Chapter 284: If They Lack Experience, Let Them Build It; If They Have Weaknesses, Eliminate Them
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 284: If They Lack Experience, Let Them Build It; If They Have Weaknesses, Eliminate Them
A series of small-scale skirmishes had subtly shifted the atmosphere of the battlefield.
Are they planning to fight or not?
That was the question burning in the minds of the Black Sword mercenaries and the cultists alike.
They had expected a fierce, decisive clash, but every engagement so far had been utterly anticlimactic. It had happened over a dozen times already. Yet, they couldn't simply launch a reckless preemptive strike.
"The Lord of the Demon Realm said never to trust bandits."
The cultists felt as though the Black Sword would pull some underhanded trick the moment their backs were turned. The forces of Viscount Tarnin felt exactly the same way about their "allies."
"Don't charge first. Just hold the line for now."
"Ah, are they attacking again today? Don't those bastards ever get tired of this?"
Lycanos spoke as Tarnin stuffed a piece of jerky between two thick slices of bread. The man never stopped stuffing his face for even a second.
The tension that had gripped the camp earlier was gone. Because the Border Guard Standing Army kept pulling such bizarre stunts, the edge had naturally worn off.
Of course, Lycanos was different.
There's something going on.
He couldn't pinpoint it, but the instincts he had honed over years on the battlefield were screaming at him. The enemy's maneuvers were far from ordinary. It was ominous—extremely, deeply, terribly so.
Beside him, the pig of a viscount started babbling again. He was spouting nonsense about how they should just strike now and wipe the enemy out, boasting that their numbers were far superior.
"Shut your mouth."
Lycanos was not a fool who ignored his own intuition. The viscount squawked in indignation, but Lycanos ignored him.
"Maintain defensive posture."
Lycanos had to stick to the same strategy. He had no choice. He couldn't trust the cultists, and he certainly couldn't trust the Azpen bastards.
Getting stabbed in the back? That would disgrace the name of the Black Sword.
The group he belonged to was destined to become the greatest bandit guild on the continent. A group like that couldn't afford to walk into an obvious trap.
And so, on a winter day under clear skies and bright sunlight, a new day of battle dawned.
*
"The pain that kills me lies ahead!"
"Kill the pain!"
Bell thought the chants were getting weirder by the day, but he found himself contributing to the madness anyway.
"Killer pain!"
The words had morphed into something even more bizarre, but the chants weren't the only things that had changed. The soldiers' movements were different now. There was no longer any need to bark orders laced with curses.
It was only natural. They were already well-trained—beaten and tormented by the members of the Mad Company. From the very beginning, those who hadn't completed basic training weren't even allowed on the roster.
This, too, was Krais's idea.
And here we are, already short on troops.
Bell had initially thought it was a load of bullshit. He wanted to argue that a real battlefield didn't work that way. Of course, in the end, he hadn't said a single word.
"Do it."
Encrid had stood behind the decision, and Graham had given his approval.
"The point is this: if they lack experience, let them build it; if they have weaknesses, eliminate them. That's what this is for."
Mixing in poorly trained soldiers only weakens the overall force. Gather only those tempered by training and strike. Like iron that only grows stronger when beaten, strike them with the hammer of real combat.
The theory born in Krais's mind had become reality, embodied by men like Bell. Soldiers, and yet more soldiers—forces that had survived a training regimen that was hell itself, now tempered by the hammer of actual warfare.
"The flower of the battlefield is!"
"The infantry!"
"The flower of pain is!"
"Goddamn pleasure!"
The corrupted chants, the heat, the cheers, and a boiling sensation burned in their chests.
"Kill them all!" Bell roared.
Hadn't they been told that if the previous fight was one step, they had to take two steps in this one? Instead of merely testing the waters, they were now boldly instigating the fight.
Bell was at the very front. He saw the eyes of an approaching Black Sword mercenary. Glaring through the slits of a heavy iron helmet, eyes gleaming with murderous intent locked onto him.
The bastard swung a greatsword over his head. A heavy, powerful blow came crashing down. Bell didn't flinch. At this rate, he was as good as dead.
Instead of blocking, Bell planted his left foot, twisted his waist, and channeled strength into both arms. With a creak, the muscles in his arms swelled. He focused, pouring in every ounce of power, and thrust his spear straight forward.
It was a strike he had contemplated for days—a thrust delivered by twisting his entire body.
Is this crazy bastard suicidal? Though taken aback, the mercenary drove his sword down anyway. It was practically a mutual death pact.
I just have to cut him down first. The mercenary planned to slice through him while dodging the spear, assuming the strike would lose its power once its wielder was hit.
However, the descending sword never reached its mark. Before he knew it, two soldiers had closed in from the sides, covering Bell's head with their thick round shields.
Clang!
The blade struck the shields. Meanwhile, a blow that no ordinary gambeson, leather, or chainmail could stop slammed into the mercenary's torso.
