Chapter 307: The Most Foolish Commander in the World
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 307: The Most Foolish Commander in the World
Sachsen stood directly behind the vanguard.
Encrid was the lightning rod, drawing every eye and every blade.
So, what was Sachsen’s role?
He scanned the enemy ranks. To be precise, he read the entire enemy horde through his sharpened senses. He didn't even need to see them all; his trained intuition allowed him to judge an opponent's skill simply by listening.
He felt their unfaltering strides, their confidence-filled battle cries, their closing speed, and the eerie calm in their eyes amidst the slaughter.
Having grasped the enemy's level in his own way—distinct from Audin’s—Sachsen thrust his sword through the gaps in the formation. A long blade hissed from his waist, piercing forward like a viper.
"Kill them all!"
His first target was a brute wielding a heavy war hammer.
The weighted head of the hammer slammed into an ally's shield. Just as the wielder was using the recoil to recover his weapon, squelch—a blade pierced the man's stomach. It thrust in deep and vanished just as quickly.
"Huh?"
The soldier blinked. What was that?
What else but a blade?
Behind the shield, cold eyes stared back at him.
Swish.
The moment their eyes met, a blade curved like a snake and slashed the hammer-wielder’s throat.
This was a technique Sachsen had interpreted in his own way after watching Encrid's Soft Sword Style. Looking at the trajectory, it was closer to a Technique Sword, a style entirely distinct from Encrid’s own.
"Ugh, gurgle..."
The man tried to speak, clutching his throat as he collapsed backward. Whether he was foaming blood or not didn't matter; the boots of allies and enemies alike trampled over the corpse of the soldier who had dropped his hammer.
Sachsen repeated the cycle.
Hiding among the ranks of his allies, he delivered lethal, single thrusts. He targeted only soldiers of special grade or higher. He ignored those who stood out too much—the ones who would be a hassle to kill in a single blow.
Sachsen performed his duty with cold efficiency.
His allies were oblivious to his contribution, but some of the commanders sensed a strange shift in the tide.
"Why does it feel like we're winning?" an allied platoon leader muttered.
On paper, they were supposed to be outmatched in terms of official military strength. So why were they gaining ground? The reason was a mystery.
But did it matter right now? No.
"Fight! Push them baaaack!" the commander roared, doing his own job at the top of his lungs. "Stay together! Don't scatter!"
Infantry warfare on the continent was fundamentally a chaotic brawl. The more they clustered, the stronger they were; to be separated was to die.
The battle between the two armies was a grueling match. The Border Guard standing army, which had arrived as reinforcements, fought with ferocious intensity.
"They're flanking! Don't let those bastards pass!"
"What does not kill me!"
"Only makes me stronger!"
"Pain!"
"Strength!"
Those who had survived the previous battlefields had been forged into veterans. This was a unit of seasoned killers. Their quality was on an entirely different level compared to the battalion originally stationed in Greenpearl. They held the line against the enemy forces curving toward the right.
"It's the Gray Dogs!"
"Those persistent bastards!"
It was an enemy unit famous even among the allies. They were executing a flanking maneuver, and the Border Guard standing army moved to intercept.
"Crazy bastards."
The Gray Dogs lived up to their reputation. Even though the Border Guard standing army outnumbered them, the allies seemed to be losing ground.
But it was fine. Because there were monsters raging at the front.
Encrid went wild, using his Heavy Sword Style as a foundation, while Sachsen lurked within the Greenpearl unit, selectively assassinating those who fought too well or barked orders. Thanks to them, though they should have been crushed by Azpen's elite soldiers, they managed to maintain a strange, bloody balance.
Ragna slipped behind Encrid's left flank. He intended to do his part by picking off enemies one by one. Swinging his sword, Ragna felt his motivation slowly simmering.
It had been years since he lived without drive. He still needed a spark to throw himself into action with true vigor. Ragna was the type of man whose engine took a while to warm up.
It was then.
He felt a surge of killing intent from his left. The moment he registered it, a sliver of cold iron hissed past his face. Ragna jerked his head back.
It was a narrow escape—a consequence of his slow start. Fortunately, whether his mind was slow or fast, his body reacted instinctively to such lethality.
A drop of blood splattered as the blade grazed his cheek. The leather helmet protecting his face was sliced open, its lower half dangling uselessly.
"You dodged that?"
The man who had thrust the sword immediately retreated.
Ragna recognized the skill at a glance. He's a good fighter.
Though he might not have realized it himself, his first emotion was a sense of welcome. Had he not been wishing for an opponent who could reignite his fire? There was a thirst that Encrid alone could not quench. A life-or-death struggle where blood was spilled—that was what Ragna craved.
