Chapter 402: Heaven-Sent Talent
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 402: Heaven-Sent Talent
"Deploy the Chimera Unit."
At Count Molsen's command, Liebart raised a flag. Seeing the signal, a messenger sprinted off, his voice echoing across the field.
"Advance! Advance!"
At the messenger’s shout, the second blade prepared by the Count began its charge.
The Count had already sent a pack of werewolves to the Border Guard—true werewolves, humans twisted into monsters. Naturally, those sent to the Border Guard had not been the entirety of his forces.
His main strength was here.
The cavalry was being pushed back, the horse archers were being intercepted by the knights led by Aisia, and the infantry was losing the battle of formations.
This was all due to an unexpected force running rampant amidst the Count's infantry. To be precise, it was because of a single, ignorant swordsman with a terrible sense of direction.
Liebart saw this as well, but his expression remained impassive.
Compared to the forces they possessed, their performance in battle was pathetic. They were being relentlessly driven back. No, they were actually losing ground.
Yet, the Count merely watched, as if the losses didn't matter. In truth, the maneuvers dictated by the commanders were only serving to increase the casualties of the Count's army. Men were dying in droves.
In the midst of this carnage, the Chimera Unit sprang into action.
Tactically, it seemed like a reasonable decision. When a line is being pushed back, deploying fresh forces is the fundamental basis of warfare.
Most of the unit wore tattered leather clothes and hole-ridden rags. This crowd, dressed in attire entirely unsuited for a battlefield, began to run forward. Up close, their eyes were dull, devoid of even a shred of reason. They were a mob obeying only the simplest command: move forward.
Then, as they ran, they began to transform.
Feathers sprouted across their bodies, thick, mane-like fur erupted from their skin, and their frames swelled with unnatural muscle. Their claws sharpened into lethal points, and their dull eyes filled with a sudden, predatory murderous intent.
They became monsters born solely for slaughter.
Owlbears, werewolves, and bearmen.
These three types of mutated monsters charged forward, letting out monstrous shrieks.
Hoooooo!
Awooooo!
Graaaaa!
It was a chorus of howling that would give any ordinary person goosebumps, triggering an instinctual, deep-seated terror. With their cries, they targeted the right flank of the Kingdom's army. A horde of over a hundred monsters was more than enough to bring despair to those standing in their path.
It was then.
A shout from the side echoed toward the beastly horde. It was clearly a human shout, yet it carried a strange, primal energy.
Orororororol!
It was a cry produced by rolling the tongue and breathing from the diaphragm, spreading far and wide across the plain.
"Drive away the wolves!"
"Beast, oh beast. You've taken the wrong path!"
Orororororol!
Shouts and strange cries mingled. From the edge of the plain, a group appeared, running with a speed unbelievable for infantry. They were so fast they rivaled the charge of ordinary cavalry. They were not inferior even when compared to the sprinting horde of monsters.
Every single one of them carried a long wooden staff or spear and wore a dark brown leather cloak. There was only one group in the world that fit this description.
They were the Shepherds of the Wilderness.
These were men who lived by running across the vast wilds, herding sheep. Located at the northernmost tip of the continent, they handled the Thick-horned Mountain Goats in the peaks and the lean sheep—known as the most ferocious herbivores on the continent—in the fields of the wilderness.
Though they numbered fewer than twenty, they were a force comparable to an order of knights. They sprinted forward and clashed head-on with the horde of monsters.
Fewer than twenty against over two hundred. At first glance, it looked like mass suicide, but the outcome was entirely different.
"I hope you die and fertilize the earth."
At their head was a man named Pel. He wielded a sword inhabited by the soul of a demon called the Idol Slayer.
To be cut by it meant certain death. It was as if the blade were coated in a deadly poison; it was a weapon that slew by cutting the soul, not the flesh. He had been warned not to use it recklessly, as continuous use would awaken the demon trapped within, but against monsters like these, Pel felt it was only right to use it without hesitation.
This was the very sword, and the very shepherd, that had once forced Encrid to repeat "today."
Pel thrust his sword into an owlbear's eye. There was no need to pierce through the head. He stabbed lightly and pulled it out immediately. A moderate wound would suffice. Of course, gouging out an eye was hardly "moderate" to anyone else—it was only moderate in the eyes of a shepherd.
"Uwooooo!"
The blinded monster shrieked. Instead of dying, it endured. Was it Will? No. It was simply the demonic nature of the creature.
The sword trembled, sending a brief vibration through Pel's hand. It was a sign that the blade disliked what it had just cut. This meant he could swing it to his heart's content; he could use its power without having to offer his own soul to the demonic blade.
