Chapter 530: Anxiety and Certainty
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 530: Anxiety and Certainty
Despite his appearance, Barnas Hurier was a man of calculation.
To some, he might look like a rabid dog that drooled and rushed headlong at the mere scent of a battlefield—and indeed, being a wolf beastman, he certainly had the look—but on the inside, he was a sly bastard who harbored a nest of scheming serpents in place of a wolf’s heart.
He looked at the two knights standing before him and finished his mental calculations in an instant.
‘I’ve won.’
The reason was simple.
He had already estimated the number of troops that had entered the Pen-Hanil Mountains from Naurilia. At this point, it wouldn't even matter if every single person who had entered the range was a knight.
Gauging their numbers hadn't been difficult.
His side commanded an elven unit that practically lived in these mountains, and they had used them to set a decoy. To top it off, they had sent that same unit forward to test the enemy's reaction.
If the enemy had fallen for the decoy and rushed in blindly, he would have judged their leader a coward with few knights at his disposal. Instead, they had split up and attacked as if they had read his very intentions.
The proof was the two knights standing right here.
Even so, Barnas had to face two opponents. Why, then, was he so confident of victory?
One might ask: even if he had fifty shields of flesh and iron at his back, wasn't he still outnumbered in a two-on-one fight?
That was short-sighted thinking.
Aside from the efforts of Abnayor and Barnas Hurier, they had cast bait through every diplomatic channel available, including House Ekins of State Affairs, who had run around like frantic dogs to assist. All of this was to ensure that a certain knight from Naurilia's Red Cloak Knights would not be present here.
‘Are all knights the same?’
Those who only saw the surface often thought all knights were equal.
That was utter nonsense.
Just as not all soldiers were the same, the same applied to the elite. To those below them, they all looked similar, but once one reached the level of a knight, the gap became a chasm. This was why the fake knights created by Count Molsen could never hope to match the real deal.
Their split-second judgment, the breadth of their vision, and the way they exerted their strength—everything was on a completely different level.
For this reason, Barnas only needed to ensure that Cypress did not show up here. If Cypress was absent, there was no one left who could stop him.
In truth, it didn't matter if another bastard or bitch was added to the pair before him. Even if a third of similar caliber joined them, Barnas would still have predicted his own victory.
Because not all knights were created equal.
In any case, only two had come. Since there were only two knights here, he could roughly picture how the other battlefields looked.
‘Now, is this how the board is set?’
There were three paths in total, and thus, three battlefields. This was the layout that Abnayor had designed and Barnas had personally executed.
Why split the battlefield into three?
That was a separate matter. Dispersing the enemy was secondary; they had done it simply so their own forces could fight more effectively.
‘Knights aren't the type to fight well when bunched up.’
Barnas knew this from experience.
If you put knights together, they didn't create synergy; they only got in each other's way. Unless the opposing side was pushing with sheer numbers, his side was the superior minority. Therefore, joining forces wouldn't double their strength.
‘Well, it would be a different story if they had spent years coordinating with each other.’
Like twin knights, for instance. Otherwise, they were all the same. As if those arrogant bastards, whose talent was enough to reach the rank of knight, would ever deign to practice cooperative combat.
Even that crazy junior of his who recited poetry was currently boasting that his goal was to catch up to Barnas within ten years.
Was that wrong? No.
Barnas believed his judgment and choice were correct. He had deliberately pushed those capable of becoming knights into a fierce rivalry because that would endlessly stimulate their desire to improve.
Of course, he sat firmly at the top. That was how Barnas raised his disciples and juniors.
Under these circumstances, it was naturally more advantageous to fight scattered. Furthermore, in accordance with Abnayor's suggestion, his side had even brought along troops specifically to wear down the enemy. They had boldly abandoned the idea of a full-scale war and concentrated their strength here.
The other battlefields besides his own? They would be fine.
‘That bastard won't lose.’
Among his subordinates, there was one whose specialty was single combat. Excluding himself, that man was his most reliable blade.
Barnas's mind continuously calculated the variables. What if the enemy broke away or fled from one of the three battlefields, disrupting the plan?
‘Oh, please do.’
If they could secure the enemy's rear on even one of the three battlefields, the fight would be over. It wouldn't matter if the enemy forces merged into a larger mass than they were now. Even if that breakthrough didn't happen here, it would happen elsewhere.
In any case, the enemy wouldn't let any of the three paths go unguarded. He would have done the same. If they let one go, their rear would be exposed. Even if they had ruled out a full-scale war, getting flanked changed everything.
