Chapter 68
Chapter 68
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 68
Chapter Title: 22. Finally Adapted to the World (1)
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Surrendering and abandoning a castle they had defended with their lives for centuries was never an easy decision for the men of Ballerhard.
They were the type to die fighting rather than show their backs to the enemy. Running away like defeated remnants after losing their spiritual pillar was even further from their way.
Yet, even so, they had no choice but to swallow their tears and leave Winter Castle behind.
Any more stubbornness here would mean everything they fought to protect would be trampled under orc feet and vanish into nothingness.
Forcing their reluctant feet to move, the Ballerhard soldiers and reinforcements turned their backs on the castle.
The orcs that had breached the north gate pursued them closely.
At this rate, they were bound to suffer heavy casualties.
That was when the Silver Fox Mercenaries stepped up.
"This way!"
The Silver Fox Mercenaries had already secured an escape route.
The moment Winter Castle's forces exited the fortress, they set fire to the south gate. Oil jars, hidden who-knows-when, exploded one after another, creating a wall of flames.
The orcs charging toward the gate roared ferociously from beyond the blaze. Some lost their tempers and charged through the fire, but the Silver Fox archers waiting in ambush took them all down.
"This won't hold them for long! Hurry, please!"
The Silver Fox captain urged the men who were staring back at the castle in dismay.
As he said, the orcs soon broke through the flames and caught up to the retreating forces.
Each time, the preparations made by the Silver Fox Mercenaries proved their worth.
They had set traps at key points along the path beforehand, and the orcs that chased right up to them repeatedly lost sight of Winter Castle's soldiers just within reach.
Of course, the traps were crude, hastily prepared affairs, and the ambushing forces were few in number, so they couldn't delay the orcs for long.
Still, thanks to them, Winter Castle's troops managed to regroup.
"How on earth did you prepare all this?"
Vincent Ballerhard asked, his face haggard. The Silver Fox captain, Antuan, glanced toward the wagons and replied.
"His Highness the First Prince instructed us the day before the outbreak."
At his words, everyone turned to look at the wagons.
A wagon surrounded by about twenty swordsmen cloaked in mantles. Inside lay a woman with tear stains all over her face and a boy who hadn't stirred at all.
It was the First Prince and Adelia Bayern, carried in covered in blood on the day of the final battle.
The battle had ended three days ago, yet the First Prince remained unconscious.
The numerous major and minor wounds from his fight with the Warlord were bad enough, but his mana was completely depleted as well.
Without rushing to a safe place for treatment, his condition could become irreversible.
But unfortunately, their desperate flight had only just begun. The orcs pursued with relentless tenacity, and the Silver Foxes' pre-set traps were quickly exhausted.
By the end of the first week of retreat, some of the retreating forces had no choice but to turn back and hold off the orcs.
Arwen Kirguyen shone brightest in those efforts.
With the lord lost and the castle fallen, morale crushed, she stepped up in place of Winter Castle's broken command structure, backed by the Silver Foxes.
She fought without regard for danger, saving countless lives. Commanding the mercenaries with seasoned skill, she struck at the right moments, repelling every orc pursuit unit.
Yet despite her and the Silver Foxes' heroics, their march remained grueling and slow. In the bitter cold, they grew ever more exhausted.
If the rangers sent south ahead with the news hadn't returned to report that the central nobles were massing a major defense line, their morale would have hit rock bottom.
They pressed on. And at last, they reached the secondary defense line where central forces had gathered.
Once they reached the rear, they could regroup and fight again. Though the castle was lost, they still had 3,500 troops. Combined with the central forces, they could slaughter the orcs that crushed Ballerhard.
That was what they believed.
But it was a delusion.
When they arrived at the defense line laid by central nobles, forty kilometers from the Shurtol family's northern border, they were struck with genuine fury.
"This is what they call the combined forces of the five houses?"
Vincent said in disbelief.
They had warned of the crisis and requested aid months ago. Even as Winter Castle fell, they sent messengers ahead to prepare for the monster army.
Yet the central region that greeted them showed no signs of war preparations.
The palisades were flimsy, the soldiers' gear shoddy. Banners emblazoned with house sigils fluttered ostentatiously, but no elite troops—the true backbone of any house—were in sight.
The allied soldiers staring at them in fear looked no better than peasants.
At least the troops under the Shurtol banner were somewhat decently armed. But even they seemed woefully inadequate against the fierce orcs.
"Your Highness!"
As Ballerhard's survivors neared the palisades, nobles came waddling out from within.
They immediately checked on Maximilian's well-being, thanking the gods repeatedly for his safety. They also offered condolences to the new Count of Ballerhard, Vincent.
Not one asked after the First Prince.
"My brother is in critical condition."
Unable to stand it any longer, Maximilian spoke up about his brother's state and requested aid. Only then did the nobles swarm over, inquiring after the First Prince with feigned concern.
But none truly cared about his dire state.
Maximilian had seen it clearly.
The fleeting disgust that crossed their faces.
They seemed to think Ballerhard's fall was the boy's fault. No doubt blaming some wastrel scheme for toppling a once-solid Ballerhard.
Something boiled up inside Maximilian.
The man who vowed to return with the enemy leader's head had secretly prepared for failure. His mindset must have been like one digging his own grave and preparing his coffin.
Fearful. Desolate.
Even then, his brother had silently done what needed doing. The escape routes, ambushes, countless contingencies he'd prepared in secret. Thanks to them, so many soldiers survived to reach this place.
All of it, the achievements of the First Prince these people regarded like a plague carrier, a seed of calamity.
Grab.
Erhim Kiringer held back Maximilian as he surged forward in anger. Seeing the Iron Lion shake his head, Maximilian quelled his rage.
This wasn't the time for emotions. Uniting these people to overcome the crisis came first.