Thwack!
The finely sharpened spearhead tore through the gambeson and leather, punching a hole straight through his stomach. The spear shaft protruded from the middle of his torso like some grotesque ornament.
"You... crazy bastard..." the enemy soldier spat, blood gushing from his mouth.
Dropping his sword, he clutched the spear shaft impaling him, stumbled, and collapsed backward. Screeech. The spearhead protruding from his back scraped against the ground as the mercenary's body tilted and fell. He died propped up at a sickening angle.
"It's called strategy, you stupid monkey," Bell said, letting go of the spear.
Trying to pull it out would take too much effort. He fell back and grabbed a fresh spear.
They operated in three-man cells. One would punch holes in the enemy with thrusts, while the other two blocked and held the line.
"One spearman and two shield-bearing soldiers make a team."
It was an improvised, sub-squad-level tactic. But just because it was improvised didn't mean they couldn't pull it off. Most of the training they had endured—shedding blood and sweat while pushing their bodies like golems—had been focused on enhancing individual physical capabilities.
Besides, the tactic wasn't structurally complex. Having adapted over the past dozen days, the Border Guard Standing Army clearly pushed back the forces of Viscount Tarnin in their first large-scale clash.
"Fuck, cut them down! Smash them, shields and all! Bash them with maces!"
"Archers! Are you just going to stand there and watch?"
Up until now, it had been an unspoken infantry-on-infantry battle. The enemy was the first to deploy archers.
"Bullshit. Kill them."
The Vengeance Archers, who had been waiting for exactly that, moved out. A platoon composed of the swift-footed and sharp-eyed quickly notched arrows and released the taut, angry strings.
Thrum-thrum-thrum!
Fifty longbows fired in unison. A rain of arrows poured down upon the enemy's flanks.
"Fall back! I said fall back!" Bell shouted mid-fight.
The Border Guard Standing Army scrambled backward in perfect order. Anyone watching this would have been filled with sheer admiration.
There wasn't a massive difference in the sheer number of troops on either side. The Standing Army barely numbered over a thousand. Meanwhile, Viscount Tarnin's forces had somehow swelled to over two thousand five hundred. Troops had kept pouring in from various locations to gather.
Of course, not all of them were fighting at once. Both sides had deployed only a portion of their forces. The Border Guard Standing Army threw in about two hundred and fifty men, while the opposing viscount's forces deployed nearly four hundred.
Despite the numerical disadvantage, and the fact that Viscount Tarnin's army had several high-profile mercenaries scattered throughout their ranks... and that their soldiers fought with desperate resolve because Battle Overseers stood behind them with bared, bloodthirsty blades... the outcome of the battle was clear.
"A trained army defeats the individual," Krais muttered from atop the hill.
Finn, who was in charge of guarding him, replied, "What kind of bullshit is that?"
It wasn't something she could easily comprehend.
"I'm just saying."
"They should've assigned me to the Captain. Guard duty, my foot," Finn grumbled.
At that very moment, Encrid was also doing his part.
*
"It's here," Sachsen spoke as he trudged along, prompting Encrid to speak.
"Ragna?"
"Why are you calling me?"
Good, he was here. If Ragna was present, they had everything they needed. Encrid's gaze fell upon Teresa, her face concealed behind her helmet.
Is she going to be okay?
He had told her she could sit this one out, but she had refused.
"I am Teresa the Wanderer. I merely walk the path my sword and shield must take."
Led by Sachsen, the Mad Company didn't even bother to hide their movements. There was no need. With a massive pitched battle underway, everyone's attention was focused elsewhere. Thus, they killed every scout they encountered along the way.
If there were no eyes to see, there would be no tongues to tell.
While the Black Sword and the Standing Army fought a bloody battle, Encrid's company reached the cultist encampment.
"I thought I'd die of boredom," Rem said, his eyes gleaming. It was as if he suffered from some disease where thorns would grow in his mouth if he didn't decapitate someone once every three days.
"Let's go."
Encrid approached the crudely constructed wooden barricade. As they drew near, a low growl echoed, and a pungent, wild stench hit their noses. He turned his head. Yellow eyes glared back.
It was a wolf demonic beast, standing on all fours and baring its fangs.
Grrrrr!
The moment their eyes met, the beast kicked off the ground and lunged. The wolf became a blur, hurtling forward with its fangs bared. Since it came from the left, it was heading straight toward Dunchabel.
The instant the wolf demonic beast sprang, a sharp ting of clashing metal rang out. Mid-air, the beast met a silver line.
Naturally, it was Dunchabel's doing. The scimitar drawn from her waist traced a crescent moon. The silver blade, slicing diagonally, cleaved the beast from its right shoulder down to its left leg. With a wet splat, blood and entrails spilled onto the ground as the bisected carcass twitched and collapsed.
"Kill it cleanly, will you?" Rem commented.
Dunchabel flicked her scimitar, sending blood dripping to the ground. "This is clean enough."
