Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Living off Others' Misfortune (2)
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I hitched a ride on a carriage from headquarters and headed to the carriage station on the outskirts of the capital.
The station was buzzing with preparations to transport supplies and personnel to the front lines. It was absolute chaos with families and loved ones seeing off the volunteers and conscripts.
"I'll make a name for myself and treat you right, Mom. So just eat well until then..."
"Forget treating me right—just come back in one piece. Got it? My son."
I pushed past the recruits embracing parents, lovers, or whoever else, sharing their tearful goodbyes, and located the transport unit.
"Why are you all dawdling like this?! We're gonna miss the departure time!"
"Um, excuse me..."
"And who the hell are you?! If you're done with processing, get on board right—gah!"
The transport NCO, in the middle of wrangling recruits, froze solid.
Unlike the fresh recruits in their faded blue jackets, my deep, battle-worn bluecoat—the hallmark of a cavalryman—had clearly thrown him off.
Or maybe he'd recognized my face.
The latter.
"C-Could you be the Guardian of Gaillard...?"
Headquarters must've been hyping me up nonstop—even a lowly NCO recognized me on sight.
"To answer your question, yep, that's me... Whoa, easy! No need for salutes! Hate the fuss."
The last thing I needed was a spectacle. I'd already done enough spinning parades.
I firmly stopped the NCO before things got noisy. The last thing I wanted was drama undoing all the effort I'd gone through to strip off my rank insignia and medals just to sleep.
"Anyway, I'm currently attached to headquarters, heading to my new post in Schrelgrad."
"On a transport carriage?"
"Yeah, don't have a horse."
"...?"
The NCO, who'd been looking at me with admiration, now stared like I'd lost my mind.
And who could blame him? Bluecoats didn't usually bum rides on transport wagons—they rode their own trusty steeds.
But I preferred using army-provided mounts over maintaining a money-pit warhorse myself. (Same reason I stuck to standard-issue gear for armament.)
Point was, whenever I had to travel, I had no choice but to hitch a ride with transports like this.
"Heard from headquarters there's a convoy heading to Schrelgrad today."
"...Yes, sir. The carriages at platform 3 over there—they're Schrelgrad-bound. Hop on any of 'em."
The NCO, still dazed, pointed to an especially large convoy.
"It's been an honor, sir. Good luck...!"
His farewell got swallowed by the din.
I headed to platform 3.
About thirty wagons loaded with supplies and men—roughly half and half.
I picked one that looked in decent shape and hopped aboard.
There were already passengers inside: volunteers scraped together from who-knows-where, by the look of them.
"We'll show those Astoria bastards what for!"
"When the hell does this damn cart leave?! I wanna kill at least one already!"
They were so hyped up, they didn't even notice me board, yelling away.
Cute kids.
I glanced around and locked eyes with a guy huddled in the corner.
Gloomy eyes and expression. Face of a battlefield vet.
He gave a quick nod.
Smart fellow—bowed instead of saluting.
I plopped down in a dim spot, pulled my cap low, and hung my head.
Planned to sleep straight through to Schrelgrad.
Headquarters had me spinning parades and dragging me to endless banquets—no shut-eye at all.
"Let's kill every last Astoria scum!"
"Death to the sneaky Astoria dogs!"
The volunteers were losing it with excitement, howling like mad.
But I'd slept through bombardments in fortresses, so their racket knocked me right out.
I slept the whole trip—except mealtimes.
The volunteers, hyped at first, quieted as the front neared. Made for an even nicer nap.
Thud.
I snapped awake mid-deep sleep.
My heart was pounding way too hard for no reason.
"...?"
The vet woke a beat later, craning his neck around until our eyes met.
His stone-cold face sought silent confirmation.
I nodded and leaped from the wagon.
"Wake up, you idiots!"
"Nngh, what?"
"If you wanna live, off the wagons now!"
I ignored the vet barking at recruits and scanned the area.
The convoy was just entering a grassy plain—when one wagon's wheel gave out, halting the whole line.
"Misfortune one."
I muttered and sought the transport commander.
"Wondered which Bluecoat was hitching a ride. Finally out of the cart, eh?"
The commander was a lieutenant—green as grass, by the looks.
"Enemy ambush. Arm up and prepare to fight."
Right on cue, the vet hopped down and started yanking recruits out, dashing through the line.
The lieutenant scowled and snapped.
"Ridiculous! The defensive line's miles from here! No way the enemy'd come this far unless they're insane...!"
Twang.
A sharp twang like a plucked string—then the lieutenant froze mid-rant.
And dropped.
"Damn...!"
The vet raced over, grimaced at the arrow jutting from the lieutenant's skull.
Misfortune two.
I took a short breath.
"Enemy atta—!"
Big yell—
Twang-twng-twng.
Strings snapping in rapid succession.
"Gaaah!"
"Argh! My arm!"
A whistle sliced the air, screams erupted everywhere.
"Crossbowmen!"
"Kaaagh!"
Some shielded with boards, but the short bolts punched through flimsy wood into flesh.
"Enemy attack!"
"W-where?!"
"Eek! The lieutenant's down!"
Our side panicked.
Worst-case scenario.
We had transport softies and green recruits. They had deep-strike raiders who'd pierced the line.
No contest.
Misfortune three.
"This is friendly territory! Fight calm, and we live!"
