Chapter 62
Chapter 62
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: Orc Beyond Orcs vs. Knight Beyond Knights (2)
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The joy of victory and the warm welcome for the returning First Prince had all vanished in the face of the Warlord's overwhelming presence.
Everyone staring at the mountains had their mouths clamped shut.
The atmosphere, oppressively somber, felt no different from that of defeated remnants.
Maximilian felt suffocated. He had to do something for the soldiers, who were as subdued as routed troops. But the words wouldn't come.
That horrific roar, still vividly etched in his mind, had rendered him mute.
He bit his lip and stamped his feet restlessly.
Then an arrogant voice rang out.
"Bring it out."
In the hushed silence of the fortress, the voice cut through crystal clear. Turning his head, he saw the First Prince standing there, marked by the grime of the arduous mountain trek and battle.
At the First Prince's command, the Rangers unfurled what they had been carrying.
It resembled human skin but looked far tougher and coarser—a massive, yellowish-red hide.
Thud.
As the hide was laid out on the ground, a enormous head wrapped inside tumbled into view.
"Gasp!"
Gasps echoed from all around.
The monstrous head looked ready to roar back to life at any moment.
"Fourteen ogres, eleven trolls," the First Prince said.
"If we'd had more time, I would've wiped them out completely."
His words bordered on bravado, almost boastful.
"But why only one head?"
The eldest son of Winter Citadel's lord asked the First Prince.
"Why carry all that useless stuff? One souvenir's enough. What, you don't trust me now?"
"No, it's not that I don't believe you, but this hide looks like it's from about four of them. The numbers don't add up."
Vincent's remark made the First Prince cross his arms and puff up with swagger.
"They got totally shredded. Nothing left intact."
As if it had just occurred to him, the First Prince extended his hand. A Ranger promptly handed over a red cloth.
"One regiment banner from the elite orc combat unit we took in the mountains, and one legion banner from the shaman we just killed."
The Rangers, watching him strut like a kid who couldn't drop his bravado, chimed in abruptly.
"So how's the score now?"
"Let's see. Legion banners count as ten each, right? Your Highness has two legion banners. Nineteen combat unit banners. That's thirty-nine for you."
"The captain has one legion banner and twenty-eight combat unit banners..."
"I've got thirty-nine. Vincent's got thirty-eight."
The prince reached out his hand.
"Vincent Ballerhard."
He stuck out his thumb triumphantly, then flipped it downward with a flick.
"I win."
Vincent scowled fiercely at the prince's smug display, while the Rangers and knights erupted in cheers.
"His Highness has surpassed the captain!"
"The captain's lost!"
Vincent snapped back in frustration.
"You just picked up the flags after everything was over! I can't accept that!"
The Rangers and knights jeered at him.
"Boo! Captain! That's pathetic! Admit your defeat!"
"Even just the ogres and trolls His Highness took down—that's enough to beat you! Give credit where it's due!"
"Which side are you bastards on?! Who's your captain?!"
Abandoned by his own men, Vincent bellowed in rage, but no one echoed him.
"So is His Highness now Winter Citadel's greatest warrior?"
"Ahem."
Someone cleared their throat.
The cough drew attention unnaturally. Heads turned to Winter Citadel's silently watching lord, Count Bail Ballerhard.
"Fifty-nine, was it?"
He tossed out the words casually, as if straining to recall.
"You're still a long way off."
People belatedly grasped the commander's meaning and remembered what they'd forgotten.
They recalled the knight among knights who had fought orcs the longest here and slain the most.
"Aren't you ashamed, old man, picking on the young ones? You're half-retired from the front lines now."
The First Prince, deflated after his bragging, grumbled.
"Records don't fade," the commander replied, a magnanimous victor's smile on his face.
Maximilian, stunned that the famed commander had joined this childish flag contest, suddenly realized something.
The fortress atmosphere, once as grim as a city on the brink of falling, had returned to normal.
Maximilian's gaze shifted to the commander.
He caught the commander and his son exchanging knowing glances.
"Ah..."
Only then did Maximilian understand why they'd put on such a silly show before the soldiers.
It was to rally their spirits, even at the cost of their own dignity. The flag count had never really mattered.
"Anyway, stay out of it, Uncle. I'm the best."
Of course, one boy clung stubbornly to his flag tally till the end.
Regardless, the inexplicable tension and anxiety that had gripped the fortress were gone.
"Wounded, return to barracks for treatment. Able-bodied, clean up the battlefield!"
With the mood restored, the commander issued orders.
"Quit slacking—recover those arrows! Shafts optional, but heads are mandatory!"
"Anyone who doesn't recover as many arrows as they fired spends the night running laps!"
Officers barked obscenities, kicking the Rangers' rears.
"What're you infantry waiting for?"
"Easy there. Have them do it, and we'll ruin all the arrows. You know you have to pry the heads off shafts with a knife later if they're separated?"
The soldiers grumbled but headed out the gates.
Maximilian inwardly marveled at the sight, again and again.
This is a field commander's quick thinking. This is how men who've lived lifetimes with their troops handle things.
No grand speeches—just a few silly jokes had shifted the mood. It left a deep impression.
But what impressed Maximilian most was the prince, raised in palace luxury, acting just like these battle-hardened veterans.
"Your Highness."
Ehrim Kiringer, who had joined the mountain trek with his brothers, approached and bowed.
