Chapter 52
Chapter 52
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 52
Chapter Title: The Awl in the Pocket Will Always Stick Out (1)
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Their fingers were blistered raw from endlessly drawing bowstrings, their bodies a patchwork of wounds from hours of brutal close-quarters brawls with the tough orcs. Their stamina had bottomed out long ago.
Yet the rangers atop the walls fought on without pause. They swung their swords relentlessly, their mouths chanting along to an unfamiliar military tune.
It was miraculous.
The orcs of Blade Mountain weren't frail enough to drop from a single glancing blow from a dulled blade. But those fierce, hardy orcs were falling one after another like flies.
Orcs cowed into spineless submission, as if intimidated by something unseen. Even the veteran rangers had never witnessed the like.
They fought in a frenzy.
When they finally came to their senses, not a single orc remained on the walls. The rangers didn't cheer.
The battle wasn't over yet.
Far below the battlements, the orcs still teemed like an endless sea of murky green. One ranger gazing down at it let out an awed gasp.
All winter, they'd huddled inside the fortress, scrambling just to hold back the monster hordes. The thought of charging out through the gates had been unthinkable.
Yet now, right before their eyes, the impossible was unfolding.
The knights cleaved through the dark green tide. Watching them pulverize dozens of times their number set the blood boiling.
"The battle isn't over yet!"
Someone bellowed then.
"We're heading out beyond the walls!"
"Leave only the bare minimum on the ramparts!"
The commanders, who never lost their cool in any crisis, shouted with voices hoarse from excitement. Seasoned veterans who would normally voice caution instead leaped down to join the fray as if they'd been waiting for this moment.
The rangers charged over the shattered gates and the sprawl of orc corpses.
Following the blue flames that banished the darkness from afar.
Chanting the military tune without cease.
The rangers latched onto the knights' rear.
As they merged, the knights reshaped their formation on cue, as if expecting them. The sharp wedge broadened into another wave crashing back against the tide.
And at its heart burned the prince wreathed in blue flames.
Acclaimed commanders, grizzled ranger captains, even the hot-tempered northern knights—all fixed their eyes on the prince's back without exception. When he veered left, they followed left; right, they went right. He slowed, they matched his pace; he charged, they surged alongside.
It was miraculous.
A boy not yet come of age, a greenhorn whose third battle this was at most—what command did he hold that these luminaries obeyed so blindly?
No, it didn't matter to them.
Thump. Thump.
This pounding heartbeat that wasn't their own. They had no choice but to surrender to its bizarre rhythm.
They ran, breath steaming like fevered delirium.
Stacking green corpses into mountains, a red pond forms beneath.
And I stand before it, honoring your soul.
The searing heat they exhaled fused with the chant.
"Kraaaagh!"
An orc writhed, engulfed in sapphire flames, shrieking its death throes. The ravenous blue fire devoured even those final cries. Its murky green flesh crumbled to ash in moments.
That was the last orc.
No living orcs remained on the snowfields.
Whoosh.
The ceaseless blue blaze winked out like a lie. The raucous military chant faded to silence.
In the windless hush of the snowfields stood the blood-soaked prince, tall and unbowed.
Crunch. Crunch.
The prince trudged across the snow, then bowed his head. Straightening, he clutched a standard scorched by fire and rent by blades.
"We!"
The prince thrust the orc banner high.
"Have won!"
And roared.
Victory. The orcs annihilated. The battle over.
"Long live Prince Your Highness!"
"Long live Prince Your Highness!"
The rangers' cheers erupted a beat late. Their voices, raw from leading the chant, grated harshly, but no one cared. They simply exulted in survival, in holding the line.
Thud.
Vincent, who'd watched it all in a daze, plopped down on his rear.
"A-annihilated?"
His face, surveying the orc corpses strewn everywhere, held the glazed look of one freshly woken from a dream.
That was the beginning.
Knights gripping swords toppled one after another. Alarmed rangers rushed to check them.
"What's this? The old man's grinning?"
"This one's out cold."
The rangers spoke in disbelief.
"Knew they were pushing too hard."
The rangers saying it looked ready to collapse themselves. But instead of sitting, they hoisted the knights onto their backs.
The knights had fought the fiercest today. Their frantic efforts to minimize losses were still vivid.
They'd earned their rest.
The weary rangers began clearing the battlefield.
Retrieving allied corpses tumbled from the walls mid-battle, carrying back straggling knights and heavy infantry left behind in the charge.
The commander watched, then turned away.
There stood the prince, leaning against the ruined standard stabbed into the ground. A bloodied woman with disheveled hair slouched at his feet, cheek pillowed on his thigh, eyes closed—though when she'd arrived, who knew.
"Martial odes are something else."
His face lit with awe, recalling how the knights' voices had resonated as one.
"Not a martial ode."
The prince rasped, voice sunk deep.
"A war poem."
"Either way, it's incredi—"
Mid-sentence, the commander's eyes widened. The prince, propped against the standard, began to tilt. Before a word could escape, he toppled backward—the woman tumbling with him, cheek still on his thigh.
The pair sprawled flat.
The watching commander beckoned the rangers. Those tending the field melted snow from their hands with quick rubs, then lifted the prince and woman with exquisite care.
As if handling fragile glass.
"Light the fires!"
With survivors and fallen secured, the commander ordered.
Oil poured, flames kindled atop. Acrid smoke billowed as orc corpses ignited.
The blaze swelled, devouring thousands of husks. A massive pyre visible from afar.
Crackle.
Perched on a withered mountaintop tree, a woman watched the inferno in rapture.
Pointed ears, silver hair, silver eyes—a face of celestial beauty. The Elder High Elf Sigrun.
She smiled at the soaring flames.
A cat's contented purr after a full meal.
"War poem..."