In return, he would have to slash, cut, stab, and thrust far more than when cutting things with actual souls. In any case, if once wasn't enough, he just had to cut twice.
Pel closed the distance as quickly as he had retreated and stabbed the other eye. With a sharp whoosh, the owlbear bared its claws and swung a massive paw. Pel pulled out his sword and ducked to evade, his eyes shining brightly.
He moved by intuitively understanding the information pouring in from all directions. Pel began to run even wilder.
At that, two of his companions approached—elderly-looking shepherds. One wore a hat made from a wolf's head, and the other wore one made from a bear's head.
"Pel, you crazy bastard, tone it down."
"Kids these days, I swear."
One wielded a long spear, the other a long staff. For generations, the Shepherds of the Wilderness preferred long polearms. Pel, however, was the outlier who insisted on using a sword.
"Can't you just leave me to do my thing?" Pel said, kicking the dying owlbear.
"Are you saying you don't want to hear our nagging right now?"
"We'll have to take up your lack of manners with your father, won't we?"
Noisy old geezers, Pel thought. Regardless of his internal grumbling, he spoke aloud.
"Yes, yes, my mistake."
"Always just talk."
"Kids these days, I swear."
The old man with the bear head habitually muttered "kids these days," so Pel found it best to just ignore him. He thought he would rather have a chat with an owlbear than deal with this. A "chat" implied a conversation with laughter, but Pel would be the only one laughing. A dead creature couldn't laugh, and he wouldn't afford a monster such leisure anyway.
The two old shepherds followed Pel, supporting his flanks. Two more joined the three, and the five moved as one. It was the basic formation of the shepherds: five striking as one. Diamond-shaped spearheads, staves banded with iron, and Pel's sword mercilessly slaughtered the mutated test subjects.
The Count's Chimera Unit had failed to achieve its objective entirely.
How were the Shepherds of the Wilderness even here? It was Krang's doing. While wandering the continent, he had crossed paths with the shepherds and later asked for their help. The shepherds had come to repay the favor.
In truth, they had arrived years ago. And they hadn't been waiting solely for today. They had come because they, too, wanted something. Krang knew this and utilized it to the fullest. It was the basis of politics: setting the board by exploiting what the opponent desired.
Krang did exactly that, and because of it, twenty Shepherds of the Wilderness were here. Their number could not be dismissed as a "mere twenty." To the soldiers, it felt as if Encrid's Mad Company had doubled in size. To the older commanders, it looked as if three separate orders of knights had split up to ravage the enemy forces: Aisia and her squires, the Shepherds of the Wilderness, and Encrid and his Mad Company.
Ironically, the most overwhelming among them was the Mad Company. The destructive power of the Red Cloak Knights was actually the most modest. Even considering they lacked knights, it was an absurd state of affairs.
*
Count Molsen was, in essence, like a boil. A boil that hurts if left alone, but becomes even more festered if recklessly touched. Such a boil had to be excised all at once.
That was why Krang had put forward an argument that sounded absurd at first: "We need a civil war."
The civil war he spoke of meant gathering every single disease into the boil that was Count Molsen, then cutting it out and burning it. Therefore, the battle taking place now was closer to Krang's intentions than Count Molsen's.
But did Count Molsen not know of Krang's intentions? Whether the Count was a born politician or not, he was certainly an ambitious, cunning hero. He knew what he needed to know, and he accepted the challenge knowingly.
And so, it led to this moment.
Marcus's mind was spinning faster than ever before. He moved his troops based on the information received from the scouts. Marcus had to crush every means prepared by the enemy without showing a single opening.
So far, he had succeeded. As he did, Marcus inwardly posed a question to the Count.
You didn't expect things to go this far, did you?
He had brought in an entirely different armed force to replace the knights, figuring the enemy was bound to be flustered. He had heard that in bringing the Shepherds of the Wilderness, they had been promised a portion of land. The leader of the shepherds would receive a nominal noble title, and their land would be transformed into an autonomous territory.
In addition to the northern lands, they possessed such territories scattered across both the Kingdom and the Empire. Not that they ruled those lands directly; they simply employed tenant farmers and took a portion of the crops. Needless to say, the Marquis of Okto had exerted his influence to make this happen. It was something that could never have been achieved without his resourcefulness.
Thus, it would have been difficult to predict.
Try and stop this, traitor.
The blades that once herded sheep in the far northern continent were now tearing through the Chimera Unit. For some reason, Count Molsen pushed even more troops toward them. The Count's next move was unexpected.
What? Marcus frowned. What on earth is he doing? He's going to push through with sheer numbers?
They were not refined soldiers. Through the path opened as the lines split to the left and right, the rear units surged forward like a tide. Their numbers were vast, looking like an incoming wave, but they sprinted forward without any semblance of a formation.
