Chapter 43
Chapter 43
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 43
Chapter Title: 14. A Song for the Large and Beautiful Green Mass (5)
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"Your Highness."
Arwen approached.
Her body was covered in blood, her hair matted with sweat and gore, clinging to her forehead and cheeks.
Gone was her usual neatness and poise—no trace of it to be found anywhere amid the utter disarray. And yet, she shone brighter than ever before.
"I give thanks for Your Highness's safety, and offer my deepest respects for that astonishing display of valor."
With those words, she placed a hand over her heart and saluted.
Thud!
A beat later came the stomp of boots. The royal infantry had already formed ranks, gazing at me.
"Respect for His Highness the Prince's valor!"
The soldiers shouted as they stomped their feet.
Thud!
Their battered, dented shields made it clear they hadn't been mere bystanders in this fight.
Exhaustion etched their faces, mingled with the lingering tension and fear of their first real battle. But in those wavering eyes, the thrill and ecstasy of victory swelled full to bursting.
"Well done, Arwen. You too—all of you, well done."
Thud! Thud!
Arwen and the soldiers saluted in unison with a stomp.
"Tend to the wounded. We're heading back."
"Whoooosh!"
I turned at the hoarse cry from Hansdeck.
"Your Highness."
Vincent was there before I knew it, holding a torn and severed orc battalion standard in his hand.
I asked what he wanted.
But instead of answering, he stared at me intently. His eyelids twitched, his lips quirked—his expression shifted a dozen times in that brief moment.
His face was unreadable, impossible to gauge his thoughts.
Suddenly.
Vincent, who had been staring me down, thrust the standard right at me.
I wondered what this was about and just watched, until he spoke.
"It's the Third Legion's tradition for the bravest warrior in battle to claim the orcs' standard."
He said the orc banners were the greatest spoils, irreplaceable proof of honorable victory.
And that one was mine.
I blinked dumbly at it, and Vincent forced the standard into my hand.
Ah...
Only then did I realize how many eyes were on me. The Third Legion rangers and knights, the royal infantry and Arwen, Vincent—all looking at me with the exact same gaze.
Thump, thump.
My heart, which had slowed, began to race again.
The emotions in the soldiers' eyes wrapped around me like an inexplicable heat.
I felt flustered, embarrassed.
Vincent nodded to me then.
"We..."
I hesitated before speaking.
"Louder."
"We."
"Loud enough for them to hear!"
Vincent hoisted my hand clutching the standard high into the air.
"We... are victorious!"
The Third Legion rangers staring at me, the royal infantry, the knights—they all raised their swords. And as one, they roared.
"We've won!"
Watching them bellow sent a tickle deep in my chest. Pride mingled with embarrassment—a sensation I'd never felt before.
"We are victorious!"
I shouted again, testing that strange feeling.
"Respect for His Highness the Prince!"
"Welcome to Winter Castle, Your Highness!"
The rangers cheered for me. The knights offered words of welcome. The royal infantry paid their respects.
Amid it all, I realized it.
What I'd longed for most in those days when I lived by the sword.
Victory, cheers, glory.
What if all that belonged to me—not to those who claimed to own me? I'd imagined it endlessly, yearned for it across endless time.
And now, my questions, my longings—all answered.
It felt pretty damn good.
"We've won!"
I shouted again, exhilarated.
Someday, I'd look back on this and cringe, kicking off the covers in shame. No doubt about it.
But right now, in this moment, I didn't care about what came later.
I simply basked in my victory, the cheers for me, my glory alone.
I cried out our victory over and over, proclaimed ownership of the standard again and again.
"I am the master of this standard!"
"Sixteen."
I was in the middle of hollering when Vincent, standing beside me, threw out something random.
"What?"
"There are sixteen of them."
"Sixteen what?"
I asked what he meant, and Vincent replied with feigned nonchalance.
"Orc standards. I have sixteen too."
I glanced over to see Vincent's sullen face.
"This standard is mine!"
I shouted triumphantly at him. He turned away.
I felt like I was floating on air.
* * *
The Third Legion's battlefield cleanup was swift beyond words.
They recovered bolts from the crossbows, salvaged usable gear from the orcs' equipment. They gathered the swords and gear of fallen rangers.
The bodies—orcs and humans alike—were piled together and burned.
That was it.
The Third Legion, hardened by endless life-and-death struggles in the mountains, handled even mourning and condolences with such stark simplicity.
"Back to the castle!"
At Vincent's command, the thirty-odd rangers began descending the mountain.
"Let's go."