Sigrun brushed off her rear and rose. Leaping lightly from the dead tree, she turned.
Her starry silver gaze pierced the flames' inferno, toward the mountains' depths opposite Winter Fortress. Eyes deep as abysses darkened further.
Whoosh!
Vast energy erupted from her form.
Roooaaar!
A savage roar exploded from the mountains' heart.
But more wounded beast than fury—crushed, subdued.
"Come slowly, just a little."
Sigrun whispered.
"Let him grow a bit more."
Something deep in the mountains bellowed louder.
She smiled softly. Utterly pleased.
Her goal was simply revealing herself—that alone sufficed to put the mountain's king on alert.
He'd stay put for a while, surely.
Sigrun turned back.
Her eyes curved gently. A lover's tender gaze toward Winter Fortress.
"I hope next time is like today."
A tone meltingly sweet—yet laced not with affection, but twisted desire.
The central noble houses bordering the north erupted in uproar.
"Ballerhard requesting reinforcements?!"
All from a single missive from the kingdom's northernmost frontier.
Winter had just begun. Monsters only starting their southward migration. Yet here came pages of desperate pleas for aid.
Had a crack formed in the steadfast shield of the past century? The nobles quailed.
"That wastrel prince!"
Just as the wastrel First Prince arrived north, disaster struck—or so the nobles panicked, certain of it.
"Send heralds to the other houses at once!"
This wasn't just a central houses issue. If mighty Ballerhard faltered, the whole kingdom faced the cold wave.
The monster migration was calamity incarnate.
Nobles receiving Ballerhard's edict dispatched heralds far and wide.
Heralds raced north to south.
Some nobles blanched at the sudden news, others scoffed.
"Cheap ploy."
"Send troops, then gobble them up. Bandits, the lot."
"No need to fall for obvious lies."
The hitch: the First Prince was there.
"Planning a power grab by force?"
They framed the edict as political maneuvering. And responded with nothing.
Heralds heading south dwindled over time. By central midlands, none remained.
Unlike northern nobles haunted by monster horrors, central houses had softened in balmy peace.
Their focus: who next king?
No replies came. Border houses fretted themselves raw.
Then heralds arrived again.
"Again!"
The lord's heart sank; trembling, he summoned them.
"Two legions' worth of elite orcs at Winter Fortress! Third Legion and Ballerhard rangers engaged and slaughtered them all!"
Relief—no grim tidings, but victory.
"Oho! As expected of Count Ballerhard! The kingdom's shield lives up to the name!"
The lord beamed, relief plain.
Too soon.
"All Ballerhard forces recalled and regrouping for next battle! But enemy numbers overwhelming—urgent need for reinforcements!"
"Still?"
Major win, yet more troops needed—massive losses? he probed.
The herald shook his head. Heavy fighting, but light casualties, he boasted proudly.
"Then why?"
"Enemy scale unprecedented. Commander judges holding with current forces impossible."
That iron-willed silver knight admitting defeat pre-battle? The lord asked late.
How vast the foe?
The herald's face hardened.
"Eight confirmed legions. At least 16,000 orcs migrating south."
"What?"
The lord echoed blankly.
"Confirmed enemy: eight legions, 16,000-plus. Numerous shamans, orc warriors, tribal chief-level orcs."
Thud.
The lord collapsed.
Bad news didn't end there.
"The orc king has appeared."
The horde followed one orc.
"Commander requests maximum troops in shortest time."
The lord didn't reply.
16,000 orcs—half the kingdom's total forces. No few houses could stem that.
Too grave for one peace-softened lord.
Better to deny.
"Orc king? Never heard. And orcs that size not slaughtering each other defies nature."
The herald gestured knowingly.
Another herald shoved forward a massive coffer.
Bribe for troops? No.
It opened: a massive skull, flesh flayed clean.
"H-Huh?!"
The lord recoiled in horror. The herald stated flatly.
"Legion commander's head, slain by First Prince Your Highness last battle. As you see, five times a normal orc, twice an orc warrior."
First Prince slayer? Unheard.
Only the huge skull, iron jaw, protruding brow registered.
"Spotted one at least three times this size. We suspect it's the king."
Herald closed the coffer.
"Please grasp the gravity."
Too stiff, insolent for a herald—but terror choked the lord's anger.
That skull seemed poised to snap his neck.
Heralds bearing Night Slayer orc chunks sought central lords. Skeptics converted by unprecedented bones grasped the peril.
Word reached the capital at last.
High nobles debated Ballerhard's plight. Some claimed exaggeration for leverage; others warned true severity from such a stalwart house.
"Look! First Prince Your Highness slew this!"
Separate bone shards assembled: a colossal skeleton never seen.
"Slain by one not even a year with the sword. Big, but no fiercer than average orcs."
They slyly diminished the prince, accusing Ballerhard of novel politics.
"Mind your words! Don't besmirch their selfless northern vigil for the kingdom!"
Countered by a few, led by Marquis Billefeld.
"Enough!"
The king raised a hand, silencing them.
"I know Count Ballerhard no liar. If he deems it grave, it is."
Nobles hushed. They knew too.
"Border houses: send maximum forces."
Yet the king's decree was miserly.
"Court Chamberlain: contract afflicted mercenary bands, dispatch north."
No knights, no central army mentioned. The king spoke no more.
"Ah, and the noble heirs convicted last trial—send them north for atonement in white-clad service."
An afterthought: criminal handling.
Precious little honor for the north's shield.
Marquis Billefeld and few allies darkened sharply.
This kingdom's rotten, they thought.
But hope lingered.
"The throne must not ignore Ballerhard's loyalty."
The Second Prince—top heir, hailed as the founding king's rebirth—stepped forward.
"Your Majesty. Allow me to lead my knights north."