There was no need to find a path. Thus, there was no reason to get lost. He only had to hunt the back of the retreating bastard.
Ragna ripped off his uncomfortable helmet and hurled it aside. After a few steps, an enemy soldier wielding a short sword blocked his path.
"You bastard!"
Where else would the man who grazed him run? Back toward his own allies. As Ragna pursued him, he naturally penetrated deep into the enemy lines.
The enemy soldiers reacted. Ragna reacted faster.
He thrust and withdrew his sword in a single, fluid stride.
Squelch. A single strike left a hole in an enemy's neck. Perhaps because of the residual momentum from his own spear-thrust, the soldier's body tilted forward before collapsing.
While the man fell, Ragna cut down five more and shattered the enemy line. It was an incredibly reckless charge, but it threw the enemy formation into complete disarray.
Consequently, the allied commanders nearby felt once again that the battle had become strangely easy.
Are they actually pushovers?
It made their contingency plans for a retreat look foolish.
"Fight! Fight and kill them all!"
The battle lines had long since dissolved. In a chaotic brawl, all that mattered was who killed more. The platoon commander, knowing this well, shouted until his throat was raw.
"Pain is!"
It was a slogan that had spread through the ranks before anyone even realized it.
*
"Our forces are being pushed back."
At his adjutant's words, Abnayor smiled. Since everything was going exactly as planned, how could he not?
"Just as expected."
The adjutant bit his lip. He could not understand this operation. Wasn't success here practically indistinguishable from failure?
"I will become the greatest fool in history—the commander who got a thousand of his own soldiers killed," Abnayor said.
"Is this truly right, sir?"
"It is."
There was not a shred of doubt. The genius's voice was clear and resolute. The adjutant bowed his head. He could no longer even attempt to stop him.
*
Now, show me what you've hidden.
Krais closely watched the enemy's movements. They had to be planning something. Encrid was running rampant, and thanks to Sachsen, the enemy's morale was plummeting.
Though, in the midst of the chaos, he had no idea where Ragna had disappeared to.
This isn't the end, is it?
He had kept Sinar and Dunchabel as his trump cards. One should never show all their moves before seeing the opponent's hand.
"Hey, Big-Eyes, I want to fight," Dunchabel said, resting her hand on the hilt of her scimitar as she nudged his side.
"Wait."
"What am I, a dog? You tell me to wait, and I'm just supposed to sit here?"
Beside them, Sinar stood silently with her arms crossed, her eyes half-closed.
"Try to be calm like the Elf Company Commander."
"I'm a beastman, not an elf!"
While placating Dunchabel, Krais never took his eyes off the battlefield. Although the front as a whole maintained a strange balance, their chances of winning in localized skirmishes were rising. Ultimately, those small victories would accumulate and secure the entire battlefield.
This was the picture Krais had painted. He didn't let variables remain just variables; he forced them to influence the whole. He had even devised a plan to fall back and buy time if the enemy made a move, but so far, there was no need.
Then why was Azpen just watching? Why weren't they revealing their hidden hand? There was definitely something. There had to be. Otherwise, why would they march so slowly and initiate a battle at the end of winter?
They don't have a trick? Are they just idiots?
Of course not.
"Messeeeenger! Messeeeengeeer!"
A messenger came sprinting from the rear. Krais had intentionally kept Nurat, who led a sharp-eyed and fast-footed unit, in the back. Garret had been left in the command tent merely as a figurehead.
Nurat was the practical combat commander of the Greenpearl Battalion. She was sharp and quick-witted, and she had just done exactly what was needed.
"A portion of their forces is flanking us! Their numbers are significant!"
Upon receiving the report, a map flashed through Krais's mind. The terrain he had memorized, the trajectory of the enemy's movement... what was the opponent's aim?
The Border Guard.
They were targeting the rear. Perhaps some of their forces had already slipped through.
"To the rear!"
Dunchabel and Sinar moved instantly. It was time to block the card the opponent had finally played.
*
"The second flanking force has been discovered."
"Good!"
At those words, Abnayor clapped his hands. Not everything could go according to plan; the battlefield was a living, breathing thing. But if one secured at least a single goal...
That, I can achieve.
The battlefield is ruled by a select elite. It was a saying Abnayor knew well. Then, what if he killed that elite? Talent is finite. It is not infinite. How many geniuses could there be in a single era? Very few are worthy of the name. The small number of knights in the world proved this.
Therefore...
I will give up a single battlefield.