‘And there's no way a strategist would take the opponent's words at face value, right?’
Thus, one battlefield was under his charge.
Another was held by a flashy subordinate and a newly raised recruit.
And on the last one, though bound by a vow and acting like an idiot, was a knight whose skill in single combat made even Barnas hesitant to guarantee a win—and General Frok was there with him.
If one had to talk about difficulty, the third battlefield would be the most troublesome. Because that man, Frok, was a rare talent who actually knew how to coordinate and fight alongside a knight.
"This is getting interesting, seriously," Barnas muttered just before the clash.
*
"There will be many knights. That is my prediction. Their number might even reach five. Is it right to be greedy in a fight like that? And even if luck is on our side and we match them in numbers, how do you plan to handle the variables that numbers alone cannot resolve?"
Krais asserted his point confidently.
It was just before Encrid was about to say he wanted to be greedy. His words were worth listening to, as they were based on a hypothesis of the worst-case scenario. He had put extra emphasis on his voice, especially when speaking of numbers.
For example, it was like this: Could a knight's martial prowess be discussed in mere numbers?
In other words, if a knight's power was roughly ten, did everyone exert exactly ten? Of course, whether giant or human, everyone had two hands and two feet, so there was a clear limit to what they could do—but not all knights' power was equal.
Just as Oara was a splendid, outstanding, and beautiful knight, yet the strongest in Naurilia was actually Cypress, not all knights were the same.
Both Krais and Encrid knew this fact.
While Krais understood this through his clever mind that observed the ways of the world, Encrid understood it because he had experienced it firsthand. Through Rem and Ragna, by watching Sinar, by facing the King of the East and the monsters of the Gray Forest, and by stepping over his own limits once more through Aker.
Therefore, victory could never be guaranteed in any battle. Normally, that would be the case.
"I see."
Yet, Encrid merely replied in this manner. He did so despite having experienced it all firsthand.
This was why Krais was extremely anxious.
Abnayor judged that the current board had been set by mutual agreement between himself and his opponent. But it wasn't. This entire board had been set by Krais. He had funneled the enemies' path into a single road and let them enjoy that single road to their heart's content.
Use the road well, and we shall meet like bitter enemies on a narrow bridge.
Ah, you know, right? You have to come with a small elite force. How many knights did you have again?
Three? Then just bring three. We might find it a bit tough, so we might try hard to block you with sheer numbers.
If Krais had spoken like this, it was as if Abnayor had replied in a simple, straightforward manner: Sure, let's do that. See you then.
Why did Krais do this? Because only by doing this would the enemy feel free to do exactly what they wanted.
They say a wise man can predict what will happen on the other side of the continent without leaving his seat. Since Krais did not consider himself a wise man, he did not try to predict the far reaches of the world.
"Honestly, what's the point of predicting something like that?" he would probably say.
He might not know how things were turning out on the other side of the continent, but Krais predicted exactly how the board he had created—the battlefield where the fight would soon take place—would unfold.
"Our side must also sacrifice troops."
Would the enemy's strategist act in good faith and move as agreed? Was this even a promise in the first place? The lack of a notary wasn't the issue; it was an agreement made through unspoken understanding. It was something that didn't have to be kept.
Therefore, Krais believed they had to demand sacrifices, but...
"Rejected."
His opinion was flatly rejected. Looking into the leader's eyes when he said that, it was obvious he wouldn't listen to reason.
I don't think the enemy will just come quietly.
They'll definitely pull something.
Yet, he had to follow the greedy leader's words. Since he couldn't break Encrid's stubbornness, it was already a settled matter. But that didn't change the fact that he was the one who had designed this board, and Krais felt his heart ache with anxiety every ten breaths.
What if everything went awry and everyone died?
‘I’m going to die an early death at this rate.’
If Krais had set the board, Encrid was the piece—the chessman. Though Encrid made the final choice and judgment, the preceding premise would not change.
Abnayor knew this as well.
The two strategists were watching the direction of the battle from different positions and with different minds. One was gripped by anxiety. The other was filled with the belief that they would surely win.
No one knew whether the piece sent by the two strategists was a knight, a queen, a bishop, or a pawn. Only victory or defeat would judge the rightness of the path they had chosen.
*
While Barnas was calculating and Krais was shaking his legs in anxiety, those destined to meet on the other battlefields naturally crossed paths.
"Why do people hate one another?"
Rem heard the bastard blocking his path speak and turned his head to scan his surroundings.
There's quite a lot of them. A menacing murderous intent pricked his skin through the thick undergrowth. Well, it was only moderately menacing. It was a bloodlust that didn't feel like it could even scratch him.
