The Imperial Friendship Match (10)
From a third party's perspective, Prince Lucas and his strike force's actions might have seemed utterly foolish. To trust information gleaned from a single scout and act on it without question was beyond idiotic. They should have considered the possibility that the enemy had deliberately planted false intelligence.
Of course, they had their excuses. After all, the decision to even listen to that commoner in the first place had been nothing more than one of Lucas's whims. What if Lucas had attacked with the intent to kill from the very beginning, instead of deliberately targeting the leg? What if he had simply cut the man's throat without bothering to hear his story?
The sight of the commoner writhing in agony from the spear wound had been intensely urgent. His repeated verbal slips and anxious glances had felt utterly genuine. It was only natural that bringing in people from Spero would create friction between the Southern Army and the Imperial Princess. There had been more than enough reason to believe she might have recklessly gathered forces.
No, setting all that aside—if this had truly been a coordinated deception, it would mean they had anticipated even the Imperial Princess's pointed remarks through the communication orb and the subsequent explosion. Even knowing healers were standing by, how could anyone imagine that the sight of an ally's upper body being blown apart in a blast was mere acting?
And what of those who had rushed in to intercept them? Though they hadn't inflicted significant damage due to the numerical disadvantage and Lucas's overwhelming strength, the academy students had proven themselves more than a match for the Central Army's forces. In fact, the brown-haired girl, the black-haired girl, and the young man in scholarly robes had required two or three Central Army members each just to keep them at bay.
How could anyone have predicted that such skilled individuals—people who might have achieved tremendous results if unleashed on the enemy headquarters—would be sacrificed as nothing more than a simple feint?
But no matter how many excuses one offered, the fact remained that they had been deceived. Once it became clear that the victory they thought was within reach had been nothing but a mirage, countermeasures were necessary. And they needed to be taken immediately.
Lucas screamed in despair.
When the first urgent communication arrived from the defensive line reporting the discovery of enemy forces, the adjutant leading the detached unit made his decision swiftly. Although Prince Lucas's orders had been cut off midway, the need to protect the main camp was self-evident.
That was why, even when the Spero knights blocked their path, the adjutant hadn't been particularly concerned. The Barhart Empire held a mixture of affection and respect for the Nahat. The 'martial prowess' they had cultivated over long years of life-or-death struggle against demonic beasts had become the standard for many imperial knights, forged in the empire's own blood and flesh.
The Barhart Empire regarded the Morians with a mixture of wariness and awe. Their 'magic' was as profound as the history passed down through the ages, and even now, with the empire ruling the continent, it remained an abyss no one could fathom.
But Spero was different. They possessed neither the fierce martial tradition built through lives of struggle, nor the magical arts inherited alongside their pride. They had never produced an exceptional ruler, nor did they possess an ideology or faith capable of uniting their people.
What wariness could one possibly hold toward the remnants of such a nation—foolish people who lacked even the wisdom to submit properly to imperial rule? It should have been enough to crush them lightly and move on.
It should have been.
"Heh heh heh. Those eyes of yours really piss me off. So damn arrogant."
"Ugh!?"
As the old Spero knight, Reno Brutanie, danced his blade with cunning grace, the Central Army knight before him sprayed blood and was hurled backward. The other old knights burst into raucous chatter at the sight.
"That's right, that's right. Every last one of them is oozing that 'you're nothing but trash' attitude from their entire bodies. It's really getting on my nerves. Should I just gouge their eyes out?"
"Sir Robin, your mouth has gotten even fouler since we last met, hasn't it?"
"After our lord passed into eternal sleep, I've spent decades living as a wandering knight. How could my tongue not have sharpened?"
"Still, at least your body stayed light. I had to play nursemaid to our young lady until she came of age. Honestly, the wandering life was rather entertaining, wasn't it?"
"Ugh. Well, it was rather liberating. The meals I got in those rural villages were decent enough."
"What is this, a bragging session about our life stories? Dan, why don't you say something too?"
"Don't ask me. This very moment is the greatest achievement of my life."
"You're really leaving me with nothing to say. As boring as you were twenty years ago, you're just as boring now."
Despite their leisurely attitudes, as if they were merely out for a picnic, there wasn't the slightest opening in the way they held their swords. Even when the adjutant thought he had found a gap and thrust forward, another knight beside them would casually close the breach and launch a ferocious counterattack.
