Chapter 167
Chapter 167
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 167
Chapter Title: What Kind of Country Is This? (1)
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The entire battlefield echoed with cheers.
The knights and soldiers of the Northern Union Army shouted the name of Ballerhard.
Even the Royal Knights and marksmen, who lived solely for the glory and well-being of the royal family, were crying out the name of Winter Castle instead of the crown—at least in this moment.
It was their own way of paying respects to the choice those men had made: abandoning the spring that might have come and charging headlong into the biting winds of winter. It was also a lament for the infinite possibilities they had ultimately forsaken—the chance to escape the frozen wasteland and head toward the warm southern world.
The lords and soldiers of the Northern Union Army were no different.
And so, as everyone bellowed the name of Ballerhard, the fierce resistance of the orc war legion was finally drawing to a close.
Now, only a force smaller than a single legion remained, surrounded by Winter Castle's troops who assaulted them relentlessly.
I joined in to help finish them off.
"For Ballerhard!"
Shouting the name just like the others.
Kreeeek.
Before long, I severed the neck of the last orc still putting up a fight.
There were no cheers.
The knights and I who had wiped out the orcs turned in unison and headed toward a spot somewhere on the snowy plain.
Toward the battle between the old orc and the masters.
Boom! Boom!
Explosions rang out one after another. The frozen ground was gouged deeply by spear thrusts infused with red battle spirit and brute force.
But that was all.
The orc's spear didn't so much as graze a single hair on the masters.
It merely battered the earth pointlessly and cleaved empty air.
I sheathed my sword and watched the fight.
There stood the pitiful figure of the old orc—born with the aura of a king, once called the king of kings, who had led warlords into battle.
Not even the flames ignited by his extraordinary fury could be extinguished as they engulfed an overlord, who screamed in agony.
This was proof that his spirit had been damaged beyond what even he could endure.
Now, he was nothing more than a monster with raw strength and tough hide.
And against the combined assault of the masters, his remaining toughness and power meant nothing.
Chunks of his flesh fell away with every slash of sword light from the masters.
He screamed and resisted even more fiercely. With each struggle, the flames of soulfire clinging to his body burned ever brighter.
Then, at some point, the flames completely devoured him.
Kraaaaaah!
Letting out a horrific shriek, he swung his spear wildly.
Arwen slipped through a gap in the ferocious spear strikes.
Slash.
One of his flame-wrapped forearms fell away.
Ilai sliced through the leg of the shrieking old orc. Adelia's thrust severed the remaining one.
The old knight's sword blinded him, carving out both eyes.
Kreeeeeeeeee!
Propping himself up with his one remaining arm, he wailed in pain and terror.
Meister Surka, who had closed in, hesitated with his axe.
"This one's not mine."
He spat on the ground in disappointment and turned away.
The masters withdrew as if by prior agreement.
Step by step.
Vincent approached the gasping orc, breathing heavily.
Slash.
Before the pathetic plea could finish, Vincent brought his sword down like a falling tree.
The Ballerhard family sword, symbol of the castellan, pierced the back of the orc's neck.
The orc's mouth gaped open.
Vincent twisted the blade.
The severed head thudded into a pool of blood.
Its grotesque face, half-melted by the dragon's breath, twisted in the cowardice of a man who had schemed to the very end for a wretched life.
Vincent staggered forward and picked up the foul thing.
"We..."
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then snapped them open. Raising the overlord's head high,
"We are victorious!"
The knights and soldiers unleashed their pent-up cheers at the castellan's roar.
"We've slain the orc king!"
"We've won!"
Pounding their bloodied longswords and spears against their chests, they screamed their victory like madmen.
"We've driven out the monsters!"
Both the Northern Union Army and the royal reinforcements howled like lunatics.
The roars buried even the messages resounding in my head.
I blocked them out.
What I needed to hear now was the sacred cry of their uncompromising victory—not some hollow message.
I took in the sight of them shouting victory without so much as blinking.
Not missing a single one.
Someday, someone might mock this victory as a worthless one won by fools.
Perhaps even some here today might come to regret it in the years ahead.
They might say that setting aside pride and grudges for the greater good is possible.
That forgiveness holds more value than any revenge.
If anyone dared say such things, I would answer thus:
What greater good? Who are you to belittle their choice?
While everyone else basked in the warm summer sun, they alone faced the brutal winter.
Forgiveness and revenge are choices for those involved. To claim forgiveness is worth more is just empty words from those who haven't lived it.
Today's victory was far from worthless.
Today's decision was far from foolish.
They had simply chosen.
Instead of fleeting peace through compromise with cowards, they chose their own history and their own greater good. They refused to ignore the cry of their hearts under the guise of a universally acceptable "greater good."
Even if that choice meant standing before blizzards and gales once more.
Who would dare call their resolve the reckless folly of fools?
If such a person existed, I would seek them out and smash their insolent mouth myself.
I'd seen it too many times already.