And win the war.
Even if he was branded a notorious slaughterer or the most foolish commander in the world, Abnayor would still laugh.
"Are the preparations ready?"
"They are complete."
"Very well. Proceed."
The adjutant bowed and withdrew.
*
Just as Krais had anticipated, Abnayor had sent a portion of his cavalry toward the Border Guard.
"Enemy forces!"
The Border Guard, never letting down their guard, had spotted them in advance. Rem, who had been grumbling all day, sprang to his feet. The news made him forget the cold in an instant.
"Who's here?"
Even if a lover he had parted with ten years ago were to visit, she wouldn't be more welcome than an enemy to kill.
"Brother, they say if your heart is in a hurry, you will fail to see the puddles and get your shoes wet," Audin said, stepping forward.
"Why don't you say that after putting down your club?"
"Haha, Brother. The Lord said that protecting one's own body is the beginning of all things."
He was truly like an Apostle of the God of War. His attitude essentially screamed that he would beat everyone to death for the sake of "protection."
Teresa tried to stand as well, but stopped when she met Audin's gaze. The injuries she had sustained while killing the Wolf Bishop were severe. Fighting now would only ruin her body. Audin would not stand by and let that happen.
"Sister, you will wait."
"...Yes."
Teresa was disappointed, but she endured.
An excited Rem and an equally eager Audin went out to meet the enemy, but their expectations were not met.
"What is this?"
The situation was bizarre. For a force supposedly coming to lay siege to the wall, only a pitifully small number of cavalry could be seen. Even then, they only watched from a distance, testing the waters as if they might attack, but never committing.
Rem waited for two days.
"These bastards."
The enemy did not attack. They only dragged out the time.
This was the trick played by Abnayor. Previously, Marcus had insulted them by pretending to head toward Cross Guard, an Azpen city; the situation now was different, but the result was the same.
Abnayor had tied down the Border Guard.
With this few cavalry, they couldn't attack the wall, nor could they cut off supply lines. In fact, supply was a more urgent issue for Azpen's own cavalry. Furthermore, their numbers were a bluff. When Rem looked closely, there were two or three horses per cavalryman. It was a unit designed to look larger than it was.
"Don't these bastards have anything better to do?"
Rem was left frustrated, but Abnayor had achieved his goal. He had temporarily blocked the path for reinforcements to emerge from the Border Guard. He had bought a brief window of time, and for Abnayor, that was enough.
*
Esther caught the scent of a spell.
It was the fragrance of a high-level incantation. She moved, chasing that scent.
Crunch, crunch. As she climbed a small mountain, she saw a group gathered there. One of them widened his eyes and stared intently at her.
"You."
Galaf, Who Holds the River's Flow—a man who had earned an epithet through his own Spell World. A mage. He was characterized by short brown hair and a youthful, handsome face. His actual age was unknown, but he had possessed that same face for over a decade. Some said he had drunk from the River of Life.
Of course, it was merely a rumor.
Esther stared blankly at him.
"They said you were ruined by a curse. Was it a false rumor?" Galaf asked, surprised to see Esther in her human form.
Esther remained silent. She had come all this way because she felt this man's magical traces. It was a coincidence—the flow of mana and the traces of a prepared spell had happened to catch her senses.
Was it the guidance of the stars, or the calling of fate? She didn't care. She did not believe in gods. What she believed in was herself and her own Spell World. Because she believed only in what she had achieved, she was a mage.
"Master."
One of Galaf's disciples tried to step forward. Galaf was famous for raising many students; even now, he had six under his command.
"You all leave," Galaf said, scanning Esther.
Just looking at her, he could feel it. She hasn't completely broken the curse. The witch wouldn't even be able to exert half of her original strength.
"Witch of Struggle. Will you fight?" Galaf asked.
Since his disciples could carry out the prepared task, he didn't strictly need to be present. But even so, there was no reason to go out of his way to fight the witch.
Esther had no way of knowing exactly what they were doing here, but it was obvious it would harm the "nest" she was staying in. Otherwise, why would a mage of his caliber be here?
The nest she was currently in was the man named Encrid. Magic would be dangerous for him as well. Since she had gained something by staying in that nest...
I should at least block this much.
"Demuiller's Scythe."
Instead of answering, Esther chanted her prepared spell. Following her fingertips, a vacuum-type cutting spell physically manifested and sliced through the air. Even though it was one of her specialties...
"Vartan's Shield."
A blue barrier rose, blocking the scythe-wind. The barrier rippled like waves. With the glowing blue orb between them, the two mages opened their Spell Worlds.