I led Arwen and the infantry after the rangers down the slope.
Then, on impulse, I glanced back.
Faint white smoke rose, linking the snowy ground and blue sky like a bridge. I stared blankly for a moment before turning away.
It was time to go.
* * *
More rangers joined us on the way down—detachments from Winter Castle that had sortied to clear small monster villages.
After they joined, Vincent's expression darkened noticeably. He seemed troubled.
I sidled up and asked what was wrong.
"None of the ranger patrols detected the orc combat unit's movements."
Either a flaw in the rangers' watch network, or something amiss among the orcs. Neither boded well, Vincent said gravely, voicing deep concern.
"We need to hurry back."
Vincent quickened the march with an urgent look.
"Well done."
Back at Winter Castle, my uncle was waiting. The castle garrison cheered the safe return of the sortieing troops.
Hearing those cheers and roars, I raised the standard once more.
"I am the master of this standard!"
Arwen shook her head with a wry smile. Vincent made a bored face. The infantry and rangers who'd fought beside me wore similar expressions.
Apparently, I'd been bragging too much.
But what could I do? It felt too good.
Unlike those returning with me, the castle soldiers gaped in shock at the raised banner. A non-Legion knight holding their standard astonished them—but they still cheered fervently.
Yes. This is the feeling.
The heat in my chest, which had wilted on the way back, reignited fiercely—
"So, suspicious signs in the mountains?"
—only to gutter out at my uncle's heavy voice.
"The orc combat unit that should still be deep in the mountains showed up far too early. Scouts spotted them at close range."
"They found big game, or..."
"Something happened deep in the mountains."
I sheepishly lowered the standard as they exchanged grim words.
"I hate to rob a man fresh from battle of his rest, but this is grave. Come along."
Vincent started after my uncle, then suddenly turned back.
"Well done, Your Highness."
Vincent flashed an embarrassed look alone before fleeing the scene.
"Isn't he acting kinda weird?"
Suddenly bragging about his own banner count, seeming fine on the surface but oddly childish underneath.
"He's a rough-mannered man, so he must have been embarrassed by how quickly he flipped like a palm."
Arwen said with a chuckle.
"Your Highneeeess!"
Then Adelia appeared from within.
Looking anxious, she'd clearly been waiting on pins and needles—her usual grace traded for hurried strides.
"I'm so glad you returned safely."
Only seeing her halt before me, welcoming my return, did the battle truly feel over.
Smiling at her warm reception, I said,
"Do you know what this is?"
And showed her the standard.
* * *
A full third of the Third Legion rangers who'd fought with me had fallen, Vincent said. For battling an elite orc combat unit, it wasn't heavy losses.
That struck me as awfully cold.
"Still, it's too tragic."
I wasn't alone in thinking so; Arwen asked if they didn't need time to mourn the fallen. "Victory is mourning and tribute enough for the fallen."
Vincent said it was the Ballerhard way: slaying orcs, soothing the dead with their blood.
That hit me with another strange coincidence.
A man sharing the name of that pitiful avenger saying the exact same thing. It didn't feel like mere chance.
Reincarnation...?
I looked at Vincent.
"Why the look?"
No grief or despair in his challenging face.
No wonder—he'd claimed sixteen banners. The orcs should be the ones grieving.
Or rather.
Why was this guy in my room doing this?
The moment the meeting ended, he'd rushed in to spill every detail. Utterly out of left field.
I asked why, and—
"The commander ordered it."
My uncle's doing.
Looks like he wanted me to get chummy with his son.
From what I'd seen, the guy wasn't prickly. No big deal.
"Then rest well."
Vincent stood, business done. Arwen lingered a bit longer before leaving, and Adelia dozed off on the sofa midway through listening.
"Tch."
She'd apparently stayed up the whole time I was gone, waiting. Dead to the world without sensing a thing.
I fetched a blanket from the bed and draped it over her.
Sat in a chair. Gazed out the window, lost in thought.
The afterglow of Poem of Vengeance hadn't fully faded. I'd immersed too deeply in singing that flawless military ode.
Even synchronization had kicked in.
I frowned.
This would happen again and again. Those poems weren't fully mine.
They were mine, yet not mine. I had to make them truly my own.
Like turning Poem of Vengeance into Poem of Requiem.
Tap.
A strange noise jolted me from my reverie.
Tap.
A bird outside the darkened window pecked relentlessly at the glass. Pure white plumage, elegant form—not your average bird. And indeed, it wasn't.
No ordinary bird would grin like a human, beak split wide.