Military settlers?
The term referred to those who reclaimed frontier lands in peacetime and became soldiers in times of war. But even military settlers received basic training. Those who excelled might transition to professional soldiers, and even those who didn't were obligated to train.
These people were not military settlers. Far from forming a line, they seemed too busy running haphazardly. They were ordinary citizens—residents of the Count's territory—who had simply been handed a spear and sent out.
Behind them, a group of archers could be seen with arrows notched. Those who forced soldiers to fight, even by killing those who fled, were called battle overseers. The Count had formed a barrier unit. Retreat, and you die by arrows; advance, and you die by the enemy's blade. It was said they were promised land and status if they survived, but that was not something Marcus could know for sure.
Marcus desperately racked his brain. Is his intention to wear us down?
It was a move that could not be avoided even if one knew of it. The Count was no fool. He was a man who had once dominated an era. In his youth, he had even been called the guardian of the territory.
As the meat shields he sent clashed with the allied forces, they began to be sliced and shredded. It was a natural outcome. Behind them, the army raised by the Count also surged forward. The battle raged on without pause. Though the Count's true intentions remained unclear, one thing was certain: blood would flow on this land as heavily as a sudden downpour.
*
Ragna was in the middle of stabbing and slashing the enemy.
"Block him!"
"Kill him!"
Blood splattered. Bones snapped. Heads burst, brain matter soaking the ground. Severed limbs fell, and beside them lay the corpse of a soldier who had died with his eyes wide open.
Ragna showed no mercy. It was more accurate to say he didn't care about those who died. Instead, he honed his skills. He used this place as his training ground. And he could afford to do so.
He thought as he stabbed, slashed, and swung; he reviewed the battle and gained realizations. He did all of this simultaneously. Just like that, he created several techniques. In doing so, he naturally merged and organized what he possessed. He discarded what was useless and kept what was valuable.
Pulse-severing is just a minor trick.
He had learned and used it on the spot after watching the associate knight he fought previously, but upon reflection, it was a technique not worth keeping. It might be useful against the weak, but it was meaningless against opponents of his own caliber—a technique that might momentarily fluster an opponent but yield no greater results.
Therefore, it was unnecessary. Ragna easily discarded and forgot what he had learned. Thus, he gained a few minor realizations.
Stronger and faster.
Increase overall strength and speed. Based on that, put power into the basic forms of slashing and stabbing. That was the essence. Physical reinforcement—a reinforcement that went beyond mere training, acting as a technique rooted in Will.
He walked without even needing to question if this was the right path. He didn't need to ask anyone to find his way, nor did he need to check the constellations. That was talent. For he was a genius blessed with heaven-sent talent.
Ragna was in the process of creating and repeating the techniques he needed to master on the spot. In the midst of this, people who didn't even know how to fight approached him—the nominal military settlers sent out by the Count.
Annoying.
Ragna moved without a second thought. He kicked off the ground, searching for those actually worth swinging his sword at—professional soldiers and the like. Before long, he spotted a group to fight.
As Ragna approached them, a unit suddenly formed a circle with an empty center, moving as if to invite him in. Ragna walked right into the center of their formation. Immediately, men holding thick rectangular shields formed a circle around him.
They were trained to hunt wild beasts. The signs of such training were glaringly obvious.
"Now!"
Right after he stepped inside, a net flew over his head. Along with the net, bolts from crossbows and arrows rained down from all directions, targeting him alone. Ragna raised his sword and sliced the net. It was not a difficult task. Evading the arrows while cutting the net was also effortless.
Flowing like water, he surged forward and swung his sword horizontally, parallel to the ground. He aimed for the shields, intending to slice through both the iron and the men holding them in a single stroke.
However.
Screeech! Clang!
It was a first. His sword was blocked. Even though these were merely the shields of men who were neither knights nor associate knights.
They were no ordinary shields, nor were the men holding them. They were the heavy infantry, clad in thick iron from head to toe. The shields in their hands were triple-layered iron slabs, five times heavier than standard shields.
Even with the Will of Severing, it was only natural that he could not physically cut through something thicker than the length of his blade. That was exactly what had just happened. Although his sword had cut into the shield, it was too thick to be split completely.
The shield-bearers panted heavily, glaring at Ragna. Ragna glanced at his sword once, then raised his eyes. He could see fierce gazes staring back at him from behind the iron. They were elite soldiers trained to overcome fear, capable of holding their ground despite being terrified.
Ragna thought this was the perfect opportunity to test his newly refined technique.
Faster.
Stronger.
Slicing better.
Stabbing better.
Since those were the core of Ragna's newly created technique, it would be excellent practice to cut and pierce through those thick shields.
