Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Like a Butterfly, Like a Bee (3)
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With my visor raised, my face was fully exposed.
The attack came flying straight at my face with deadly precision.
It was too close and too sudden to dodge.
In a panic, I covered my face with my vambrace.
Kuudduk.
I heard the sound of something sharp scraping against metal, and then the second attack came flying in.
But I had no intention of dragging out this ridiculous farce even a little bit longer.
Chin.
I grabbed the opponent's wrist.
"Eek! Eeek!"
The opponent whose wrist I'd seized struggled with all their might.
"Second Lieutenant Yannick of the Independent Cavalry Squadron attached to the 8th Legion in the Schrelgrad sector. I received your request for support and came running."
Only after my introduction did the struggling stop.
Now I could finally take a proper look inside the carriage.
One woman already dead, one middle-aged man unconscious with blood smeared across his forehead. And one kid whose wrist I'd grabbed.
"All enemies eliminated. You're safe now."
I released the skinny wrist.
"Sorry for arriving so late."
The kid who'd been rubbing their wrist nonstop stared at me blankly.
Tears quickly welled up in their big eyes.
"Waaah!"
The kid finally burst into tears.
**
The middle-aged man seemed to be from the royal family, but with his head injury, he couldn't stay conscious long enough for any real conversation.
The woman who looked like a maid was dead, and the kid wasn't in any state to talk.
So I grabbed the nearest Redcoat who seemed somewhat coherent and asked for the full story.
"Redcoat. State your rank and name."
"...Sergeant Yakob Kasimir. Royal Guard Cavalry, Mounted Guard Regiment."
The Trakian Royal Cavalry was divided into the Royal Mounted Regiment, which handled royal protection, ceremonies, and palace defense, and the Mounted Guard Regiment, which covered other dignitaries and external missions.
A Mounted Guard Regiment member, though.
I'd assumed it was some royal because the princess was making such a fuss, but apparently not.
"...Then, Sergeant Kasimir. Report the situation."
"One platoon of 20 from the Mounted Guard Regiment and one platoon of 40 from the capital defense infantry, escorting a VIP. We left the capital nine days ago heading for Kilirgrad. We got ambushed by the enemy en route. The Redcoats tried to open an escape route, but as you can see, we failed."
Not just the ambush—they'd lured out the Redcoats and wiped out all the infantry. From security to the full escort size, everything had been exposed.
"Just who is this VIP to warrant that?"
I glanced at the kid and middle-aged man climbing onto the Bluecoats' horses.
"...Unfortunately, I wasn't informed. Only that it's someone of very high status, and their movements are extremely important to Thracia's future."
"Then who requested support from us?"
"...Sorry. I don't know that either."
With the sole surviving Redcoat being a bottom-rung sergeant, there were limits to the info I could get.
Either way, all we could do was wait for the head-injured middle-aged man to come to.
"Sergeant Kasimir. We've taken over the Mounted Guard Regiment's mission. You're free to return."
With the Redcoats wiped out anyway, we'd have to handle the escort ourselves.
"No! Without orders to return, I'll stick it out to the end!"
"...Do what you want."
I shrugged at the Redcoat volunteering for hardship in this freezing weather and turned to go.
"...Lieutenant, I have a question."
Sergeant Kasimir stopped me.
"Speak."
"I've heard that in Thracia, Redcoats and Bluecoats vie for the title of elite."
"Well, some people say that."
Comparing us to toy soldiers trailing royals from the warm south wasn't pleasant, but with the Redcoats annihilated, no need to rub it in and dishonor the dead.
"I don't think Redcoat training is inferior to Bluecoats'. I believe our individual skills and talents are superior."
So I'd just listened silently when the sergeant expressed Redcoat pride.
If this was his way of honoring fallen comrades, I wouldn't stop him.
But that wasn't it.
"Yet today, I saw a gap between Redcoats and Bluecoats that training and talent can't bridge."
A prideful Redcoat, taught they were the best, admitting Bluecoat superiority out loud.
"I just can't understand it. What made the difference so vast?"
At this point, I had to say something.
"Ridiculous."
"Pardon?"
He probably thought admitting Bluecoat superiority was a big concession.
From our side, even being compared to Redcoats was insulting.
"Training this, talent that."
Like a rose in a tended garden bragging about its thorns.
"I asked what causes the difference."
My words made the sergeant's face stiffen, as if offended.
"For those born to good families, honing their talents—the most luxurious honor they could enjoy in life is a red coat."
I looked at him coldly and continued.
"This blue coat is the shroud for madmen who survive hellish battlefields, charging at limbs without hesitation at any moment."
Bluecoats weren't selected by talent.
Only those who survived the brutal fields could become Bluecoats.
And only they qualified to die wearing this blue coat.
"......"
The sergeant stared at me blankly.
Then Jamal approached and whispered.
"This a shroud?"
"...?"
"Figures. Quality's too good for issue gear."
From now on, I'd wash it clean and wear it under my armor.
Jamal chattering like he'd made a grand resolution, Bluecoats nodding vigorously.
"Ha."
These guys never got literary metaphors, same as last time.
Regretting wasting passion on clueless rookies, I felt belatedly embarrassed.
Meanwhile, the Doppelzoltner finished cleaning the battlefield.
"Cleaning" meant barely digging a pit in the frozen ground and burying the fallen's uniforms and gear.
Conditions weren't good enough for full burials.
Even "garden flower" Redcoats were Thracia's elite.