The Central Army adjutant was bewildered. If each of the old knights before him had been overwhelmingly stronger than the Central Army knights, he might have been shocked, but he wouldn't have been this confused. Was it a matter of physical ability—strength or speed? It was true that these old knights appeared remarkably vigorous for their apparent age and possessed stamina far surpassing that of ordinary knights. But that was all.
Objectively speaking, their specs fell short compared to the Central Army knights, who were considered the elite even within the empire. Then was it swordsmanship? That wasn't it either. Their techniques, honed over long years, were seasoned and could easily be called masterful. Yet the swordsmanship taught to the Central Army knights was the result of the empire systematically organizing and refining martial arts collected over centuries. In terms of foundation, they were in no way inferior.
And that was precisely why the adjutant fell into confusion. They weren't losing in stats or technique. They held the numerical advantage. So why couldn't they cut these men down? Why couldn't they overwhelm them?
One of the old knights, Reno, answered with a mocking smile.
"The empire has grown quite soft. During the Hegemony War, the mere sight of black and red armor would make everyone tremble. But what's the point of just copying the appearance? There's not a shred of venom in the contents."
"Ah, so Sir Reno feels the same way? It wasn't just my imagination!"
"Those bastards back then were truly insane. Every single one of them had completely bloodshot eyes, you know?"
At the old knights' chatter, the adjutant flushed red and shouted.
"You bastards! How dare defeated remnants insult the empire!"
"Heh heh. Even if I lost to your predecessors, I've never once been defeated by greenhorns like you, you brat."
While parrying the adjutant's attack, the old knight felt conflicting emotions. The joy of being able to fight on equal footing against the imperial army that had once seemed like an insurmountable wall of despair. And because of that, the despair he felt all the more clearly.
The knights before them had likely never experienced war. That was why they didn't truly understand 'the fight of the weak,' nor did they know how to crush such resistance as the strong. Or rather, even if they knew it intellectually, they couldn't feel it in their bones.
From the perspective of those who remembered the iron-blooded legions led by that god of war, Ludwig, during the age of turmoil, these men seemed like nothing but fledglings. But on the other hand, even these fledglings were overwhelming them like this.
The young pups before them were panicking because the opponents they thought they could cut down in a single stroke refused to fall. But the old knights were in the same position—merely holding out. While disparaging their opponents as fledglings, they themselves couldn't even mount a proper counterattack. That was their true state.
The Southern Army commander had said it. In the empire's Central Army alone, there were thousands of men with strength similar to these young ones. Then what about the empire as a whole? And how many more were there at just one level below them?
In contrast, there were only six old knights. After decades during which some had died from injuries, others had left to pursue different paths, some had grown too old to hold a sword, and still others had sworn loyalty to the new royal family and departed one by one—only these six remained.
If they fought not in the form of a match, but in a war between the Spero Kingdom and the Barhart Empire, there would be no pride or honor in it. They would simply be crushed to death like ants.
Because they understood this deep in their hearts, Reno and the six old knights shed tears inwardly. How could they not grieve? How could they not despair? Accepting that their homeland, to which they had devoted their entire lives, no longer had any chance of victory—acknowledging that the blades they had sharpened against the empire were meaningless—was more painful than having their flesh carved away.
Yet there was only one reason they could still swing their swords.
The old knights glanced sideways at their young juniors, who were still struggling desperately to hold the line alongside them even in this moment.
"The Spero of today cannot surpass Barhart. Not while you seniors still live. Perhaps not even until the day I die."
"But an empire that lasts forever does not exist."
"Even if generations pass and our names are all forgotten, as long as the name 'Spero' remains, they will have their chance."
"To leave behind that opportunity, I will fight. Please lend me your strength."
Perhaps it was nothing more than the delusion of those who refused to see reality. They spoke of using the empire, but they might simply be absorbed in the process. And even if they weren't, the 'Spero' of the distant future might be something entirely different from what the old knights had known.
But what did it matter?
They had grown sick of hopeless battles over the course of their lives. What harm was there in placing one more long-shot bet at the end of that foolish, arduous path?
Impaled by the adjutant's sword and collapsing, the old knight gazed at the arrogant Southern Army commander's war cry from behind and the sight of the red-haired princess unfolding a defensive wall to protect Spero's young warriors. With a peaceful heart, he lost consciousness.