But it was no easy task.
The five lords had sent about 3,200 troops to the line—not an insignificant number, but the quality was the problem. Excluding 400 elite infantry from Count Shurtol's domain, the rest were poorly trained conscripts.
The only knights were the twenty or so escorting the lords or their proxies.
The future looked bleak.
His head ached at the thought of these ragtag mobs—who'd flee at the mere sight of orcs—holding back that horrific horde.
"We're pouring every available fund into recruiting mercenaries. Just give us a little time."
The one consolation was Count Shurtol's report that he was sparing no expense to muster as many mercenaries as possible.
Unlike the central nobles still failing to grasp the situation even now, Bert Shurtol was a man of foresight.
He provided Ballerhard's survivors with every material and moral support possible for rest.
But sadly, time was not on their side.
Reports came of orcs sighted here and there along the central region's northernmost borders. The startled lords hastily split their forces and scattered in all directions.
Maximilian prepared to lead troops out as well. The nobles begged him to join the sorties.
"We have too many wounded to join combat immediately. We'll regroup as quickly as possible and prepare for battle."
But Erhim Kiringer stepped forward first, firmly declaring they couldn't participate. Though Maximilian tried to correct him several times, the loyal knight—for some reason—silenced the prince before he could speak.
Vincent Ballerhard also stated they needed time to regroup and declined to join.
In the end, the orcs appearing at the central borders would be handled by the allied forces alone.
"They're just trying to use us. Do soldiers fresh from the jaws of death need to die for them?"
After the meeting, as the prince pressed him, Erhim calmly explained.
"Besides, we can't stop the orcs in this state. Even if it means some losses, we must make the lords face this crisis squarely."
Maximilian couldn't argue with Erhim's words that some sacrifice was necessary for the greater goal. Even to the young prince, the central nobles hadn't woken up yet.
Of course, he couldn't fully accept it either.
Innocent deaths couldn't be justified by any reason.
Yet Maximilian didn't insist, because he knew firsthand how horrific and tenacious the orcs were.
If those savage beasts spread across the kingdom, it would be a catastrophe beyond catastrophe.
"By the way, Sir Erhim."
Maximilian called out to Erhim with a sigh.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Whose idea was that?"
Erhim smiled faintly.
"You already know."
"I see."
"Is there anything else I haven't told you?"
"Not for now."
At the meaningful words, Maximilian sighed.
"When will brother finally wake up?"
Unsettled by the inevitable sacrifices ahead, he turned his thoughts to his comatose brother.
**
The shoddy palisades were abandoned as the central lords' troops scattered. Only Count Shurtol's soldiers remained, their territory right behind.
Ballerhard's survivors and the Silver Foxes tended wounds great and small at the flimsy barricade, preparing to fight again.
In the meantime, a messenger from the capital arrived after receiving word. Through him, they learned the royals and nobles planned to dispatch additional reinforcements.
Maximilian could never forget Vincent Ballerhard's expression upon hearing it.
His face twisted like a vengeful ghost, eyes clenched shut, etched with deep sorrow and fury.
Winter Castle's troops, already subdued and grim since that day, grew utterly feral afterward.
Their menace was so intense that even Shurtol's soldiers dared not approach.
Maximilian sighed at the sight.
Because the royals dawdled, because the central nobles failed to grasp the gravity, precious talents the kingdom sorely needed had died in droves.
One Silver Lion perished, knights fearless of death fell pointlessly. Brave rangers and soldiers became corpses.
The centuries of devotion and sacrifice they showed were cast into the gutter.
How much had the kingdom already lost... and how much more would it lose?
The thought made him dizzy.
"Giern Count's forces annihilated!"
Defeat after defeat poured in from central lords everywhere. Not mere losses, but near-total massacres leaving few survivors.
Five of the six domains adjacent to Ballerhard lay in ruins. And the damage was multiplying exponentially.
Word came that the central army had formed a secondary blocking line along the Raintes River, which crossed the relatively rear central region. Reinforcements marching north had turned back to that line.
"His Majesty advises the Second Prince and Count Ballerhard to also withdraw to the secondary line."
At the messenger's words, Count Shurtol paled.
It amounted to the kingdom abandoning the six great domains bordering Ballerhard and a dozen smaller ones.
"Shortening the front along the Raintes and concentrating forces isn't a bad tactical choice. The problem is that everything north of the river becomes orc fodder."
Count Shurtol slumped to the ground at Erhim Kiringer's confirmation.
"We should have sent troops no matter what anyone said..."
Maximilian clenched his eyes shut.
It was like using a scythe to fix what a hoe could have handled—Winter Castle's fall weighed heavier than ever.
The central nobles belatedly clung to Winter Castle's survivors. They wanted at least them to fight alongside.
It was selfish to the core, a shallow ploy.
"When Ballerhard asked for help, who here took that hand?"
The nobles quailed at Vincent's icy voice and turned to cling to Maximilian instead.
"Y-Your Highness! In our ignorance, we committed a grave error! Give us this chance, and we'll shatter our bones to secure the north! Lead us foolish ones, please!"
Maximilian's heart was a tangle as he watched them grovel desperately on the ground.
Their clamor before the disaster they brought upon themselves was both pathetic and pitiable.
"Disgusting bastards."
"Y-Your Highness?"
The nobles gaped at the curse from the famously mild-mannered prince.
Clap, clap, clap.
Applause rang out from somewhere.
"Well said, refreshingly so."
Turning, they saw a boy standing, supported by a woman who looked like a handmaiden.
Vincent, Maximilian, everyone shot to their feet as one upon spotting the boy.
"Y-Your Highness!"
The boy—the First Prince—waved them off casually. His gaze turned to the nobles.
Deep-set eyes burned with wrath.
"Just the scum I wanted to see, all gathered here."