Chapter 71
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Becoming the Wave of Iron Armor (4)
Thracian cavalry vanished beyond the horizon in an instant.
Just as the name "Wind" implied, they left not a single trace behind.
"The old Khalifa once said that God's messenger comes with a stern face and rebukes in a thunderous voice, while the devil approaches with a kind face and whispers sweet nothings."
The old Sipahi watched their retreating figures, lost in thought, when a young Sipahi spoke up.
But the old Sipahi remained silent.
"Pasha Ahman!"
Unable to bear the silence any longer, the young Sipahi called out. Only then did the old Sipahi, Ahman, finally speak.
"The old Khalifa's words ring true without fail."
"That saying..."
Relief washed over the Sipahi's face.
But it was fleeting.
"Indeed, it's sweet. So sweet that saliva pools in my mouth before I even swallow it."
"Pasha!"
Ahman turned to the young Sipahi.
"Sipahi Suria. What do you think will become of me if we return like this?"
This time, the young Sipahi, Suria, fell silent.
"The Sultan shows no mercy. He won't forgive me for losing tens of thousands of warriors and gaining nothing in return."
"......"
"It's not the Sultan's wrath that frightens me. What does it matter if this old body dies? I'm only worried about Kazan's future."
Whether Astoria or Thracia, both were enemies to Kazan.
No matter which side won, Kazan's future looked bleak.
But if he had to side with one, backing Thracia was slightly more beneficial for Kazan.
If Astoria won, Kazan would lose everything without gaining anything, but if Thracia triumphed, at least Kazan would get something in return.
"Will a mere cavalry commander's promise hold? We can't even trust claims of speaking for the king."
Ahman gazed once more in the direction where the Thracian cavalry had disappeared, in response to Suria's question.
"A mere cavalry commander..."
His face hardened as he muttered to himself.
It wasn't just his expression; cold sweat drenched him.
"The current Sultan has suffered greatly due to questions of legitimacy. His ruthless nature stems from that."
Suria, belatedly noticing Ahman's pallor, reached out to support him but froze in place.
"The Sultan wasn't the eldest son, nor was he close to the line of succession. He was just like you are now."
It was a sensitive and out-of-place topic.
"Do you know how he became Sultan?"
Suria glanced around frantically.
"I heard that the princes attended a grand banquet where a massive fire broke out, leading to the accident that allowed the current Sultan to ascend."
He answered cautiously.
"An unfortunate accident. That's the official story."
There was something oddly peculiar about Ahman's words.
"With so many Silahdars—elite guards—present, doesn't it strike you as strange that not a single prince escaped unharmed?"
It almost sounded like it wasn't an accident at all.
"Pasha, please watch your words..."
"He didn't recognize me. But I recognized him."
Suria paled and tried to stop him, but Ahman continued as if in a trance.
"His eyes aren't as ghostly as before, but how could I forget that face? In a way, it's because of him that the Silahdars were disbanded and the Janissaries took their place."
"Pasha—no, Uncle!"
Ahman, who had been speaking like a man possessed, suddenly turned to his nephew.
"Suria, my nephew. Never forget the face of the man who came to the land of God with the blue wind."
His dreamy, hazy voice sharpened to crystal clarity.
"Even if he's surrounded by a hundred Sipahis, if blue ghostly energy flickers around his face, turn tail and flee without looking back."
Suria didn't dare ask for reasons amid such a grave warning.
"Relay this to the warriors."
Ahman, returning to his rock-like composure, issued the order.
"We will honor our fallen warriors' spirits by staining our vengeful blades with enemy blood."
This time, Suria didn't object.
"The Kazan Warrior Division of 4,000 has attacked our vanguard!"
Oscar von Nightheart scowled.
"...Kazan troops? Their last gasp of desperation? Naturally, we repelled them, right?"
The staff officer didn't respond.
"These are the finest 9,000 elites handpicked from the homeland! You're not about to tell me they lost to Kazan's ragged remnants!"
"We were attacked en route while keeping an eye on the Thracians approaching from the east..."
"Reform the lines! We can lose momentum, but that doesn't justify defeat!"
The staff officer sweated profusely under the commander-in-chief's blazing fury.
"As you said, we took losses early on, but we quickly reformed and pushed back the Kazan forces. However."
"However, what!"
The staff officer licked his lips repeatedly, unable to speak rashly, then squeezed his eyes shut.
"The Thracians appeared as if waiting for the moment and struck our flank!"
He cried out like a scream.
"What?"
"Our vanguard is completely shattered! Confirmed casualties exceed 4,000 at minimum! No survivors from the mage corps! Winged Hussars who sortied for interception—total annihilation! The Hussars are practically beyond reconstruction!"
"What was the command staff doing!"
The young commander-in-chief's face drained of color.
"...The Thracian cavalry fully penetrated our flank. And the vanguard command post lay directly in their path. It seems they targeted the command from the start."
"Fabian? He's not one to fall easily."
"Sir Franz personally led his men to block the Thracian breakthrough, but it was insufficient."
"Just the essentials!"
"Witnesses saw Sir Franz thrown from his horse right after clashing with the lead Bluecoats."
Oscar von Nightheart closed his eyes.
"Shall I bring him in?"
Heavily lifting his eyelids, he nodded at the staff officer's words.