"You don't know anything," Rem snorted.
Grrrrr!
No sooner had Rem finished speaking than yellow eyes multiplied all around them. It wasn't even night; they had swept through the scouts in broad daylight and charged straight in.
The wild stench was enough to paralyze one's sense of smell. The odor of excrement wafting from the camp made their noses ache. It wasn't that the cultist army had anticipated the Mad Company's movements. Rather, this was a dagger plunged at a time when anyone would think, There's no way they'd come here. It was completely unexpected.
The pack of wolf demonic beasts swarming out wasn't due to foresight; they were simply guarding the barricade. The cultist camp lay nestled among undulating mounds, and the surrounding terrain was far from flat. It was a small, rugged hill zone with plenty of places to hide.
From between the mounds, the wolf pack emerged one after another. Beasts tainted by demonic energy bared their fangs from all sides.
Growl!
Rem held his two axes parallel to the ground. "Watch. This is what clean looks like."
Then, he kicked off the ground and leapt. There was no time for words. His charge was half a beat faster than the wolf demonic beasts could react. Closing the distance in an instant, he suddenly appeared right in front of the nearest beast.
He lunged and slashed. His axe-wielding arm seemed to bend fluidly, and with a wet thud, a wolf's head flew into the air. In rapid succession, several more heads floated into the sky. Rem did what he always did: he hacked, slashed, and cleaved everything in sight.
"How on earth is that clean?" Dunchabel remarked. Encrid agreed. It wasn't clean at all. But it was devastating.
"How exhilarating, Brother," Audin murmured.
The wolf demonic beasts had been faithful to their guard duty, and they were slaughtered in droves because of it. Encrid adjusted his sword belt as he watched the cultists appearing beyond the barricade. It was a minor adjustment—preparation to give his best, no matter the opponent.
"Ambush!"
Looking at the shouting enemy soldier, Encrid prepared to draw his sword. His posture made it obvious he was about to charge. Seeing this, some of the enemy soldiers raised their crossbows.
"The Lord of the Demon Realm watches over us!"
With a fanatical cry, a cultist loaded his crossbow and tried to aim. From his sword-drawing stance, Encrid suddenly flicked both hands outward. It seemed like an abrupt, random movement, but the result was anything but.
Screeech!
A whistling sound tore through the air, and along with it, the throats of four crossbowmen.
"Gurgle!"
One of them collapsed, clutching his throat. A new, gaping hole in his neck gushed blood instead of air. All four of the cultist crossbowmen hit the dirt.
"You're quite the trickster," Sachsen muttered from behind. It was hard to tell if he was impressed or mocking.
Encrid didn't care. Feigning a sword draw while throwing Whistle Daggers was an excellent tactic. Posture is preparation. Deceiving the opponent is also preparation.
Awooooooo!
A chilling wolf howl echoed from deep within the cultist camp. It was a howl imbued with magic designed to paralyze the body.
"Hey, can someone shut those dogs up?" Rem said, drenched in the black blood of the demonic beasts. As he grinned, his strangely white teeth and the black blood coating him made him look like the very embodiment of terror.
Not a single person here was paralyzed by a mere howl. Even Dunchabel merely grumbled, "Just flying heads doesn't make it clean."
"T-The... God of the Demon Realm..." One of the cultists trembled, his jaw shaking at the sight.
"Huh? What? I can't hear you over the sound of you worshipping such a shitty god," Rem said, cupping a hand to his ear while holding his axe. Then, he began to run wild with even greater excitement.
From the enemy's perspective, a madman had just been unleashed.
Encrid and the rest of the group did their parts. Sachsen set fire to the tents and supplies, while Ragna, standing behind Encrid, deftly sliced and diced any enemies that rushed them. Teresa and Dunchabel charged to the left and right, crushing heads regardless of whether they belonged to beasts or humans.
There was no need to drag this out. Once Encrid confirmed the black smoke rising, he signaled. He threw a Whistle Dagger into the sky.
Screeeeeeeeech!
At the long, drawn-out whistle, the entire company fell back. Their goal from the start had been a hit-and-run. While the enemy commander was busy gathering guards to protect his own skin, they set fire to the supplies and fled.
"Rem!" Encrid shouted as he retreated.
"Go on ahead!"
Since Rem wasn't following, Encrid called out to him, and that was the reply he received. Is he just too excited?
That was half the reason; the need to cover their rear was the other. Before they knew it, other beasts, along with four demonic beasts twice the size of the others, were rushing toward them. Someone needed to hold them off so the rest could escape.
"Let's just leave and hope he dies this time," Sachsen said, though he didn't mean it.
"Or I can stay behind," Ragna suggested.
If Ragna stayed behind, Encrid doubted the boy would return before winter ended. He wasn't worried about Rem. This was Rem, after all. Getting himself out of trouble would be child's play for him.
"We're leaving first," Encrid said.