Chapter 540: End of War
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 540: End of War
In the eyes of Clement, a soldier of the Border Guard’s light infantry, the back of a single man filled her vision.
That back gradually broadened until it dominated her sight, becoming a wall that blocked her path. It was an illusion, a phantom barrier separating ally from foe, appearing before her eyes like a waking dream.
She knew it wasn't real—a mere trick of the mind. Yet, Clement perceived the wall with absolute clarity.
It stood firm against the enemy, a fortress wall shielding her allies. Beyond that illusory rampart, she saw the enemy soldiers fall to their knees one by one.
Had they seen the same thing she did?
She didn't know. Nor did she need to.
What was happening around her, or even where she stood at that moment, didn't feel important in the slightest. As the illusion faded, only a man standing in silence remained.
Clement knew the moniker of the man who had suddenly appeared to bar the path between the two armies.
The Demon Slayer.
She knew his name, too.
Encrid.
She also knew his rank. He was the lord and general of the surrounding territories, the commander of the Border Guard.
He spoke, his voice carrying across the field. He told them this was far enough. He told them to stop.
With those few words, the battle ended.
The sun was still high, casting its rays upon the earth. The light made everything appear vividly clear. The fact that the battle was over was engraved into everyone’s minds, as bright as the light illuminating the carnage.
This was the end.
“The end of the war,” Clement muttered.
Why? An old bardic song, The Knight of the End of War, drifted into her mind. Among its lyrics were tales of those who could halt a slaughter without ever drawing a sword.
And now, right before her eyes, something that seemed possible only in a bard’s tale was happening.
A sudden shiver raced through Clement’s body, leaving her trembling. The hair on her arms stood on end, and her eyes could hold only that one man. Even though the illusion had vanished, she couldn't tear her gaze away.
The Knight of the End of War?
Her murmur never quite formed into spoken words. In truth, no one made a sound. Even the wind seemed to wrap around him gently, and they could only watch as the sunlight bathed his figure.
Without realizing it, Clement stepped out of the ranks and walked forward, only to trip and fall. It was a mistake she would never normally make, hitting the ground with a thud. She sprained her ankle, and her knee began to bleed.
She should have cried out in pain, but she felt nothing. The thrill was still vibrating through her soul. Clement felt something boiling over, warming her heart to a fever pitch.
She remained down on one knee, her head held high. What was this emotion? She didn't know. It didn't matter.
“En-crid!”
She simply chanted the name of her hero.
And she was not alone. The entire allied army cried out the name of the man who stood before them.
“Encrid!”
It was the name of the man who had brought everything to a halt on a land left with nothing but death, steel, and blood.
*
It wasn't just Clement; many among the enemy forces experienced a similar moment of awe.
One of the few commanders who had realized midway that something was terribly wrong thought to himself:
Crazy bastards.
He cursed the high command for letting things get this far, but the damage was already done. Even if he mutinied now, there was no turning back. Staring at the well-ordered ranks of the Border Guard right in front of him, a stark realization hit him.
We're going to lose.
And it wouldn't just be a loss; it would be a crushing defeat. Of the mountains of corpses that would pile up, seven or eight out of ten would be Azpen soldiers—his own men.
Yet, the arrow had already been shot. The water was spilled; the leaf had fallen.
Most of the commanders and soldiers who had been charging toward the enemy lines as if possessed finally regained their senses. To be precise, fear had beaten their reason back awake.
He said we'd die if we attacked, so we'd better snap out of it, right?
If one were to describe this moment in cruder terms, it would be something like that. Rem might have put it that way.
In any case, even the commanders who had initially believed they would win once their own knights struck the enemy's rear came to a halt. In a moment where they had no choice but to fight, the soldiers of Azpen beheld a man they could not help but respect, even if he was their enemy.
Even if they didn't realize it now, once they processed this situation later, they would undoubtedly feel that respect. That man had stood in their way to prevent useless bloodshed.
Had they fought, it would have been nothing but a devastating defeat for Azpen. If a slaughterhouse had been opened, whose blood would have filled it? It was a question that required no answer.