For the sake of preventing greater sacrifices, for immediate peace.
Nobles stripped of their pride, knights crushed by defeat, lords drained of vigor.
Under the name of the greater good, hearts broken, they recoiled unconsciously at the mere mention of the Empire.
There were far too many such people in this kingdom.
The fact that such unyielding souls still existed here gave me great strength.
For the thorny path ahead could not be walked even a single step through compromise.
"We've won!"
I watched Vincent raise the overlord's head high and roar savagely.
The brilliant aura and presence of the master that had shone moments ago were gone.
His towering presence had vanished like a lie.
I realized it instinctively.
Vincent's awakening was incomplete.
Perhaps it was a temporary change triggered by the [War Poem], or maybe a single flash of brilliance born from the avenger's fury fueling the soulfire flames.
I couldn't be sure of anything.
But I believed.
Even if it was just a momentary gleam, his body and soul would remember this day and grow ceaselessly.
And before long, he would shine as brilliantly as he had today once more.
For that would be the reward for the trials and hatred he endured in his past life—the glory promised to the steadfast man who never compromised.
And what was promised to him went beyond personal perfection.
"If we'd compromised with that greenskin monster, the dwarves never would have returned to this castle."
Meister Surka approached me and said,
"We dwarves don't share friendship with hypocrites who bend their will for short-term gains."
The dwarf's voice was gruff as ever, but it carried an unmistakable satisfaction.
"Their spirit is like flame, their souls like iron. We dwarves like friends like that."
"Friends, huh..."
Hearing the word "friends" from a dwarf's mouth was no easy feat.
Dwarves were stubborn craftsmen.
They knew no compromise, living purely for their passions.
To them, compromise was a sin.
They didn't call someone a friend just for fighting side by side, nor for gifts and favors showing goodwill.
They were exceedingly picky, with standards all their own.
But if fortune smiled and someone earned a dwarf's friendship—especially if they faced great peril—the dwarves would lend aid as readily as to their own kin.
"The moment we get back, I need to round up those old fogeys."
"Why the other meisters?"
"My friends are in trouble. To help, I need to open the coffers and drag some lazy arses into action—but I can't do it alone."
I couldn't help but laugh.
Even I hadn't expected this blessing of flame and iron for those upright men.
Rangers shoveled through the snow that had piled up overnight, rescuing the wounded and recovering the fallen.
Since the knights had actively climbed the walls from the start, the rangers' losses were lighter than expected.
But the Northern Union Army's casualties were far from negligible.
The union army, more like reserves, only directly engaged right before the end, when everyone pressed the attack.
Even so, the sudden emergence of orcs from the ground threw them into total chaos, inflicting massive losses.
By the time the Royal Knight Order and royal marksmen restored order, they'd lost a full third of their forces.
The victory had been hard-won; their sacrifices were too great for mere celebration.
Recognizing the need to regroup, they decided to return to their own territories, departing Winter Castle.
"Call us anytime. We'll come running, no matter what."
"Winter Castle stands not alone—remember we have your back."
Their faces brimmed with sincerity as they spoke those words upon leaving.
In that moment, they disregarded their heavy losses with unyielding resolve.
After sharing just one winter together. They had fully reclaimed the spirit of the North lost to lazy years.
Vincent expressed deep gratitude for their goodwill and friendship, escorting them a full day's ride beyond the south gate.
He had felt it too.
Though they'd lost much in this war, they'd gained much as well.
And so it was.
Neighbors rarely seen were swarming the damaged walls and gates, ravaged by the fierce battle.
Dwarves.
Of the two hundred who had fought, a hundred remained to help repair the broken gates and walls.
"Who the hell supplied these hand cannons anyway? If you're gonna do it, train 'em properly! Just tossing hand cannons and calling it done?!"
Some vented frustration at the rangers' clumsy handling and began teaching them proper use.
"These are at least three hundred years old. Decent back then, maybe—but not now. Using relics like that proudly in war? As a clansman, it's an insult to my pride."
Another dwarf offered unasked-for kindness, promising to upgrade the hand cannons used by the royal heavy marksmen.
"I guarantee it—these won't last. Some already broke; a couple more shots, and the rest will follow."
The old knight was deeply troubled.
Dwarves repairing dwarven weapons was welcome, but since they originated from royal treasures, entrusting modifications was tricky for many reasons.
"It's a rare chance. Let's just close our eyes and go for it."
I stepped in to persuade him. Knowing full well which option benefited the crown more, he relented with feigned reluctance.
Returning after seeing off the lords, Vincent was baffled by the dwarves' sudden enthusiasm.
But he quickly shook off his surprise and got back to work.
As Winter Castle repaired the war's damage and prepared for tomorrow, word arrived from the capital.
Montpellier's voice blared overly dramatically through the communication crystal.
"What now. What's the problem."
His dramatics were nothing new, so I asked indifferently.
Expecting it to be trivial, as usual.
But it wasn't.