Chapter 49: Madness and Heat, Greed and Desire
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 49: Madness and Heat, Greed and Desire
“We won.”
“Fuck, we actually won!”
“Take that, you Azpen bastards!”
Victory brought cheers.
Cheers brought heat.
Heat brought madness.
That interlocking, burning energy swept across the entire battlefield.
When is the greatest achievement made on a battlefield? It is when one is treading on the heels of a fleeing enemy. Naurilia bit hard into Azpen’s rear guard, tearing it away piece by piece.
“Uwoooo!”
Before they could mourn the dead, the sheer joy of victory consumed the allies. It was only natural for madness to take root.
Just a few days ago, they had been on the brink of annihilation. The terror of death brought by the mist was still etched deep into their hearts. Yet, on the very ground where they had stood trembling in fear, they had achieved an overwhelming victory.
“Long live the Red Cloak Knights!”
“Long live Naurilia!”
The Squire did not reveal his name. In place of the nameless Squire, the reputation of his knight order soared to the heavens.
“Long live the Red Cloak Knights!”
The one receiving those cheers, that heat, and that madness stood at the very center of the front lines.
Flutter.
His symbolic red cloak snapping in the wind, the Squire raised a hand to acknowledge the roar of the crowd.
“Uwooo!”
Among the soldiers drunk on the heat of victory, some even shed tears of joy. Everyone cheered. Everyone was intoxicated by the frenzy. Watching this, Encrid quietly murmured to himself.
“Me too.”
It was a whisper unheard by anyone, but it carried the weight of his long-held dream. The madness and heat were contagious; they made Encrid’s heart pound in rhythm with the crowd.
The battle was over. It was the night of the final day on the field. Although the death toll was high, Encrid felt a strange sense of elation. He recalled the words of his old sword instructor back in the great territory—a man missing three fingers.
“A man who tries to make a living by the sword despite having zero talent? He’s one of three things: he either loves the battlefield, or he loves killing. Ah, wait, make that one of three. There are also those who live without a single thought in their heads.”
I think I’m the type who enjoys the battlefield.
He envied the cheers. He felt the greed to stand where that Squire stood. Beyond simply swinging a sword, he wanted to tear through the battlefield. The reason he honed his martial arts wasn't just because he was obsessed with the sword itself.
Encrid thought about his actions in this fight. It had been nothing more than a desperate struggle to survive. Ultimately, he had achieved merit by tearing the flag and breaking the sorcery medium, but...
Even that was just a struggle to stay alive.
The sudden surge of elation dragged out the greed and desire Encrid had hidden behind his dreams—feelings he had tried to forget because of his lack of talent.
A knight.
He would become one. He would absolutely become one. It was a moment of renewed resolve.
“It’s damn noisy.”
Rem, who wandered the battlefield without a single thought in his head, grumbled as he picked his ear. He didn't seem to enjoy the battlefield or the killing. He showed no sign of elation.
Beside him, Ragna yawned.
“Yawn... isn’t it over now? Can’t we just march back tonight?”
As if they would do that. This bastard was definitely one of those who lived without a thought.
Sachsen was busy wiping his blade with a scrap of leather, already maintaining his equipment. Though he didn't speak or show it, what did Sachsen enjoy? Encrid didn't know. Sachsen was a man who kept himself hidden behind an impenetrable wall.
“Wow, damn, the battle ended in a flash. I wonder if this would sell if I turned it into a story or a song?”
“Do you even know how to write songs, brother?”
“No. I’ll just hire a bard to do it.”
“Writing a song about something you didn't even see yourself is a scam.”
“A scam? What a terrible thing to say, Audin. It’s nothing like that.”
It was a conversation between Big-Eyes, who was already calculating how to profit off the battle, and the inscrutable Devout Squad Member.
On the day Encrid tore the sorcery medium, he had heard that the Devout Squad Member’s entire body was drenched in red, as if he had bathed in blood. It meant he had fought like a demon. He, too, seemed quiet and calm on the surface, but possessed monstrous martial power.
Encrid didn't know his reason for standing on the battlefield. One thought led to another, and Encrid began to compare himself to his squad members.
If it had been Rem...
He wouldn't have stopped at just piercing and tearing the flag. If it had been Ragna, Sachsen, or the Devout Squad Member, all of them would have fought much better than him.
