Chapter 541: The Knight of the Iron Wall
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 541: The Knight of the Iron Wall
"You must be the Castellan."
Graham stared at the man who had suddenly appeared before him.
A madman?
The stranger looked like the sort who wouldn't seem out of place if he started drooling. His torn-up gambeson, worn-out scabbard, and dented helmet certainly made him look the part.
Though the intruder appeared to be a mere lunatic, Graham gripped his sword and shield, immediately dropping into a defensive stance.
The shabby-looking man let out a long, ragged breath, blinked his bloodshot eyes a few times, and spoke.
"I'm busy. I'll make this quick."
His tone was casual, but the murderous intent laced within it was anything but ordinary. No sooner had he finished speaking than a roar erupted from the distance.
Waaaaaaah!
The sound drifted over from the battlefield. Someone's name seemed to echo amidst the shouting, but it was too far away to hear clearly.
Graham had been on the move, planning to gather all forces—including the rear units—to mount a defense once the full-scale battle began. Regardless of whether they held the advantage, having even one more fighting hand was the best way to minimize friendly casualties.
But then, this man had suddenly burst out of the bushes beside the camp and blocked his path.
There were barely any soldiers nearby. The supply units and everyone else currently had their eyes glued to the front lines.
Sliiiide.
The bloodshot-eyed madman drew his sword and cracked his neck from side to side. As he did, the tip of his blade wobbled. It was unclear what he had been through, but his mind and body were clearly not in a normal state. His centerline was off, and his balance seemed strangely warped.
To make matters worse, his muttering was absurd.
"Taking the Castellan's head would be the greatest achievement, wouldn't it?"
What utter nonsense.
While Graham was indeed the Castellan of Border Guard, even a child knew who truly represented this land: the Demon Slayer, the King's friend—Encrid.
In other words, Graham's title was merely a figurehead. Of course, Graham himself didn't mind that. The old warrior knew all too well that simply having the chance to watch and grow stronger by Encrid's side was a stroke of immense fortune.
Yet, despite drawing his sword with a stumble, the man blocking his path was clearly formidable. If he were just a common lunatic, he wouldn't have made it this far.
Even to Graham's eyes, the opponent's skill seemed daunting, and Frok, whose senses far surpassed those of humans, whispered from his side to confirm his judgment. Frok was a guard assigned to him by Luagarne and Krais.
"He's a knight."
Those three words were enough.
Just before Frok spoke, one of the guards frowned and stepped forward to intervene, but Graham held him back.
"Do not step in."
"Sir?"
"Step back."
Graham was not a calculating man, but he was not one to ignore the obvious, either. If the guard stepped forward, he would die. Graham could not simply stand by and watch that happen.
Send out someone whose name and face he knew—someone he had eaten, slept, and trained with—just to test the enemy's strength? In Graham's book, any commander who did such a thing deserved to have his head chopped off on the spot.
Thus, he could not do it. Graham pushed back the guard who was trying to shield him.
Is today the day I die?
He had no idea how an enemy knight had ended up here in such a wretched state, but if the opponent was truly a knight—beings often called walking disasters—blocking even a single strike would be a struggle.
If he was lucky, maybe he could block two.
Even so, Graham gripped his sword. Any soldier who stepped onto the battlefield had to fulfill his duty. Meekly offering his neck to be severed was not the duty of a Castellan.
"I am the Castellan of Border Guard."
As Graham gripped his sword and stared straight ahead, the opponent's blade vanished with a whoosh.
It happened before he could even finish his sentence. Naturally, there was no time to let out a battle cry. What saved him was simple, stubborn, repetitive training.
At a point when Graham thought his age and skill had reached their limits, he had met Encrid. Seeing him, Graham realized it was a beginning, not an end, and had spared no sweat ever since.
That was what saved him now.
Out of habit, he thrust his sword diagonally, anchoring his weight on both legs to deflect the incoming blow. It was a habit formed from countless sparring sessions with Encrid—the result of desperate struggles to survive even a single strike.
Consequently, as he raised his sword diagonally and braced himself, an unbearable force descended upon him in the form of a blade.
Clang! Screeech!
He hadn't deflected it perfectly. Strictly speaking, it was more like he had only deflected half of it. Even so, he held his ground.
As a Castellan, Graham naturally possessed an excellent weapon—a Valerian steel sword. Yet, one side of that steel blade was now half-ground down like a saw. Even though he had deflected half the impact, Graham felt as if the webbing of his hand was about to burst. In fact, it might have actually torn.
I blocked it.
Even if it was half luck, the result spoke for itself. He had withstood a strike from a knight.
