Chapter 59
Chapter 59
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: I'm Still Hungry (2)
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Sending a spy out recklessly didn't guarantee success.
Especially not between Astoria and Thracia.
For starters, the two sides had different races, so their appearances differed from the outset.
Thracians generally had dark eyes and hair, with pale skin. Their heads were slightly brachycephalic, and their brow ridges weren't prominently raised.
Astorians, on the other hand, had lighter eyes and hair overall, and their skin was more ruddy than truly pale. They had prominent brow ridges and dolichocephalic heads. Their bones and muscles were also somewhat thicker than those of Thracians.
This was due to the imperial blood flowing through Astorians' veins. Despite being geographically adjacent, the two nations looked worlds apart.
Their languages were the same.
Unlike Thracia's language, which shared significant similarities with those of neighboring states, Astoria's was a direct imitation of the Empire's. Heavily influenced by the sycophantic tendencies of its ruling class, it was now treated as a dialect of Imperial tongue.
Given these circumstances, even selecting and training spies was no small task.
And even if someone was fluent in the language and resembled the locals physically, that didn't mean everything would go smoothly. Far from it.
Astoria's culture and customs, modeled after the Empire's, differed vastly from Thracia's.
Even after investing massive amounts of time and money to train a spy, the slightest deep conversation would expose them in no time.
"You're safe now, sir."
In that sense, the knight before him, Roynel von Zenmut, was undeniably a genuine Astorian.
"...Before we talk safety, do something about my quarters first. This is basically a pigsty."
Even while gasping from his wounds, his aristocratic accent was unmistakable.
Not to mention complaints and irritation unbecoming of his dire straits.
"I apologize, but many barracks and camps were destroyed in the Thracia army's magical bombardment. Please bear with us."
"I risked my life fighting and barely made it back alive, only to be treated like this."
Watching this deserter—who'd luckily survived thanks to the Thracia army's whims—shamelessly rant made any suspicion evaporate, let alone questions.
"...Thank you for answering my questions, Sir Roynel. I wish you a speedy recovery."
"Hey, when's dinner? Service?"
"...Then I'll be going."
Worried the arrogant knight might make excessive demands, the NCO fled the scene.
Left alone, Knight Roynel von Zenmut—or rather, Otto von Bauer—clicked his tongue.
"I got in, but the atmosphere here is off."
Infiltrating mixed in with the wounded had gone well, but the fortress commander was cautious, with tight surveillance.
Prisoners were isolated far from the gates, surrounded by sentries and archers.
The enemy had already sniffed out the possibility of spies inside.
Defenses had tightened since he took command; clearly no ordinary talent.
But if they were talking talent, the side that devised this plan was on another level.
"To predict even this."
At this point, such situations no longer surprised him.
Yannick Schrelgriff.
He hadn't known him long, but Otto had never met anyone quite like him in his life.
When he'd smashed Otto's knight order—assembled at great expense—in a single battle, Otto had pegged him as a mercenary genius cavalry leader.
Later, in their duel where even Astoria recognized Otto's swordsmanship, Yannick displayed archaic two-handed swordplay. Otto had merely marveled, he must've picked up some sword training somewhere.
It was always like that.
Ghostly mercenary instincts and formal swordsmanship even most knights couldn't mimic.
Tactical senses that exploited foul weather and a tenacity that preyed on enemies' psychological weak spots.
One day he'd charge like an unparalleled fierce general; the next, he'd scheme like an old fox.
Sometimes noble as a knight, other times as sleazy as a back-alley thug.
Peel back one layer, and a new face emerged.
He was truly an onion of a man.
Impossible to gauge his thoughts or depths.
Otto found him unsettling? Quite the opposite.
It was a novel experience for him.
He instinctively disliked deep schemers, those whose insides you couldn't read.
Astoria's young commander-in-chief, Oscar von Nightheart, wasn't just a matter of like or dislike—he downright loathed him.
Yet Yannick didn't bother him.
Pondering it, Otto thought he knew why.
Unlike Oscar von Nightheart, who directed countless soldiers from the rear with a finger,
Yannick Schrelgriff shared life and death on the front lines with his men.
Not just sharing—not merely that—but always taking the most dangerous spot.
The vanguard of a cavalry charge, spearheading into thousands bristling like porcupines.
With that tactical acumen, he could've sat as a staff officer and skyrocketed. Yet he insisted on the precarious vanguard.
During the declaration of war mission, Otto had witnessed his ferocity firsthand.
Of the ten champions leading the pursuit—three famed knights from various regions—three fell from their horses to Yannick's spear and sword.
In exchange for mortal wounds, but throughout the escape, he never yielded the vanguard.
Otto only learned upon reaching the fortress that those clashes caused his critical injuries.
That's why the Bluecoats followed him to the death.
