Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: A Needle in the Pocket Will Eventually Stick Out (1)
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He gradually slowed his pace.
Once they came to a complete stop, the infantry of the 8th Legion held out their waterskins.
He tossed aside his stuffy helmet and gulped down the water in one go.
Cool water flooded into his parched mouth.
"Cough."
He briefly pulled his mouth away before pressing it back to keep drinking.
He poured the rest over his head.
What a strange thing.
It was the same water, but unlike the rain, it didn't feel sticky at all—just refreshing.
Phew.
He roughly wiped his face. His skin burned from the feel of his combat gloves, but he didn't care.
The soldier who'd handed him the waterskin—no, all the soldiers of the 8th Legion—were watching them.
"Captain."
"Captain Yannick."
Those whose eyes he met bowed their heads one by one.
He turned his horse's head.
"Bluecoats!"
The Bluecoats, helmets tucked at their sides, straightened their backs ramrod straight.
"We rode, we fought, we won!"
Snap. They thrust their chins high.
"And at last, we have returned!"
The victory declaration he'd been holding back all this time.
"Vanguard! Bluecoats! Strongest! Bluecoats!"
The Bluecoats roared in unison.
To be honest, he wasn't much for this sort of thing.
But today was an exception.
"Vanguard! Bluecoats!"
He shouted until his throat was raw.
"Strongest! Bluecoats!"
In this moment, he was one of them.
"We won!"
To outsiders, it might seem childish.
Maybe he'd regret it later himself. Maybe every time he remembered today, he'd want to crawl into a hole from the embarrassment.
He didn't care.
It wasn't like the high-ranking officers, where unit victories meant personal glory. Nor were they mercenaries getting victory bonuses.
It was just one more win for the 'Bluecoats.'
This hollow pride was all they had.
"Bluecoats, you're the best!"
"You're Thracia's pride!"
The respect and cheers from allies were their one and only reward.
"...Good work, everyone. Rest now."
No sooner had he spoken than the Bluecoats' cheers cut off.
The rigid backs slumped, bodies tilting.
"Huh? Huh? What's wrong?!"
"Hey! Catch him!"
There was chaos as they caught the men collapsing like they might roll right off their horses.
"Blood? Wounded! Someone quick!"
"Over here too!"
Bluecoats were laid on the ground.
"Armor off fir—damn it! His back's torn to shreds!"
"Shit. This guy's dying! Stop the bleeding now!"
"H-how did he fight like th-this...?"
The allies who saw the battered flesh beneath the armor cried out in shock.
"Captain Yannick."
"Captain Lenin."
Captain Lenin, arriving just then, spoke as he watched the Bluecoats being carried off by soldiers.
"This isn't the first time I've ridden with the Bluecoats, but this was full of jaw-dropping moments. You guys are completely insane."
"Thanks for the praise. But more importantly..."
The man, whose face had been a mix of emotions, turned to him.
"Take care of the aftermath."
"What?"
The captain's expression hardened.
"Your face..."
The body leaning in with a grim look wasn't the captain's.
It was his.
Stagger...
"Captain! Captain Yannick!"
His eyes closed.
"No, his body's...!"
"Why didn't he get treated first with wounds like that...!"
"Soldier! Soldier!"
The world went black.
-There's shrapnel in his chest... Don't pull it! He'll die if you do now...!
-Thigh wound's bad too...!
Sounds faded.
And soon, there was nothing.
Marek Drpov, who had come out to welcome the Bluecoats returning alive from enemy territory, was dumbfounded.
"Move him quick, idiot! You'll reopen the wounds like that!"
"Can't move this one! Treat him here!"
It was pandemonium.
"What in the...?"
"The Bluecoats' wounds are severe! Nearly all critically injured! If we don't treat them fast, they'll all die! Two already stopped breathing!"
The infantry commander explained the situation with a desperate face.
"Get them to the fortress now!"
The commander nodded at his words and vanished with the wounded.
Among them was the young officer Marek Drpov had so desperately hoped would return safely.
"How's that one?!"
"Spearhead in his chest! Thigh wound's deep too. He's lost too much blood! Report later..."
"I get it—go, quick!"
The infantryman bolted. A robed mage, soaked and limp from the rain, followed behind.
Marek Drpov stared blankly, then noticed the wagons.
The cloth covering them was stained dark red—an ill omen.
Swoosh.
He carefully lifted the cloth.
"My God."
Marek Drpov groaned despite himself.
Each wagon held corpses in blue coats like shrouds.
Thirteen in all. Even accounting for the many critically wounded survivors, the independent cavalry unit couldn't avoid reorganization.
Truth be told, soldiers returning as corpses wasn't new to him.
But he couldn't help the despair now, because their commander was Yannick.
Every battle, unmatched feats with absurdly low casualties.