Next time, I will do better.
As the elation of the battlefield squeezed his heart, the reaction caused a new desire to bloom in Encrid’s chest.
*
On the night following the battle, the command released rations of alcohol and food. Salted rabbit and venison were served alongside strong liquor from large oak barrels.
“Alcohol! Booze!”
Rem and Ragna were obsessed with the drink.
“I only drink wine,” the Devout Squad Member stated, refusing the harsh liquor. Sachsen didn't touch the alcohol at all.
“Women are better than booze,” Sachsen said without hesitation. Why did women flock to a man who spoke like that?
Is a handsome face really the answer?
Then again, Encrid was also the type to attract women without trying. It was thanks to his features. On top of that, his well-trained, chiseled physique was a weapon that stole hearts.
“This is cheap swill. I’m not drinking it,” Big-Eyes remarked. He had expensive tastes.
As the night deepened, the Battalion Commander entered the barracks.
“Squad Leader 444?”
Encrid stood up at the sound of his title. By now, the heat of the celebration had cooled, and most were preparing for sleep. Encrid hadn't touched a drop of alcohol due to his injuries. Thanks to that, he didn't fail to recognize the commander’s face.
“An injured guy drinking? A mere injured bastard drinking? Drinking when you’re hurt?” Rem grumbled, teasing him.
“It is best to abstain. You must prioritize your recovery,” Sachsen advised.
Ragna simply shook his head in silence. Big-Eyes snickered at him. They were a truly eccentric bunch.
When Encrid stepped outside, the Battalion Commander, reeking of alcohol, waved off his salute.
“So the flag was the sorcery medium? And you were the one who tore it.”
It seemed he had come looking for the 'sorcery breaker' who had made the pivotal contribution to the victory.
Crackle, crackle.
Embers remained in the campfire, sending sparks dancing into the night air.
“Yes, sir,” Encrid replied calmly.
“There will be a reward when we return. Well done.”
The Battalion Commander patted Encrid’s shoulder. It was a significant gesture. Since becoming a squad leader, this was the first time he had ever spoken directly with the Battalion Commander. That was the weight of Encrid’s achievement. He had completely changed the course of the battle.
However, those who knew the truth could be counted on one hand. To be precise, only the high command knew. The credit for overcoming the sorcery would likely be claimed by the officers.
Encrid didn't feel bitter. In exchange, the material reward would be handsome.
I don't mind.
Normally, he should have fought for the credit, but after seeing a knight—no, even just a Squire—his perspective had shifted. He felt he had gained something far more valuable than a petty commendation.
“You’ve got good looks.”
After the Battalion Commander left, Encrid was about to head back inside when he heard a light tapping on the ground.
“Who is it?”
He turned toward the sound and saw eyes like emeralds. In the dead of night, they felt eerie, almost ghostly. It was a beauty that felt otherworldly.
It was the Elf Company Commander.
“Your reward for tearing the flag won't be half-hearted.”
As if that was all he had to say, the commander turned to leave. Just as he was walking away, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Aren't you going to salute?”
When Encrid belatedly moved to press his weapon with his left hand, the Elf Company Commander waved him off.
“Forget it. I’m leaving.”
What kind of elf was he?
Once the commander vanished and Encrid stepped back into the barracks, he found Rem lying on his side, propping his head up with one arm.
“Don't go abandoning me just because you’ve become popular, Squad Leader.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk.”
It was just playful banter. The night grew deep. Encrid closed his eyes and reflected on the feeling of seeing the Squire. Once his body healed, he had a great deal of work to do.
*
After waking the next morning, the Naurilian infantry battalion began their march toward Border Guard. After four days on the road, they finally reached the fortress walls.
It was a territory built along a high basin, featuring sprawling walls and three massive watchtowers that pierced the sky. This was the final bastion holding back the Azpen Principality.
The frontier fortress, Border Guard.
*
The appearance of the Red Cloak Knights' Squire had the potential to shift the entire landscape of the war.
Until now, the skirmishes on the Greenpearl Plains had remained small-scale due to an unwritten rule: neither side would deploy their knightly forces. Under these circumstances, the Kingdom of Naurilia had played its trump card.
Naurilia had broken the rule. Even if the one deployed was merely a Squire in the process of transitioning to an Associate Knight, crossing the line was still crossing the line.