What? Bluecoats are brave by nature?
Sure. Impressive. Bluecoats.
But swear to the gods, they weren't half as impressive without him.
Riding with him made even the wind feel like an ally.
Faster, lighter than usual.
Dismissing it as mere mood was impossible; the sensation was too vivid.
The last battle proved it.
Sudden gale-force winds, towering dust clouds.
As if the world hid and protected them.
That awe! That thrill!
Compared to that ecstasy, revenge against his abandoning homeland was trivial.
And he wasn't alone.
The Doppelzoltner war clowns' attitude transcended mere employer-employee long ago.
They accepted this suicidal infiltration into enemy ranks without complaint—though they regretted it later upon realizing they'd need to wipe off makeup.
No doubt they'd find some excuse to stay in Thracia even after full payment.
He ignited people strangely.
Impossible not to chase after him.
But now wasn't the time to dwell.
Fail this mission, and both he and the Doppelzoltner would bury their bones here.
"Time to move."
Otto slipped out of the barracks after a deep breath.
Dragging his perfectly fine legs.
He flung open a nearby barrack door and bellowed.
"How dare you, who bombed your own allies, show your faces here! Because of your atrocities, I lost my master. Right here, I'll execute you to honor his soul!"
Again and again.
Until every prisoner heard.
"Don't step one foot outside the barracks from now on."
Soon after, he was "subdued" by soldiers and confined to barracks.
"You scum! Do you know who I am? If I weren't wounded, I'd never tolerate this treatment!"
Feigning outrage as he raged, his face soured to indifference once the soldiers left.
"There. Bait's set."
Now, kill each other.
The next day, Otto awoke and gauged the outside mood.
-Thirty died overnight, they say.
-Injured guys who can barely move, and they still pull that off.
-Must've been deep grudges. Nearly roasted alive; who'd just sit?
-Ugh. Should've vetted them properly and assigned barracks from the start. Officers handle shit, so we foot soldiers suffer every time.
Soon, a sentry peeked in from outside.
"Sir Roynel. Time to move barracks."
"You said not one step outside before. Now you want me to move?"
Though he'd grasped the situation fully, Otto feigned ignorance and threw a tantrum.
"I'm not going. I can't. You bastards."
His fit flustered the soldiers.
"It's for your safety, sir. Please cooperate."
The belated NCO arrived, polite but firm, and Otto reluctantly followed.
Swoosh.
Outside, many were already moving under soldier escort or support.
Among them, Doppelzoltner disguised as semi-conscious criticals—bare-faced, perfect Astorians.
There'll be trouble overnight. Survivors who saw comrades bombed won't let enemies slide. The fortress commander must separate the returned soldiers to prevent riots.
What if survivors show unexpected restraint and nothing happens?
Then Doppelzoltner start it.
Otto couldn't tell if Doppelzoltner stirred it or real Astorians exacted revenge.
Either way, from the commander's view, easier to move fewer victims than most perpetrators.
Things unfolded exactly as he predicted, regardless.
But if the new spot's more remote or disadvantageous geographically...
Unlikely. Splitting means extra troops, and with 30% deserted, no spare manpower. Second site must allow sentries to multitask—near walls or towers, say.
Beyond that, uncertainty crept in.
Pray it works out. Astorians are devout, right? Won't their god answer?
Forgot we're about to fleece the faithful who've prayed steadily.
...If the new spot sucks, hold tight. We'll make an opening outside.
Irresponsible, sure. But war couldn't control every variable.
Some things came down to luck.
And he was the luckiest bastard Otto knew.
Though he believed himself the world's unluckiest.
Even without luck, he'd create opportunities.
Thankfully, luck favored them this time.
"We're here."
A camp near the walls.
Former commander's men used it before abandoning the fortress; interior empty.
"Phew, done. Finally."
"Let's go. What a hassle."
Astoria soldiers left after bedding disguised Doppelzoltner and real wounded inside.
Swoosh.
Doppelzoltner in corners cracked eyes slyly, then shut them.
Night fell.
Darkness blanketed the surroundings.
"Let's begin."
At my words, the commanders signaled.
Fwoosh.
Thracia troops encircling the fortress at 500 meters lit torches and braziers in unison.
Dong-dong-dong!
Clamorous bells rang from the distant fortress.
Astoria forces bustled in the thick darkness atop the walls.
"Impressive indeed."
I nodded slightly at the sight.
Any average commander would've panicked and lit up. Walls stayed dark.
To shield wall troops from archers and mages, no doubt.
Exactly what I wanted.
"Go ahead, look all you want."
Staring into distant torchlight in darkness blinds you to nearby shadows—under the walls.
Glance.
Backlit, I eyed a spot 100 meters from the walls.
Astoria corpses, abandoned.
One crawled toward the walls, using the dark.