‘Isn't this weaker than an angry Ayul?’
The one blocking the path was a knight of Azpen. Regardless of what the gray-haired beast-like man did, the knight kept his eyes lowered and continued speaking.
Should it be called a melancholy gaze and a calm, deep voice? At least, he seemed fully intent on projecting that image. His gaze was tilted toward the sky, his chin raised at a precise angle.
Rem was wondering where that idiot was looking. Isn't the sun blinding him?
"That is perhaps a trial bestowed upon us by the world. And we must overcome that trial."
Rem rested his hand on his axe handle and stood with his weight shifted to one leg. He felt like letting out a yawn, but he wasn't sleepy. He had run quite hard after hearing Encrid's words, only to meet these guys. To an outsider, it would have looked as if neither side had any intention of fighting.
"What's with the kids hiding around here?" Rem asked, maintaining his crooked posture.
"The Swamp of Monter."
The answer came from behind. There were two blocking Rem's path, and the eyes of the one standing in the back were as red as embedded rubies.
They did not look like normal human eyes. Slit vertically, they evoked those of a beast, and the ferocity of a wild predator radiated from his entire body.
There was also the scent of sorcery.
Rem became certain of what he had suspected: there was a bastard in the nation of Azpen playing around with sorcery. Judging by the origin of the power, it didn't seem to be from the West. It looked like a sorcery that had taken a slightly different path.
Ever since they used the Mist of Massacre on the battlefield a while ago, he had felt a strange chill, and now even an odd fellow like this had popped up. What kind of bastard was the one using that sorcery?
Scratch, scratch.
Rem scratched his head with his right thumb as he thought.
‘The Immortal Madman is dead.’
That bastard was someone whose specialty was fighting, not researching sorcery. Yet he had wanted to achieve immortality—a sorcery of eternal youth. How utterly nonsensical.
So, what he felt from this red-eyed bastard couldn't be the legacy of some idiot who died while trying to learn sorcery through shortcuts. Then what was it?
In the span of a few breaths, during the brief moment the guy in front babbled his nonsense, Rem figured out the trick the opponent had pulled just by scanning him.
‘Descent?’
It was a method of manifesting sorcery using the physical body as a medium. It was similar to his own, but what would happen if someone did that without innate talent? Beyond shaving off chunks of their lifespan, wouldn't they suffer from a debilitating illness every single time they used it?
And that was only if they were lucky. Or had they prepared some kind of safety measure? The aura he gave off was more refined than expected. In that case, it wasn't an unestablished technique. He was using it while controlling the side effects or backlash.
Watching him, Rem couldn't help but feel curious. Curious about the origin or source of that technique. Because Rem was also deeply interested in sorcery.
‘Still, it's more sophisticated than that idiot Molsen.’
Meaning, that looked much better than creating knights through chimera research.
This was the process of Rem assessing the enemy's strength. The one in the lead, a knight barking like a dog while pretending to recite poetry. The red-eyed one behind him, a bastard who had risen above the rank of knight through sorcery.
‘And about a hundred bugs.’
Those surrounding them were the assassin group known as the Swamp of Monter.
If the Dagger of Geor was an assassin guild with a reputation spanning the entire continent, the Swamp of Monter was a group that only exerted power in the region of Azpen. Composed of bastards who had received the support of Azpen's king and nobles since the guild's inception, they could, in a way, be called the illegitimate children of the crown and nobility.
They were neither a naturally occurring assassin guild nor a unit properly integrated into the kingdom. However, just as an illegitimate child might be brought into the household by their father when circumstances demanded, they too had now been integrated into the kingdom, reorganized to reach their current state.
Every single one of them glared at Rem, holding poisoned daggers, darts, poison sand, nets, and harpoons tied to ropes. They seemed to glare so intensely that it stung. Even without seeing each one, Rem could feel it. Since assassins weren't emotionless dolls when they fought, the tension they radiated heated the air.
Of course, whether the air heated up or not, the carefree Rem didn't give a damn.
"I am sad, truly sad. To think I must kill yet another naturally talented individual beloved by the gods."
And the bastard in front of him was also quite self-absorbed. It was obvious he was confident of victory and looked down on him, and at the same time, he kept spewing nonsense as if he were high on drugs. The guy was lost in his own world, spitting out words as if masturbating his own ego, which was incredibly grating to the ears.
When something was grating, it was only natural to speak up.
"Did you share a dinner table with a ghoul? What the hell did you eat that went so wrong?"
Rem, trained by Encrid, spat out his venomous words.