So he'd assumed, without thinking, they'd all return safe again.
He hadn't dreamed even Yannick would come back this gravely wounded.
"......"
Marek Drpov's face hardened.
Had he been complacent?
He knew the Bluecoats weren't invincible anymore, yet sent them into enemy lands talking of tradition.
And this was the result.
Was it worth it? Regret flooded him now.
Conclusion: yes, it was.
"Reduced two barons' domains to ash, slew both barons! Annihilated 250 private guards each at their castles!"
At Captain Lenin's report, Marek Drpov was utterly stunned.
The report didn't end there.
"On extraction, clashed with Astoria pursuit! Wiped out three light cavalry companies, nine elite knights, and one Winged Hussars squadron!"
In other words: razed two barons' domains, annihilated battalion-scale infantry and four cavalry companies.
Legion-level forces.
Not conscript rabble, but elites including Winged Hussars and knights.
All by fewer than 200 cavalrymen in just over a week.
"Trophies here."
Captain Lenin lifted the wagon cloth.
Not just for covering bodies.
"The barons' banners."
Silver-embroidered crests hit him like a punch.
Taking the banner, his eyes fell on the fallen in the wagon.
Neatly laid corpses beside haphazardly piled helmets.
Clack.
He glanced at the obvious feathered crests—elite stuff—and picked one up.
Ornate decoration and craftsmanship: no mere knight's gear. At least knight order officers could dream of it.
And there were nine such.
"Two barons and nine officer-class knights."
Plus legion-scale infantry and cavalry.
"Heh."
Marek Drpov usually despised those who cared only for feats regardless of losses, but he couldn't help admiring this.
"Thracia's history will record this as the grandest declaration of war."
No, more than that.
He'd told them to poke and prod; they'd started a full war alone.
"Caused another incident. Right after promotion, a massive one."
Just months since jumping two ranks to captain.
And now this feat.
"High Command generals will have headaches."
He wondered what faces the old headquarters men would make.
Probably grimaces.
Pondering rewards for a young officer up four ranks in a year? A real puzzle for them.
I regained consciousness after a full three days.
The other Bluecoats woke around the same time, but sadly not all did.
"Malkin, Alexer, and Kaban are dead."
Three with severe wounds had finally succumbed.
"Those bastards held out till the end, didn't they?"
"They did."
"Worried we wouldn't retrieve their bodies."
"They knew we'd handle it."
"Exactly. Idiots. Trust us and rest easy. Why endure that pain for glory? No faith in their own side. Right?"
"......"
Jamal grumbled on for a while, but I just listened silently.
That seemed enough to vent; by the time he left my room, his face was back to normal.
Bluecoats were used to war, after all.
And war-hardened mages were no slouches either.
Natasha had gone beyond used to it—she felt nothing.
"Yannick. Yannick."
Visiting sick or bored.
"Yannick, it's suffocating. Too quiet. No screams, no explosions here."
Whine whine whine.
"...If you can't stand it, why not leave with the others?"
While I was out, our forces attacked Astoria.
The 8th Legion had gone to the front, save a token garrison.
The mage corps followed, but Natasha stayed with us, citing mana and stamina recovery.
Officially.
She didn't like bombing from afar till empty then retreating.
Her taste ran to seeing carnage up close, even if fatal—far from the army's rear-line mage policy.
Her joining the mage corps was a mystery to begin with.
"Experiments outside mean chased like last time."
"......"
Her research topics left few legal spots but battlefields.
"I get it. But why are you in my bed? Get off."
"Okay okay."
True to form, Natasha snuggled closer instead.
No wonder rumors flew.
He considered shoving her off now, but gave up.
Too late to erase unit-wide gossip, and witnesses to her devoted nursing—muttering weird soliloquies I didn't want to know—made cruelty hard.
Plus, he wasn't recovered enough to move freely.
Rest was needed.
For him and all Bluecoats.
Luckily, plenty of time for it.
The war had just begun.
And heavy cavalry had little to do now.
Unless Astoria sortied.
But their cavalry was weak—and we'd just smashed it.
Outmatched cavalry-wise, unlikely they'd field battle.
Thracia, facing sieged foes, had few options: surround, magic bombard, assault walls, ram gates.
Grinding siege till exhaustion wasn't their field.
So, vacation for now.
"Ack, stop!"
Though the clingy mage cast doubt on real rest.
"My God, what do we do, Langrid?"
The princess paced, pale as a ghost.
Langrid Guldiv was startled—a first for her.
What could make the unflappable Yeniche Trakieri act like this?
"His Majesty learned of him."
No small matter.
"This incident got His Majesty interested. He might even summon him to the palace."
"When?"
Langrid Guldiv's question drew a pout from the princess.
"Soon."