Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: The Eve of the Storm (1)
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If you asked Thracia's commanders who their strongest soldiers were, they would unhesitatingly name the Bluecoats without a second thought.
In truth, Thracia had plenty of soldiers just as capable as the Bluecoats.
When it came to destructive power, the mage corps was overwhelmingly superior. For mobility, the light cavalry were far faster. Heavy infantry held the edge in defense, and the rangers of the patrol units were far more versatile overall.
Yet the Bluecoats were still universally acknowledged as Thracia's ace in the hole.
Unlike the mage corps, which couldn't operate independently without support from other units, the Bluecoats could execute missions as a standalone force. They possessed the defense and destructive power that light cavalry lacked.
They had the mobility and aggression that heavy infantry didn't, and the toughness and loyalty that rangers couldn't match.
The Bluecoats were the ideal soldiers that commanders dreamed of.
Of course, even they weren't invincible.
Dismounted from their warhorses, they were merely slightly tougher, fiercer infantry.
The Bluecoats knew their weaknesses well.
The enemy was desperate to drag them down from their horses, and losing your mount mid-charge was more common than you'd think.
That's why they never neglected their infantry combat training.
But that alone couldn't fully compensate for their shortcomings.
Finding a proper swordmaster to teach them was difficult, and mastering swordsmanship took years—time they couldn't afford to invest.
That was the difference between Bluecoats and knights.
Knights existed solely for combat, their every routine focused on improving battle prowess and personal training.
They might not excel in mounted group fights, but in individual combat, Bluecoats couldn't match them.
That's why it happened.
"Why abandon your horse..."
Watching the lieutenant voluntarily discard his advantage and embrace a disadvantage, the 8th Legion soldiers all tilted their heads in confusion.
And not just any one-handed half-sword for mounted use—no, he'd chosen a two-handed sword, something cavalry rarely touched, let alone wielded.
And it wasn't even an ordinary two-handed sword; it was an imperial greatsword as long as an average adult was tall.
"Learned it from the Doppelzoltner?"
"No way. And even if he did, what could he learn in ten days?"
It was a clear mistake.
They chalked it up to the overheated atmosphere and his first duel clouding his judgment.
Everyone thought so.
Until the two actually clashed swords in earnest.
"...?"
The lieutenant, whom they'd expected to falter after a few exchanges, was effortlessly deflecting his opponent's ferocious strikes without much effort.
It wasn't just blocking attacks.
Whoosh.
The lieutenant's greatsword traced an infinity loop through the air.
Crunch.
The first loop deflected the opponent's attack.
Bam!
The second smashed into the foe.
"...What? Why's he fighting so well?"
"Can a Bluecoat really do that on foot?"
The forceful strike glanced off the blade at an angle, and Otto von Bauer, failing to check his momentum in time, lost his balance. The greatsword that had parried spun wide, slamming into his exposed shoulder.
Bam!
The knight staggered back, shoulder struck.
Swish.
The lieutenant barely moved, yet his blade tip ceaselessly drew curves in the air. Each subtle twist of his widely spaced hands sent the greatsword whistling through the air to batter Otto von Bauer.
Wrist, shoulder, waist. Head.
If not for the absurdly thick plate armor, who knows what would have happened.
At least one, maybe two, would surely have shattered or broken.
"......"
"......"
The 8th Legion soldiers fell silent.
It felt unreal.
A dismounted Bluecoat was unilaterally thrashing a knight.
It was unbelievable even as they watched.
Even more surreal was the lieutenant's swordsmanship.
These 8th Legion soldiers had crossed the line between life and death countless times.
They hadn't formally learned the sword, but they'd seen enough swordplay to last a lifetime.
Even to them, the lieutenant's technique was unfamiliar.
There was no desperate resolve to cleave the foe, yet the blade tip was sharp and relentless.
No brutish edge honed on the battlefield, no clumsiness.
No excess, no deficiency.
Block, parry, dodge, repel, counter—the entire sequence was chillingly mechanical.
"Oh. Our captain can really handle a blade."
"He must've trained formally. And not just for a year or two."
The Doppelzoltner watched with sparkling eyes.
It might be alien to Thracians, but not to them.
"A guild?"
"Too heavy for a guild sword."
"Not all guild swords are flashy."
Those who walked paths different from knights or soldiers.
It closely resembled the style of swordsmen from sword guilds on the opposite side of the continent.
And "resembled" meant similar, but not identical.
"I've definitely seen that sword style somewhere."
"Me too. But I can't quite... Ah!"
One Doppelzoltner, who'd been tilting his head repeatedly, let out an exclamation.
"Ordo Templariorum!"
Ordo Templariorum.
In Thracia terms, the Templar Knights.
"That's exactly the feel of the swords used by the Templariorum's Ordos!"
The Doppelzoltner widened their eyes at his words.
"Now that you mention it, yeah..."
"Right. The Ordos slice people up just that mechanically."
A few nodded in agreement.
"...What the hell do you have to do to see an Ordo Templariorum in action? You guys heretics or something?"
"What bullshit. If we were heretics who'd met an Ordo, we'd be dead right now. What kinda idiot talk is that?"
"Getting defensive means you've got something to hide."
They said that, but showed no interest in prying deeper.
The Doppelzoltner's grotesque makeup wasn't just to scare enemies; everyone had their reasons.
"Anyway, our captain's definitely tied to some holy order or convent."
"Sure. Say that's true. You know what it means for an Ordo to hide his past?"