Of course, this was only possible because Corwin was not in his right mind. Driven mad by a combination of the battlefield, blood, and flight, only a single, clear purpose remained in his head. Though it was meaningless and would only invite resentment, he would kill the Castellan before leaving.
He acted purely on that stream of consciousness.
Hiding his imprinted weapon in a worn-out scabbard that didn't even fit, wearing a stolen gambeson, and lacking any fairy-tale talents like Knight Jamal, he had made his way here by sneaking through the brush. He had only managed to slip through because the Azpen army's charge at the front had created a gap in the lines. Otherwise, he would have been discovered long ago.
"You frog bastard."
Corwin's bloodshot eyes gleamed with intense malice.
There was another reason he had failed to take his enemy's head with that last strike, and it lay at his ankle. The whip wrapped around his leg had saved Graham's life. And Luagarne, the owner of that whip, had a single thought as she witnessed the previous strike.
He's half-baked.
Of course, there was no doubt that he was a knight. But not all knights were created equal. Compared to the likes of Encrid, Rem, and Ragna, his mastery was embarrassingly low.
Therefore...
We can hold out.
Of course, holding out was all they could do. It wouldn't end well. Luagarne was here guarding Castellan Graham because Krais, anxious that the enemy might bypass their lines and send a surprise raid, had requested her to do so.
Thus, no one could have anticipated a knight's ambush here. In other words, expecting backup was out of the question.
It could not end well. At best, they would hold out until they died.
Should I give up, then?
She asked herself. No answer was needed.
Croak.
Luagarne puffed out her cheeks. There are moments when neither frustration nor despair is needed. Those are the moments when one must simply do something. Just like the man she had watched, Luagarne tightened her grip on the whip's handle.
"I'll kill you all," Corwin snarled, yanking his leg. Even though Luagarne exerted all her strength, her body was dragged forward.
Clang!
She raised the loop sword in her right hand above her head to block, and the enemy's blade slammed down upon it. She hadn't seen the trajectory of the sword; she had blocked it purely on prediction.
Right then, Graham let out a sharp shout and swung his sword down from beside her. Beyond the guards, a few soldiers rushed over after hearing the commotion, but Corwin's eyes had already rolled back in madness. He believed he could kill them and escape, no matter who tried to stop him.
This was sheer insanity. Though a knight was said to be capable of cutting down a thousand alone, how could anyone survive in the middle of a battlefield with arrows raining down and an army closing in? Even knights grew exhausted.
But if he were capable of such rational thought, he wouldn't have come here in the first place.
Corwin's eyes turned an even deeper crimson. Reddened by ruptured capillaries, his eyes made him look less like a human and more like a demonic beast. His blade, thick with murderous intent, flew savagely.
Whoosh!
The knight, whose greatest weapon was his insight, began to push forward with sheer speed and power. Normally, Graham would have been cut down long ago, but he held on even as his armor was torn away and the flesh of his forearm was gouged.
All this time, Graham had trained relentlessly while watching Encrid. He had done so by dumping all his duties as Castellan onto Krais. Through this, he had risen to a level where he could be called an Associate Knight.
Of course, even an Associate Knight shouldn't have been able to block these consecutive strikes. That was the reality. Yet, he blocked them.
The reasons were threefold: first, Corwin's Will was shattered and unstable from fleeing without regard for his damaged state; second, Luagarne's whip kept snagging his ankle, constantly disrupting his rhythm.
Third, Corwin was not playing to his strengths but was instead leading with his usual weakness. Instead of using precise cuts guided by insight, he was trying to crush them with brute force.
"Aaaaargh!"
Corwin's scream, stripped of all composure, was filled with nothing but negative emotions. It was a sound that made one uncomfortable just listening to it. Most of the surrounding soldiers frowned. Even so, none of them could step forward to help.
Whoosh.
Corwin's sword sliced through the air once more. Even if his Will was no longer as solid as before, a knight was still a knight. No one could complain if Graham's head was severed by this next strike. To make matters worse, Graham had already ordered his guards back to prevent them from dying.
Thwack!
But once again, Corwin failed to achieve his goal. His sword did slice through something, but it wasn't the Castellan's neck.
Flap, flap.
Frok's severed arm, which he had sacrificed to block the blow, flopped on the ground, spraying blood like a fish pulled from the water.
"How many times do you think you can block me?" Corwin spat, exhaling a dark, damp murderous intent.
At this point, Corwin had regained a sliver of something resembling composure. Though it was closer to wishful thinking, if more time had passed, this dark malice might have sublimated into Will, opening a new path for Corwin—even if it were the path of a mad knight steeped in slaughter.
That is, if he survived.
Corwin shattered Graham's shield, broke his fingers, and severed Luagarne's leg, but he failed to kill them. The crucial point was that quite some time had passed, and the crazed Corwin had failed to realize it.