"The sole survivor from the Winged Hussars. He somehow veered toward the main force."
His cherished feathered helmet discarded somewhere, the haggard lancer said nothing, his face fully exposed.
"As you see, he's not in good shape."
The staff officer sighed and addressed the lancer.
"Lancer. Repeat what you said earlier."
"......."
The lancer remained mute.
Unable to wait, Oscar von Nightheart stepped forward.
"Lancer. Confirm it. Fabian Franz, colliding with the Bluecoats..."
"B-Bluecoats!"
Before he could finish, the lancer convulsed violently.
"Th-they're coming! They're here!"
His eyes rolled back white as he flung himself to the floor, trembling uncontrollably.
"The w-wave is crashing in! H-heeek! We have to run! No one can stop it! N-no! Running's useless! We're dead! Dead! Everyone dies aaaah!"
The young commander, staring blankly with bloodless lips gnawed raw, suddenly retched and vomited.
"C-Commander! Are you all right? Hey! Someone out there!"
The staff officer panicked at the sight of the commander's pristine white uniform splattered red, frantically calling for help.
"...Enough. Vomiting cleared my head instead."
Oscar von Nightheart wiped blood from his mouth and took a deep breath.
"Remove him."
His voice was clear as he glanced at the now-mad lancer.
"From now on, full-speed south! Rally the remaining forces! Ignore the Kazan and Thracian troops! No need to play their game on their chosen battlefield!"
"Nothing's changed! Our forces still hold the advantage!"
"Annihilating the Thracians and Kazans can wait until after we secure Kyligrad!"
He issued orders relentlessly.
"Don't lose track of Kazan and Thracian movements! They will pay dearly!"
The staff officer's face crumpled as if about to cry.
"Th-that... After engaging our vanguard, the Kazan forces retreated across the border. The Thracian cavalry has vanished again. We're inquiring through various channels, but pinpointing their location will take time."
Oscar von Nightheart's face twisted completely.
The Kazan forces weren't a big issue.
They were too few to sustain further combat anyway.
But the Thracians were different.
Over a thousand cavalrymen.
They posed no threat if we fortified defenses, but if they decided to harry us relentlessly, we had no counter.
"Order the rearguard: Maintain forced march, but if they encounter the Thracian cavalry, do not engage rashly. Sacrifice a legion if needed to reform lines and commence battle."
Unleashing mage barrages over our own heads would minimize losses by maximizing damage on them.
Yet the Thracian cavalry didn't appear even as they neared Kyligrad.
They reemerged only when Oscar von Nightheart's Astorian main force arrived at Kyligrad and was about to begin the siege.
"Th-Thracian cavalry! They're cutting straight across kingdom territory!"
A messenger, face pale as if on the verge of collapse from his frantic ride, shouted breathlessly.
"Based on their path, the target is likely Astoriaern!"
Oscar von Nightheart slumped to the ground.
"We've been completely played."
The staff officers, amid their panic, looked baffled by the commander-in-chief's reaction.
"Even the infamous Thracian cavalry can't actually breach Astoriaern. They're not siege troops."
The commander-in-chief nodded.
"True. You all know it, the enemy knows it, everyone knows it."
Leaning deeply into his chair, he looked utterly exhausted.
"But do the nobles back home know it? Or even care?"
Only then did the staff officers grasp his meaning and pale.
"Orders to withdraw will come from the homeland soon."
Terrified nobles would swarm the palace, and the indecisive king would side with them again.
"This chance won't come twice! We must refuse!"
"Refusing means I'll be stripped of my uniform this time. Maybe even court-martialed. No, definitely a heavy sentence. Just imagining which fool would take my place is horrifying."
Oscar von Nightheart, now fully resigned, showed no change in expression.
Astoria's current king lacked the fortitude to defy the nobles' clamor.
He'd likely yield to them nine times out of ten.
"We abandon Kyligrad."
If abandonment was inevitable, better to withdraw early before losses mounted.
"...Damn it all!"
The staff officers vented their frustration.
"Cough."
Then the young commander-in-chief vomited blood again and lost consciousness.
He regained awareness some time later.
And after a full fortnight of unconsciousness, two pieces of ill news arrived before him.
"Thracian forces deployed across the border are now assembled and advancing on us. Scale: approximately 14,000."
"Additional Thracian reinforcements crossing their territory, heading north."
Neither was light tidings.
But the bad news didn't end there.
"Thracian cavalry en route to Astoriaern—whereabouts unknown!"
The Thracian cavalry had vanished once more.
They resurfaced four days later.
"Report from scouts to General Shuleman leading the rearguard: Traces of Thracian cavalry spotted one day's march away!"
The 8,000 Astorian rearguard, now turned vanguard after the army's reversal.
Thracian cavalry prowled around them like hyenas.
"General Shuleman requests halting movement to hold position and awaits swift main force reinforcement!"
The silver lining: the rearguard general was seasoned.
With 8,000 elites dug in defensively, even they couldn't touch them.
It should have been fine. It was.
Yet Oscar von Nightheart bit his lip with inexplicable unease.
'Th-they're coming! They're here! The w-wave is crashing in! H-heeek! We have to run! No one can stop it! N-no! Running's useless! We're dead! Dead! Everyone dies aaaah!'
The mad Winged Hussar's words echoed in his mind like hallucinations.