The one who'd first asked about heresy spoke up again.
"Excommunication."
The Doppelzoltner exchanged glances.
"Even better."
"No matter the details, our captain needs a flashy past like that to lead us."
And as if on cue, they burst into giggles.
"...Excommunication's a joke to them? Looks like these guys really are excommunicated."
They talked big, but even the one who'd mentioned it didn't seem to care who was excommunicated.
"He's winding it down."
As they speculated about someone's past, the duel reached its climax.
"Man, that armor's total scrap now. If the armor's that wrecked, the guy's insides must be mush already."
"Ruthless. Real Ordo—no tears, no blood."
One Doppelzoltner shook his head, then froze.
"Hey, which side did you bet on?"
"...Fuck."
Huff, huff.
The moment I heard Otto von Bauer's ragged breathing inside his helmet, I knew it was time to end it.
Honestly, I should've finished it ages ago, but I got caught up in the thrill of wielding a blade after so long and lost track of time.
I'd done the poor defector knight dirty because of it.
Seeing him draped in crumpled, dented armor like a pile of scrap metal even stirred a twinge of guilt.
Serves him right for challenging me to a duel.
"To wield a sword like this. Why?"
Otto von Bauer asked.
He was probably wondering why I stayed in the heavy cavalry instead of joining a knight order.
"Thracia has no knight orders."
Not that I'd join one even if it did.
"What...?"
My answer must've been unexpected—or too straightforward—because the defector knight blurted out dumbly.
"That skill. Your rank. Doesn't fit. Other kingdoms. Better treatment."
I glanced around at his words.
No one was close enough to overhear.
"Sure, treatment would be better. But you think that's free?"
A soldier who knew Thracia's internals had defected.
Where do you think they'd throw him first?
Obviously at the forefront against Thracia.
Forcing him to raise his sword against old comrades—dirty work.
"No different here. Not free."
"Anywhere you go, it's the same shit."
Not my place to say, having fled my family to escape the power struggle—but living on the run had only confirmed it.
A fugitive's path doesn't always lead to paradise.
The defector knight right in front of me was proof.
From my position, I'd be used and suffer no matter where I went, so no reason to betray Thracia.
And above all, I still had unfinished business here.
'Yannick... please.'
'I trust you...'
I shook off the voices echoing like hallucinations.
"Caught your breath?"
Otto von Bauer creaked into stance.
Gripping his sword wide, he advanced, scraping the ground with his toes.
And the instant he lunged for a thrust—
Stagger.
The defector knight crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Tsk.
He'd held out a long time, though.
Taking all those blows.
No matter how thick the plate, the contents were soft human flesh.
I'd bet he'd spend the whole winter in bed recovering.
"Commander?"
The commander, who'd been staring blankly, jumped in surprise.
"Y-Yannick Schrelgriff wins!"
Then he hysterically declared my victory.
"He really won! He really did!"
"N-No way!"
A roar erupted late, as if the fortress itself might crumble.
I frowned.
I hadn't asked for a victory declaration; I needed someone to check on Otto von Bauer.
"Whatever."
Savoring victory for a bit wasn't bad.
The absurdly sturdy Otto von Bauer wouldn't croak in the meantime.
"Yannick! Yannick! Yannick!"
The 8th Legion chanted my name.
But it was fleeting.
"W-Wait. What about the money?"
Someone's mutter rang crystal clear amid the cheers.
Silence.
The cheers cut off like a lie.
"Th-That was all my savings..."
"I'm ruined! I bet half a year's pay!"
Wails followed.
Some from faces I knew.
"...Th-This can't happen."
The NCO who'd bragged about betting on me without being asked.
"Wh-What happens to me?"
The notary who'd claimed it was pocket change for fun, neutral to boot.
Watching the two lost souls soured my mood.
What liars!
Thankfully, not everyone around me was a liar.
"Unexpected windfall."
At least Evgen Sanov Major was an honest man.
"What luck."
"Knew it, Lieutenant. Believed in you."
I took in the few soldiers grinning amid the chaos, then removed my helmet.
Whew.
I peeled away sweat-matted hair.
The cold winter wind stung my face like it might tear it off.
Swinging that grotesquely heavy greatsword nonstop had my forearms, shoulders, and waist screaming.
Hasn't rusted yet.
Still, I wasn't in a bad mood.
Nothing much changed after that day.
The Bluecoats asked about my swordsmanship here and there, but it didn't last.
"Learned it getting my ass kicked under a brutal, money-grubbing swordmaster."
I gave the exact same answer every time, word for word, until the questions dried up.
Naturally, no one traced my style's roots.
Swordsmanship isn't that easy to pinpoint from motions alone, and mine weren't uniquely original or special.
Besides, my past hadn't been a life-or-death secret for a while.
The princess and the staff's old generals knew it all anyway.
My daily life went on as usual.
Of course, there were minor differences.
The commander started drinking more.
Jamal grew unusually quiet.
As if the world had ended.
"How much did they bet?"
I was curious but didn't ask.
Not just them; plenty were in bad shape, degrees varying.
Sigh.
"What now."
Sighs and laments everywhere.
Self-inflicted.
As the two-faced ones wallowed in karma, slinking around the fortress, time flew.
By the time they shook off the duel shock, winter was nearly over.
It was one such day, still bitterly cold with biting winds.
Thud thud thud thud.
Messengers arrived at the fortress.
Not one, but two.