"Come to my room."
There was much he needed to hear from him.
**
Even in death, a monster born with an extraordinary presence retained a faint echo of it. That was why he'd deliberately shown the ogre's head to the soldiers like a trophy.
So they could draw courage from the remains of this extraordinary beast.
Half success, half failure.
"Hm."
The gloomy air, like a fortress about to fall, was gone. But the Warlord's presence hadn't been fully dispelled.
Rangers, knights, and officers alike avoided mentioning the Warlord, as if speaking it aloud would summon disaster.
"Tch."
I clicked my tongue.
If even Winter Citadel's veteran Rangers and knights were like this, I could guess how the capital's troops were faring without looking.
Different degrees, same story.
Two men caught my eye within my view. They were mercenaries assigned by the Silver Foxes' leader. Long after the Warlord's roar, they sat paralyzed on the ground, pants soaked through.
The stench of urine stung my nose.
Pitiful, but not incomprehensible.
That roar wasn't just any roar. It was a deliberate declaration from a monster transcending its orcish kind, infused with its full aura and presence.
A proclamation of war.
The aura within crushed souls mercilessly. Even those hardened by harsh battles struggled against its malice.
Mercenaries who roamed brutal fields were no exception.
Yet their pathetic state stood out because Winter Citadel's folk, though forcing normalcy, carried on with their duties amid the grim scene.
But I knew better.
It wasn't that the mercenaries were weak—it was that Winter Citadel's people were strong.
Still, these tough men alone couldn't win the coming battle. We needed more.
"Why aren't the reinforcements showing up?"
I'd expected the lords below to send aid by now, but the garrison hadn't grown since I left.
Support had been requested right after detecting the Warlord. Ample time for war prep.
The capital's forces had even arrived.
Yet troops from neighboring Ballerhard lands were nowhere in sight.
This was far from normal.
"The straggler reinforcements joined us earlier. We learned of the lords through them."
Vincent interjected, his voice thick with anger.
"The knight who led those stragglers said the central and northern lords showed no intent to send forces."
I shared his fury.
"Don't they know if this place falls, they're next?"
"Ian, calm yourself."
My uncle soothed me gently.
"This place will never fall."
His voice held an eerie calm. I narrowed my eyes at him—his gaze was unusually profound.
"No way?"
I asked just in case.
"Not yet. But it's nearly within reach."
My uncle smiled faintly at me.
I was genuinely impressed.
It felt like yesterday he'd been lost to heart demons, a broken shell. Now he'd overcome them and stepped to the next level.
"Just a bit more time would've been nice. Time is cruel."
Yet he didn't seem truly regretful. If anything, he looked eager for the Warlord's arrival.
"Don't worry. Knight Bail has never lost a battle against orcs."
Absolute confidence laced his words.
The assurance of a knight on the cusp of Penta Chain, beyond Quad.
**
The orcs, who had attacked every four days, stopped coming. Winter Citadel's forces rested and prepared for the massive clash ahead.
I summoned Maximilian and demanded he send a reinforcement request in the Second Prince's name.
"Our names might not work. Yours will."
I doubted the lords would ignore the Second Prince's authority too. Maximilian said little but wrote the letter in a firm tone, mindful of the politics.
Swift Rangers carried the missives to nearby lords.
"Will they really come?"
"They'll come. The question is if they'll make it in time."
Maximilian sensed the tension, looking uneasy.
"Maximilian."
I told my younger brother.
"If things go south, reform the defensive line below the fortress."
"B-Brother!"
"We're short on men. But Winter Citadel's men will never abandon this place, no matter what."
They'd stand and die with it before retreating—my uncle and the citadel folk.
But the Warlord fight required planning for the worst.
Maximilian replied that I, not he, should lead if it came to that—after all, wasn't I one of Winter Citadel's now? He dismissed future succession wars and power struggles.
I just smiled in response.
The cursed Leonberger bloodline was in tatters, but at least one pure strain remained. While the Rangers bore the letters south, the Black Spear Cavalry—Ballerhard's pride—arrived at the fortress.
"Mission complete. Apologies for the delay."
They reeked of blood; the commander had given them a separate task.
Mounting my black steed, I admired the black-armored riders.
If Iron Lion Knights resembled honed blades, the Black Spear Cavalry were feral beasts.
Their unchecked aura spilled everywhere, fierce and robust.
Like wolves—knights who had grown monstrous fighting monsters.
That was the Black Spear Cavalry I saw.
"Your Highness. An honor to meet you."
The unit's vice-captain, Kwen Stutheim, flashed a wolfish grin.
"Vincent bragged nonstop. Said charging with you is unparalleled."
"Sir Kwen!"
"Anyway, looking forward to it."
With no prejudice, just open welcome—they'd heard good things about me beforehand.
"Yeah. Me too."
Thus ended our first meeting with the charge specialists, the Black Spear Cavalry.
By then, the Warlord's presence loomed ever closer, nearly upon the fortress.
A week at most, four days at least.
Precious little time before it arrived.
I steadied my mind, communing with my soul shards and reflecting inwardly to prepare for the Warlord.
The awaited reinforcements remained silent, while the uninvited guest strode boldly to our gates.
The Warlord, hero of the orcs, arrived at Winter Citadel at last, leading 20,000 troops amid a raging blizzard.