Chapter 32
Chapter 32
A remote barony known as Delphonia.
Its population barely exceeded a thousand, and its land was far from fertile.
It was the sort of noble house that only just managed to qualify as a barony.
How much influence could such a rural noble family possess?
Certainly not enough for its descendants to dream big.
Even the eldest legitimate heir would inherit little more than the responsibility of maintaining what their father had left behind.
But what about a bastard child?
One whose chances of inheritance were practically nonexistent?
The privileges of succession were generally determined by birth order.
A bastard had no claim to such rights.
If the lord father chose to ignore them, they would simply live and die as commoners.
The reason Delphonia's lord took in his bastard son was simple.
A precaution.
An insurance policy in case he failed to produce another heir.
Even then, there were still relatives who could potentially inherit, making the future uncertain.
Some even whispered that the baron had only acknowledged the child to avoid criticism from his vassals.
Regardless.
The life of a bastard was an awkward existence that belonged nowhere.
And once the baron eventually succeeded in producing a proper heir, the bastard would become little more than a problem to be discarded.
Yet whether it was fortune or disaster...
The bastard possessed extraordinary talent.
A towering frame standing nearly seven feet tall.
Monstrous strength.
Exceptional aptitude for martial combat and Aura.
And above all else...
A savage temperament that delighted in bloodshed.
If such a violent giant led armed men under cover of darkness, destroying the small families that looked down on him was hardly difficult.
The bastard slaughtered dozens of soldiers through sheer force.
Then he seized the succession.
The inheritance originated from his father's bloodline.
But no one in Delphonia dared oppose him.
Naturally.
Everyone who objected had already lost their heads.
Yet a backwater territory ruled through tyranny was never destined to prosper.
Nor was a man consumed by ambition likely to remain satisfied with such a tiny domain.
Being a frontier noble brought countless responsibilities and very few rewards.
So the bastard gathered every resource he could.
Then departed with his followers for a neighboring kingdom.
There, he entered war after war as a mercenary.
His accomplishments became legendary.
Years passed.
And eventually, he became a warrior without equal across the region.
After beheading thousands on battlefields soaked in blood and screams, he earned a title.
Kraksion the Butcher.
The giant who wielded twin axes.
His fearsome reputation continued to rise without end.
However.
Even his unstoppable advance eventually slowed.
It happened after he arrived in Ratlan Province.
A recently discovered silver mine had drawn countless opportunists to the region.
Within Ratlan stood four other powers capable of rivaling Kraksion's mercenary company.
The factions remained locked in a tense stalemate.
The reason Kraksion hadn't launched an all-out war was simple.
Balance.
The balance of power.
The same logic restrained the others.
The outcome was obvious.
If two factions fought, both would suffer losses.
And the remaining powers would reap the benefits.
For someone as warlike as Kraksion, this endless cold war was torture.
He had spent most of his life fighting.
Peace bored him.
The destination of his restless feet became Bellark.
A tiny territory tucked away in the corner of Ratlan Province.
Standing before Bellark after much deliberation, Kraksion surveyed the land.
The militia cut down by his Aura attacks had been even weaker than expected.
"The weakest faction controls the richest silver mine."
Objectively speaking, Kraksion and the other warlords each controlled five mines of their own.
They were wealthier than Bellark.
Yet Bellark's military strength was laughably poor.
The situation felt almost offensive.
"People say attackers need three times the defenders to capture a fortress. But that only applies to real castles with proper walls and siege weapons."
His eyes examined Bellark's defenses.
A simple motte-and-bailey fortress of wood and brick.
Hardly impressive.
Then a thought occurred to him.
What would happen to the balance of power if he seized that mine?
Taking the fortress didn't seem difficult.
A hundred poorly motivated militia couldn't possibly stop him.
His losses would be minimal.
"Assuming I can split that old knight in half."
And that didn't seem impossible either.
It looked like an excellent gamble.
"Honestly, it's ridiculous."
The warlords had spent years hesitating because of a single old man.
Kraksion wasn't ignorant.
He had heard the stories.
The ruling family of Bellark had once been kings.
The old knight had once served as commander of that kingdom's knights.
He even carried the title:
Champion of Bellark.
"That viscount claims the old man is dangerous, but he's well over ninety."
Among the warlords, only Viscount Tebian—a former regular army officer—treated Bellark's knight as a genuine threat.
The others hesitated largely because Tebian did.
Rumors had a way of growing over time.
Especially stories from a fallen kingdom.
Kraksion believed the old man truly had been a knight commander.
But that had been thirty years ago.
And one fact stood out.
The old knight never left Bellark.
Not once.
Kraksion had originally intended to wait for an opportunity.
A moment when Bellark's sole pillar of strength was absent.
Yet that opportunity never came.
The old knight remained rooted to the territory.
As though Bellark itself were an extension of his body.
"Has he gone senile?"
Even for a knight, such loyalty seemed absurd.
The man had retired long ago.
He should've received generous compensation.
Yet he still guarded his lord.
The behavior bordered on obsession.
Kraksion had heard that the old knight hadn't left the territory for thirteen years.
That wasn't loyalty.
That was madness.
Even a city with hundreds of thousands of people would feel suffocating if someone never left for over a decade.
"What a stubborn old bastard."
He couldn't wait forever.
Kraksion had already spent two years in Ratlan.
For a man as impatient as he was, that was plenty.
If the old knight weakened further and another warlord claimed the silver mine first, he would be the one left empty-handed.
The answer was obvious.
Strike first.
"Advance."
A simple command.
Clank. Clank.
A thousand soldiers obeyed.
Whether their crimson appearance came from bloodstained armor or simply their chosen colors was impossible to tell.
But as they moved forward, they resembled a vast red tide swallowing a small castle whole.
Kraksion's mercenary company was nothing like Bellark's militia.
These were veterans.
Men who had survived countless battlefields beside their leader.
Some could wield Aura.
Others possessed strength surpassing ordinary knights.
They weren't merely soldiers.
Each one was a warrior forged through war.
A beast tempered by slaughter.
The scars carved into their armor.
The cuts etched across their arms.
Those weren't imperfections.
They were medals.
Their eyes resembled hawks hunting prey.
Not men.
The gazes visible behind their helmets lacked warmth.
Any trace of ordinary human emotion had long since vanished.
The clash of chains and steel echoed through the air like drums announcing destruction.
Though their number stood around one thousand...
In terms of actual combat power, they were worth six thousand.
Perhaps even seven thousand.
The destruction of Bellark.
That thought consumed Sera's mind.
She owed a debt to this place.
So despite her young age, she would continue swinging her sword until death.
She would never allow a blade to touch Eden while she still breathed.
She had never killed a person before.
But imagining these men harming her family left no room for hesitation.
Every vassal of Bellark likely felt the same.
Yet no matter how determined she was...
She couldn't imagine standing against an elite force of this scale.
If she managed to take even one or two enemies down with her, it would already be a miracle.
Still.
There was one small piece of good news.
"There is a secret escape passage beneath the castle."
They only needed to hold out until then.
"Master is old. Against numbers like that..."
There was no hope.
She had to buy even a single second.
One minute.
One heartbeat.
Anything.
Master would never abandon Lord Eden.
And if someone had to escort Eden to safety, nobody was more reliable than Sir Rekun.
Creak.
Sera gripped a real sword from the armory.
Her resolve was clear.
The fear inside her eyes had transformed into determination.
This shallow terror.
This dread of helplessness.
Neither could compare to the pain of losing something precious.
Grinding her teeth, Sera stepped toward the gate.
Then—
"What exactly do you think you're doing?"
A hand landed firmly on her shoulder.
It belonged to the old knight.