“Wow...”
At the front of the Azpen line, one of the assault squad members let out a breathless gasp of admiration.
“Hey, it's over,” the quick-witted assault captain said openly.
Their momentum was completely broken. If they attacked now, they would be annihilated without even leaving a scratch. No matter how foolish a commander might be, they couldn't possibly order a charge in a situation like this.
Thus, every commander and soldier of Azpen stared at the single man. The one who had blocked the entire battlefield alone.
They say a knight is one who slays a thousand men. Then what should they call a man who, on his own, stopped an army of thousands?
“A hero is born,” one commander muttered, voicing his instinctual realization as he quietly lowered his weapon.
This was the end of the war; all that remained was the weight of their surrender.
Farther back, there was a man who had watched the battle unfold, idly staring as his superior died, only to now find himself the commander-in-chief. The moment he saw a single man appear and block a massive army on his own, any sense of awe was replaced by something crumbling to pieces inside him.
He didn't even kill them... he just stopped them?
It was like grabbing the reins of a horse sprinting at full speed and forcing it to a halt through sheer strength. Just pulling a horse back with such force was astonishing enough, but normally, forcing a horse to stop like that would make it trip, breaking its legs or snapping its neck.
Fuck, does this even make sense?
Yet, both the horse and the rider were perfectly fine. From a distance, it truly looked as if he were holding back a massive army entirely on his own.
As the sunlight fell upon the man standing alone in the middle of the battlefield, fear gripped the commander's heart. What was it that had crumbled to pieces? It was his future, and everything he had managed to build up until now.
It would have been better to fight and lose. Even if they had piled up a mountain of corpses! Because then, he could have claimed that they fought to the bitter end, that their commander died in the process, and that he had done his absolute best under the knight's orders. He might have faced demotion or penalties, but it wouldn't have been a capital offense.
But what would happen if they stopped here? If the battle ended like this, who would bear the responsibility?
Even if everything came to light, it would be a disaster. The knight was a problem, but he, who had meekly followed those orders, would undoubtedly be held accountable as well.
Fear had simply seized him, freezing his mind. He scrambled to flee. Forget cleaning up the mess; running away seemed like the best option. If all that awaited his army was a slaughter, there was no guarantee he would survive afterward anyway.
Wasn't his own life the most important thing in the world?
I have to survive first.
If there were those who spoke of duty and responsibility, there were always those who believed the exact opposite.
He grabbed a horse and fled at full speed, but along the way, he ran straight into an allied unit riding toward him. Unable to avoid them, he was forced to stop, and Abnayor immediately emerged from the middle of the group to confront him.
“What happened?”
The fleeing man blinked. Panting heavily and struggling to catch his breath, he could only stare, unable to answer. Why was Abnayor here?
Abnayor had set out because the commander had failed to send regular reports, and his sixth sense kept sending chills down his spine. Despite his trust in Barnas, a lingering trace of anxiety had driven him to the battlefield. Even as he set out, he had hoped nothing was wrong, but the situation had already spiraled in an unpredictable direction.
“Uh, well, you see...”
The man rambled, pouring out excuses. His pretexts were pathetic. Abnayor, noticing the way the man's eyes darted around, realized he was hiding something.
“If you lie to a single question from this moment on, I will sever your hand.”
It wasn't spoken in a harsh voice, nor did he grab the man roughly. His tone was calm and flat. Yet, the effect was absolute. Abnayor was a man who kept his word. Even this coward, who had abandoned his entire army, knew Abnayor's character.
“What happened to your direct superior?”
“H-he is dead.”
The man gasped out the words, cold sweat pouring down his back. Once the truth was laid bare and Abnayor heard the story, he closed his eyes.
We lost.
He hadn't grasped the entire situation, but their defeat was certain. Otherwise, why would an enemy knight appear where an all-out battle was taking place when Barnas hadn't even returned to their camp?
Ha.
To be stopped not by the Red Cloak Knights, but by the Border Guard's standing army. What did this imply? It was proof that the military might of the Border Guard's standing army surpassed that of the entire Azpen Principality—even though that shouldn't be possible if one strictly compared the number of soldiers.