Enemies this prepared wouldn't back off after one failure.
"Move out!"
Bluecoats took the lead, Doppelzoltner the flanks and rear.
VIP in the center.
"Scout rotation."
I sent scouts constantly to check surroundings.
Who was the VIP? Who targeted them?
Who dared attack Redcoats in Thracia?
No answers despite brooding.
One thing clear: I'd stumbled into a massive hassle.
Worst, no backing out now.
"This escort mission is top secret."
When I suggested rerouting for nearby legion support, Sergeant Kasimir firmly opposed.
Normally, I'd ignore the fluffy sergeant's opinion.
But not now.
Even I, responding to the support call, and the assigned Redcoats knew little.
High command had been ultra-secretive.
Yet enemies knew the route ahead and ambushed, wiping escorts.
Info leaked internally.
Without knowing enemies or collaborators, minimize outsider contact.
Meant escorting the VIP to frontline Kilirgrad with just us.
And I knew exactly what to do.
"Pick up the pace!"
Fastest to destination was safest.
**
A well-trained infantry platoon covers 20 km/day. Cavalry 40 km, assuming peak horse condition.
Good roads extend, bad shorten.
Thracia's roads were generally well-maintained front to rear.
With infantry wounded, our group maxed at 25 km/day.
Enough reserve for surprise fights, max distance.
Enemies ambushing next would likely pick similar spots.
So go farther.
Faster and farther than expected.
"Sergeant Kasimir. You holding up?"
"..."
No reply. No energy left.
We'd gone over 35 km already.
Injured from last fight, heavy armor—brutal forced march for him.
"If it's tough, I could give you a ride."
"...N-no, I'm fine!"
He finally gasped a response.
Glancing at walking Bluecoats—treated as casualties after losing horses—pride sparked.
"Knew you'd say that."
"...Why offer?"
"No real reason."
"......"
I glanced at his baffled look.
No one rides my royal gift horse but me.
This one's precious.
Hard to imagine life without it now.
"Slow the unit."
I eased speed when black circles nearly formed under Kasimir's eyes—when even battle-hardened Doppelzoltner and Bluecoats teetered.
Suitable camp spot ahead.
"Halt. Camp here."
Unit stopped; Kasimir collapsed flat.
Other Bluecoats-"casualties"-and Doppelzoltner didn't flop—instead stood loosening march-stressed muscles.
Meanwhile, Jamal and some Bluecoats scouted; I checked map.
"Hm. About here."
Just over 40 km.
For heavy-armored group with wounded/kid post-battle—insane distance.
Outside enemy expectations.
"Maintain formation, rest. Fire... minimal, pit only, enough to warm bodies."
Wanted no fire, but suicidal in this weather.
At least dry sweat-soaked liners and clothes from march.
Comfort: we'd gone 15+ km beyond enemy guess.
Plain max fire sight: ~5 km.
Even with advance scouts, out of detection.
"Armor off."
Bluecoats including me helped each other remove plate.
Sweaty liners by fire, cloaks instead of blankets.
Doppelzoltner huddled tight for warmth.
"Hm."
Pale-painted men embracing through night.
Ferocious sight—even I feared nightmares.
Wondered if sleep possible.
Glanced at kid and middle-aged man.
Who were they? Who hunted them?
Why to frontline fortress? What did hunters fear?
Too many thoughts.
No easy sleep.
Bullshit.
"Lieutenant, sun'll rise soon."
"...?"
Opened eyes to dawn.
Next day, day after—continued forced marches.
Day 2 shorter than 1, day 3 shorter still.
3 days: ~90 km.
Tomorrow evening latest to Kilirgrad.
Maybe meet 15th Legion long-range patrol sooner.
If very lucky.
But I wasn't optimistic.
Too much luck lately for more fortune.
"Hm."
Woke unrested.
Neck stiff.
Like sticky something clung to nape, unpeeling.
I knew this feeling, this omen, from experience.
"Double scout numbers, intervals, range."
Slow speed, double recon intensity.
No objections.
Bluecoats, Doppelzoltner.
All knew: destination near, perfect for backstab.
Only rookie Redcoat tilted head at our tension.
"Jamal."
"Lieutenant."
Eye contact.
Faint iron scent on wind.
Could be 15th patrol, but doubtful.
"Full combat readiness."
Bluecoats and Doppelzoltner checked gear.
I headed to column center.
Middle-aged man, already iffy, half-unconscious atop horse from marches.
"Might fight soon."
Kid, eyes darting at sudden tension, gasped.
"So need to clarify something."
"...What?"
"Who exactly is the VIP for them to risk this?"
Kid looked down sadly.
"Sadly, no one to answer— he's like that..."
I shook head.
"No. Asking the VIP now."
"......?"
Kid blinked in confusion.
I stared steadily.
"...Why think I'm the VIP?"
Kid finally asked.
"Only VIP unscathed."
Maid threw self protecting someone at carriage crash.
Corpse showed it.
Yet middle-aged badly hurt; kid spotless.
"Maybe maternal instinct—protected kid first."
"I know well what servants close to nobles are like."
Masters over instinct for those roles.
"Weak evidence."
"Then say I have great intuition."
"Hm..."
Kid stroked round chin.
"Does my answer change anything?"
Essentially admitting my guess.
"Yes. A lot."
No hesitation.
"...Then no need to continue."
That instant, kid—VIP—atmosphere shifted.
"You seem convinced of my identity already."