"Well, look at this bastard. He actually made it all the way here. What are you doing here, anyway?"
A voice brought the battle to a sudden halt. It was a light, cheerful shout. Despite this, Corwin tried to strike down the Castellan one last time, but his body refused to move as intended.
Along with the voice, something flew through the air with a whoosh, cutting right between Graham and Corwin.
Corwin instinctively leaped back. Graham, slower to react, merely flinched. It was something several times faster than the sword strikes Corwin had been unleashing just moments ago.
Boom!
With a thunderous crash, the object slammed into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. Upon closer inspection, it was a hand axe. Since even Graham hadn't been able to see it flying, to the soldiers, it must have looked like a bolt of lightning striking the earth.
As the hand axe embedded itself in the ground, it created an illusion as if light itself had been shattered and carved. Though the blade was somewhat small since it was a throwing axe, the entire head was buried deep in the earth. It was a display of monstrous strength.
Corwin's head snapped back. His eyes widened as if they would tear open. Some of the capillaries in his eyes ruptured, sending tears of blood streaming down his face.
"Why are you...?"
The grim reaper had returned. The grey-haired monster.
Behind him stood a black-haired, blue-eyed man, and next to him was an expressionless fellow with reddish-brown hair. Right beside them was a panting female soldier named Finn.
Finn, who had been reporting back after her scouting mission, had quickly brought Encrid over upon seeing how things were unfolding. In other words, Graham would have to make sure to thank her profusely later.
The moment Corwin instinctively tried to flee, something flew with a whoosh toward the path he intended to take. Corwin twisted his body to dodge it. It was a sword shaped like a leaf. The blonde elf holding the sword—possessing an appearance one could never forget—opened his mouth.
"I will not let you escape, shriveled one."
What nonsense was this? Corwin thought as his eyes swept over everyone blocking his path.
"Brother, it is time to meet God."
The words came from a massive, bear-like man standing quietly to the side. Those words were instantly realized.
"Aaaaaargh!"
Letting out a cry that was half-scream and half-battle cry, Corwin searched for any way to escape. His near-supernatural insight read the future. Having seen every possible future, Corwin witnessed an unavoidable strike severing his neck.
"No!"
Those were his last words.
Thwack!
Knight Corwin's head flew through the air.
Rem, who had swung his axe, considered splitting Corwin's falling head once more but decided against it. What was the point of chopping up a dead man's head?
"Crazy bastard," Rem spat. The guy had been unpleasant in every possible way.
Only then did Graham and Luagarne, who had lost her limbs, let out a deep sigh of relief. Encrid helped them up.
"Limbs grow back," Luagarne said. She spoke as the soldiers rushed over to press her severed limbs back in place and wrap them in bandages.
"What happened at the front?" Graham asked.
"We turned them back," Encrid spoke calmly.
Encrid had always shown Graham respect, but his current words were particularly comforting. It meant there were no casualties on their side in this battle.
Encrid spoke calmly, and some of the surrounding soldiers stared at the mad unit that had effortlessly sliced down a knight known as a disaster. There weren't many witnesses. Even as they watched the Azpen army retreat, their own units had to maintain their positions.
Yet, even in this situation, there were those who had seen firsthand what Encrid had done.
"The Iron Wall," someone muttered.
And that replaced Encrid's most famous moniker. It was as if he had earned the title, "The Sword of the Iron Wall."
"I'm late."
Big-Eyes Krais emerged from among the spectating soldiers, and beside him, Esther in her panther form gazed at Encrid with her blue eyes.
If the end of the war for Azpen spelled ruin and despair, the end of the war for Naurilia could be said to herald the birth of a hero. With so many eyes watching the battlefield, the rumors would surely spread in no time.
Thus, Graham was saved, and the evening passed as they tended to Luagarne's severed limbs. There was no time for celebratory drinks; for the next few days, clearing the battlefield was the top priority. They had to keep watch in case Azpen attempted another mad stunt, so they couldn't just drink and pass out.
It was evening—a time spent washing up, eating, maintaining gear, and listening to the excited chatter of the soldiers. Only then did Encrid feel a certain emptiness, and the source of that emptiness revealed itself in the dead of night, long after the sun had set.
"We were lucky to find him."
"He was heading toward Azpen, using his greatsword as a cane!"
It was Ragna, brought in by the scouts who had been patrolling the perimeter.
"Ah."
Encrid let out a soft exclamation. He had completely forgotten about him.
"Whew... found the right place."
Muttering nonsense, Ragna rolled his eyes back and fainted the moment he stepped into the barracks. Naturally, he was sent straight to the medical tent.