I bellowed, math done.
Didn't work.
"Heard of the Battle of Gaillard? I'm Yannick, Guardian of Gaillard!"
Desperate shout—no confidence it'd land.
"Guardian of Gaillard?"
"The guy who beat a regiment of Astorians with less than a hundred wounded...?"
"Woooah!"
Even I was stunned by the roar.
Thanks, headquarters.
"That's right! I'm Yannick! Follow my orders, and we'll reach base safe!"
"Oooooh!"
Morale surged among the panickers.
But no telling how long it'd hold.
"Transport! Form a defensive circle with the wagons! Circular formation! Ditch the front wagons—pile cover from the rear ones!"
Snapped orders, demonstrated myself.
"Archers, take cover behind wagons and stand by!"
"Anyone who can ride, get on the pack mules!"
"Rest of you, spears and shields—ready to fight!"
I kept directing while shoving wagons into barricades.
Mounted a barricade wagon's horse, snapped the tether rope.
"Figured you looked familiar. Guardian of Gaillard, huh."
The vet, up on a pack mule, grinned at me.
From dead-fish face to lively in seconds.
"Veteran. You're on infantry command. Can you handle it?"
"No choice. Leave it to me."
His tone was cheeky—typical for vets ignoring junior officers (mostly lieutenants).
Right now, a rebellious vet with experience beat a compliant newbie.
"You're on rear guard then."
"But what're you gonna—"
"Cavalry! Follow me!"
I charged the makeshift cavalry to the front instead of answering.
Barricades used mid and rear wagons, so front ones were abandoned.
I pulled flint and steel from my pouch, lit 'em up.
Whoosh.
Oil-soaked canvas for waterproofing went up like tinder.
Neighhh!
Spooked pack mule bolted forward.
Toward the tall-grass plain.
"Wha—?!"
"Ugh!"
Confused groans from the grass.
Quick-thinking riders followed, torching wagons.
Blazing wagons charged the plain.
"Charge!"
I led the cavalry in.
Wagons cleared sightlines.
Crushed foes, ones reloading crossbows frantically, drawing swords.
"Hyah!"
I trampled and slashed anything in sight, no mercy.
My cheap cavalry saber shredded quick.
Didn't care.
"Die!"
"Filthy Astoria dogs!"
Let the rookies, drunk on first blood, handle cleanup.
The fight ended in a flash.
Our barricade troops timed a counter perfectly, hitting hard—the enemy routed.
On open field, they wouldn't have fled easy. But this was our turf.
No ambush edge? Pressing would've just upped their risks.
"Lucky their crossbows take forever to reload."
"Nah. I'm shocked even their grunts pack crossbows."
"Shock of the day's our lieutenant's fire-wagon and mule-cavalry charge. Lifetime bar story."
The vet chuckled.
"Sergeant Vadim. Demoted two ranks for trouble."
He snapped a crisp salute, serious now.
"I don't do debts, sir. Remember the name Vadim."
He sauntered off.
I rallied survivors and wounded, resumed march to Schrelgrad.
Unexpected raid, casualties—but morale was sky-high.
"Pathetic Astorians! Eat that!"
"Thought you could do whatever?!"
First victory pumped 'em up like conquerors.
Didn't last.
"Huh?"
Black smoke bloomed from the massive fortress, blotting the sky like storm clouds.
Whiiiistle—boom!
Whistles, then blasts.
Fortress shook like it'd crumble.
Our destination: Schrelgrad.
Boom!
Closer we got, louder the booms. Ground quakes and shockwaves hit skin now.
Whiiiistle—boom!
A shell overshot the walls, slammed near us.
Debris and dust rained on the convoy.
"Eeeek!"
"S-save me!"
Rookies screamed in terror.
Smoke-shrouded Schrelgrad, shrieking newbies—I grinned.
Hellhole.
Problem: my new assignment.
"Behold! The Guardian of Gaillard claims another heroic victory and arrives at the fortress!"
Schrelgrad's commander marched out with troops for a grand welcome.
Considering our convoy's meager supplies and men versus the 8th Legion garrisoned there, it was overkill.
Our little skirmish win was just a platoon of raiders.
Fort under barrage from enemy mage corps, even.
Turned out there was a reason.
"Astoria raiders everywhere—supply and reinforcement lines are choked."
Friendly convoys getting eaten en route.
"Worse than supplies is morale. Troops terrified we're cut off."
So this lavish show was theater for the men.
I stiffened.
Not desk-jockey politicians—a battle-hardened general pulling this? Situation was dire.
Made sense, thinking on it.
Headquarters' dream of holding Line 2, building strength, counterattacking? Dead before start.
Desk strategy anyway.
Things sucked.
Fort eating mage barrages undefended? Our mages wiped or neutralized early.
Otherwise, counterfire or intercepts.
Maybe our mage corps extinct.
Thracia's army focused infantry/cavalry traditionally—magic weak anyway.
In this mess, cavalry gets grounded.
"Stuck in the fort for a while."
Cavalry—especially without mage support—was enemy mages' favorite snack.
No commander'd send high-value targets out. Obvious.
Or so I thought.
"Mount up."
"Pardon?"
"Can't just sit and take hits—wasted the morale boost."
No.
"I and the men believe you'll work the same miracle here as in Gaillard."
What the hell is this idiot saying?