refusal. Hearing this, veins bulged on Lycanos's forehead, but there was nothing he could do right away, while Viscount Tarnin's pig-like squeals only echoed louder.
"If we get hit like this, we're finished!"
Lycanos was seized with the urge to slit the noisy pig's throat right then and there, but the pig was their pretext and excuse for this war. He was a pig that could not be killed.
*
Azpen invested resources to investigate the situation beyond their territory. They utilized everything from spies and scouts to sorcery and magic.
"Are we moving?"
At his subordinate's question, a man swept his hair back. The green hair covering his forehead was brushed back and then fell back down. Feeling the soft rustle of his hair, the man spoke.
"It's not our turn yet."
His eyes gleamed coldly. The genius strategist of Azpen, a man who had been demoted for a time due to his defeat in the previous war, was named Abnayor. He had clearly defined the objective of this battle.
A single head was the top priority. Expanding their territory was a secondary concern. He had prepared a mountain of things for this very purpose.
His heart fluttered. Just how long will he hold out?
He wasn't the type of person who derived pleasure from tormenting others, but as a strategist, watching how well his preparations would work was the ultimate pleasure.
*
"You crazy bastards! What did I tell you? My word is the word of God! It is the light! Huh? Listen up! I said listen!"
At the squad leader's shout, the squad members cried out in unison.
"Sir, yes, sir!"
They were all pushed to their limits. And with good reason. In a short span of time, they had learned absolute obedience to orders. The newer the recruits, the harder they were driven. It wasn't out of malice. The veteran squad leaders and platoon leaders had received their orders. They were simply doing as they were told.
"I will make them fight with hot blood but cold minds, so they don't get swept away by the heat of the battlefield," Krais had barked, but of course, they hadn't paid him any mind.
Then Encrid stepped forward. The black-haired, blue-eyed madman of the battlefield spoke.
"I don't care if you beat them half to death, just make sure they listen to their commanders. And you will listen to your superior officers. If you don't, you die. Rem and I will take turns supervising the training and beating you."
No matter what their previous status had been, and regardless of whether they were clever or not, once they served as soldiers, simple was always best. They followed Encrid's words.
Among them was Bell. Bell, who had now become a platoon leader, screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Do you all want to die?!"
"Argh!"
"Don't break formation! I said don't break formation!"
It was the vanguard of the battle. Bell's shout erupted from the very front. Though Krais had specifically requested this of Graham, the majority of the forces deployed now were recruits experiencing their very first battle.
One recruit couldn't hear any of the surrounding noise. All he could see were the demonic enemies closing in. Spears, swords, shields, hammers, maces, and flails filled his vision.
Ah.
Am I ready? Is my judgment sharp enough? Should I thrust my spear now? Or should I raise my shield to block?
Just as his thoughts spiraled and his mind was about to go completely blank—
Smack!
Someone smacked him hard on the back of his head. He was hit so hard that he saw stars. Color rushed back into his blank mind. His surroundings finally came into focus.
"You crazy bastard, repeat the order!"
The curse pierced his ears. It was the platoon leader's shout.
"Yes, sir!"
"First row, thrust!"
"First row, thrust!"
They did exactly as they were told. Most of the recruits thrust their spears forward.
"Back! Back! Fall back, damn it, fall back! I'll deal with you later! I'll kill you!"
The shouts of the veteran soldiers who had become squad leaders echoed everywhere. And so, the first minor skirmish passed.
Having set out at sunrise, their slow march brought them into contact with the enemy by noon, and the battle began. Total force of eighty men, engaging an enemy infantry unit of about two platoons.
Friendly casualties: six wounded. Zero dead.
They thrust their spears fiercely and held their ground with shields, but maintained a proper distance and fell back when necessary. In truth, this was not due to the enemy's mercy, but thanks to their own command.
"Why did they stop attacking?" a mercenary from the Black Sword asked, feeling awkward. Just as his blood was pumping and he was about to go wild, the enemy retreated. Naturally, he couldn't pursue them alone. Consequently, the order to retreat was also given to the Black Sword unit.
A similar battle took place the next day. Only the faces were different; the roster of soldiers had changed. In the second battle, an unlucky soldier from the Black Sword failed to block an attack and died when a spearhead grazed his neck. He was a serf from Viscount Tarnin's territory.
It meant they were a hastily assembled force. Graham and the frontline commanders recognized the enemy's state at a glance. Viscount Tarnin's army was a loose, clumsy mess.
Even so, they didn't just rush in to fight. Instead, for the third battle, they opened the south gate and picked a fight with the cultists.
"Are you lads a bit slow? Come on, did you just come to watch?"
The battle began with a soldier's shout, provoking the enemy in a thick northern dialect. It was another similar skirmish. At most three companies, at least two, took turns fighting and then pulled back.
In this manner, they fought four, five, six times—a total of twelve minor skirmishes. The total death toll was six. And the majority of the surviving soldiers now had a rough idea of what combat was. Above all, they were survivors of Encrid's brutal training. Real combat experience quickly filled in whatever gaps they had left.
And just as Krais had intended, it had the effect of making the Border Guard Standing Army appear much larger than it actually was. To the enemy, their way of fighting was abnormal.
Of course it was. Who in their right mind would conduct live-combat training in the middle of such a crisis?
"Fortunately, it seems only idiots have gathered on their side," Krais said with a sigh of relief, looking at Sinar and Encrid. "Now, you can finally do what you came here to do."
Sinar turned to Encrid with calm eyes and said, "Isn't this a bit much for a pre-wedding event?"
"What wedding?"
"Our engagement ceremony, of course."
It was her usual silly elven joke. Encrid grabbed the torch stand in the center of the quarters. Sinar reacted instantly, shifting her left foot toward the exit of the barracks. For some reason, this elf was highly sensitive to fire.
"Are you alright?"
"Your jokes are too harsh. You're mean."
The elf spoke expressionlessly and stepped out of the barracks. Encrid chuckled, returned to his spot, and checked his gear.
"Well, then. It's time for our mission."
He spoke, and everyone stood up. There stood a pack of beasts, itching for a fight after being kept on a leash for the past dozen days.