A knight.
A force referred to as a disaster had been pushed back.
Abnayor looked up at the sky for a moment. The blue sky, the white clouds drifting through it, and the rays of light piercing through those clouds. The blowing wind ruffled his hair.
Removing his helmet, Abnayor nodded.
“Kill him.”
“...Why?!”
The commander tried to run. It was a foolish move. Run? Where could he possibly go now?
Defeat? That could be forgiven. Losing their commander to a crazy knight's blade? That, too, could be forgiven. But abandoning the remaining army and fleeing alone was unforgivable. The absence of the commander-in-chief could have resulted in a slaughter.
Thud!
One of the guards thrust his spear. The spearhead pierced the back of the man who had hastily turned to flee.
“Gah!”
The skewered man collapsed forward, his face slamming into the ground. Without sparing a single glance at the dead man, Abnayor and his guards moved forward.
“Did we lose?”
At the guard captain's question, Abnayor stated what needed to be done instead of giving an answer.
“We will return with as many alive as possible.”
Would the enemy leave a retreating army alone? And what was this about someone suddenly appearing and stopping the battle itself? It was time to see it with his own eyes and do what had to be done.
Arriving at the battlefield, Abnayor took in the entire scene. He saw the man who had blocked the enemy alone. Abnayor knew his face and his name. He was the one Abnayor had once been willing to grind down his own forces just to kill. There was no way he wouldn't recognize him.
A man with blue hair and black eyes, standing alone in the sunlight—it was only right to call him a knight now. Even without the eye to judge martial skill, the situation made the man's overwhelming power painfully clear.
“The Demon Slayer.”
Abnayor's mouth opened. It was his most famous moniker.
What should he do now? Abnayor was determined to save his troops, even if it cost him his own head.
“All of you, fall back.”
“We started this together, so we will see it through to the end with you,” the guard captain refused to obey.
Abnayor didn't have the time to waste on persuasion. If the Border Guard's standing army initiated a fight now, his men would be annihilated. Furthermore, the enemy had a knight on their side.
Just as he was about to step forward, the enemy spoke first.
“Withdraw.”
“Just like that?”
It was a distance over which they shouldn't have been able to hear each other, yet Abnayor heard him clearly. It was unbelievable, but it was true. The man had brought the battle to a halt, silenced the field, and was now turning the Azpen army back.
There was no need for a promise that they wouldn't pursue. His word itself was proof of trust. Moreover, he was the first to turn his back.
Watching Encrid turn away, Abnayor reflected on everything he had gathered so far. Because of that, he felt he understood why Encrid was turning back.
Unnecessary bloodshed.
They could fight. They could measure victory and defeat. They could kill and be killed. That was what a battlefield was, and stepping onto it with swords and spears meant they had already agreed to those terms. Yet, if he deemed it unnecessary, he would stop it.
It was as if he could hear Encrid's voice.
Watching this, Abnayor also felt a shiver run down his spine. It was a thrill even greater than what those who had seen the wall of Will and Intimidation had felt.
Can such a person truly exist?
Abnayor had seen many people. Though perhaps not those hailed as once-in-a-generation heroes, he had seen kings, imperial knights, and even knights of the great southern empire. The King of the East was said to be worthy of being called a hero, but how would he compare to the man before his eyes now?
At the very least, they were beings far beyond Abnayor's ability to judge. He had no right to evaluate them. Their ideals would be lofty, their convictions steadfast, and their will firmer than ever before.
“Let us return.”
It was time to go back and stand where the responsibility for the war would be demanded.
General Frok had tried to die to save his subordinates, yet he had returned alive. The commander who had abandoned his men and fled had died along the way by the blade of an allied knight. The new commander, who had ordered the general charge in a panic, had died while trying to save only his own skin.
Abnayor intended to fulfill his responsibility, whether it meant being imprisoned for life or facing death for losing once again.
That was the end of this battle, and the end of the war that Azpen had met—no, was bound to meet.