“Those absolute bastards...”
The Prince of Azpen roared in fury. His eyes turned bloodshot, and veins bulged on his forehead.
“Deploy ours as well!”
But they couldn't just deploy them on a whim. It was winter. Waging war in winter would severely drain the national power of both countries. If a full-scale war, rather than a localized skirmish, was anticipated, they needed to mobilize on a national scale.
Above all, Azpen’s main forces were currently occupied elsewhere. Azpen needed time to prepare for a real fight. At the tail end of the campaign, even if the Prince’s anger made his head feel like an exploding volcano, they had to endure the approaching winter.
Naurilia must have anticipated this, which was why they deployed their forces at the very end of the season. Conversely, Azpen had also read the timing and deployed their shamans.
However, while the sword prepared by Azpen had been parried, the dagger prepared by Naurilia had sunk deep into their forearm. It stung. It was deep enough that, if they weren't careful, they might lose the use of that arm entirely.
“Apply diplomatic pressure at the very least. Sending a knight order member to the battlefield is a blatant violation.”
The Prince, a known martial enthusiast, snorted in rage. Though he didn't shout, his voice was thick with a simmering, boiling anger.
The Azpen Principality was anchored by three main families: the royal Azpen, the martial Hurier, and the administrative Ekins. Diplomacy was the responsibility of the Ekins family.
Minister Ekins was in a difficult position. It was because of the letter sent by Naurilia. The fact that the letter had arrived almost simultaneously with the Red Cloak Knights was proof that Naurilia had prepared a flawless excuse.
The letter stated that General Frok of Azpen had appeared on the enemy lines, and they had merely deployed their knight to counter him. The excuse was plausible. It was far too convenient.
Why on earth did that bastard General Frok have to go there? Frok was a free spirit who lived as he pleased. From the moment they put a military uniform on a man like him, such problems were inevitable.
Even if it hadn't been the general, they would have found another excuse.
Ekins was no fool. Naurilia wouldn't have sent a knight on a whim. General Frok had served as a convenient scapegoat, but Naurilia would have manufactured a justification regardless.
In short, Azpen had been thoroughly played.
The root of the failure lay in their sorcery. Had the Mist of Massacre succeeded, the localized war on the Greenpearl Plains—which had dragged on for so long—would have ended in a crushing victory for Azpen, unless a true knight intervened.
Ekins recalled the report stating that a single enemy soldier had ruined the ritual.
These bastards failed their guard duty and are blaming a single enemy soldier?
Did that make any sense? Everyone involved would have to take responsibility. The shaman had been found dead while trying to flee during the retreat. Whether it was the work of passing bandits or something else, everyone—including the guards and the shaman—had been sliced clean in half.
Nothing is going right. Absolutely nothing.
“Hey! Are we really just going to let this slide?!” the Prince shouted, abandoning his royal dignity.
This autumn, the gambit initiated by Ekins’s strong insistence had backfired. The localized war had ended, marked by a stinging Azpen defeat.
*
Ten days had passed. Encrid believed his body had fully recovered. The moment he woke up, he immediately sought out Rem.
“Rem.”
“What’s up?”
Rem, who had just returned from guard duty, stood before him.
“Let’s go a round.”
“At what?”
“A spar.”
“...Didn't your body just finish healing?”
What did that matter? His body was itching for a fight. Encrid spoke with his expression. If this was a talent, it was certainly one—expressing his heart using nothing but his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth.
“Fine. If you want it, you’ve got it. Time for you to get beaten to a pulp again.”
“Bring it on, you arrogant barbarian.”
“Oh? Do you want your leg broken this time?”
Rem accepted the provocation with a laugh. The two of them headed outside the quarters. Watching them go, Ragna agreed with at least one thing Rem had said.
Of all the crazy bastards he had ever seen, their squad leader was the absolute worst. Despite having such pathetic talent, how could he challenge someone to a fight the very second he woke up?
Less than thirty minutes later, Encrid opened the door to the quarters again.
“Ragna, get out here. I’m going to beat that laziness out of you.”
The squad leader was in high spirits. Even though a scab of dried blood remained near his temple from a fresh wound, his expression was bright.
“Yes, yes, let’s get it over with.”
Ragna didn't waste energy on a useless argument. He just had to clash swords with him a few times.
This was their daily routine.