Chapter 76
Chapter 76
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 76
Chapter Title: Not One, But Many (1)
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Emerging from the midst of the elves and reaching the Warlord felt utterly natural—no one could stop him, nor did anyone even think to try.
"What are you all standing around for like idiots!"
Had the First Prince not loudly commanded the troops across the river to join forces, the soldiers would have stared blankly at the scene for much longer.
The Second Prince bellowed that if he didn't want to abandon the northern soldiers again, he needed to shake it off and advance immediately.
His roar, far too mighty for his age, overwhelmed the central lords and commanders.
The problem was the exhausted troops.
They might hold the line, but pushing forward was impossible.
In response to the commander's words, the Second Prince said,
"The orcs pushed back by the northern reinforcements will turn this way. If they do, we can't stop them with our current forces."
They were barely holding on as it was—if more enemies poured in, annihilation was inevitable. Knowing the situation didn't magically provide a solution.
"Pull back the Silver Lion and the other knights. I'll handle this place."
The First Prince spoke as if he knew their dilemma.
Of course, it was hard to accept easily.
Only after the Silver Lion led 150 knights forward had they finally drawn the monster's attention. If they withdrew the knights on just his word, that horrific beast would rampage freely across the battlefield.
Right then, the elves boldly took positions beside the First Prince.
Just nineteen of them had crossed through the heart of the orc horde to guide him.
"They should more than make up for it compared to before."
The Silver Lion declared that those nineteen possessed the might of an entire knight order.
The deliberation was long, but the action swift.
The survivors of the Iron Chain Knight Order and the remaining knights began systematically cutting down the orcs.
The chaotic melee sorted itself in an instant.
"Form ranks! Advance!"
"Ha!"
The soldiers pushed forward.
Maximilian stood at the forefront.
"Forward! Keep pushing!"
A noble scion of the royal bloodline, heedless of his own safety, urging the troops from the vanguard. The embers of morale, thought extinguished beyond rekindling, reignited.
Sasasasak.
Occasional volleys of arrows from across the river rained down on the orcs' backs.
"It's Ballerhard's Rangers!"
Winter Castle's elites had already formed ranks across the river, loosing arrows. Their voices echoed like hallucinations in the ears: You are not alone.
"Iron Maces! Fire!"
Count Branburt himself stepped up to command the Iron Mace Archers. At their lord's order, the archers responded with vigor and unleashed a volley at the orcs. Arrows bloomed in necks and napes, felling orcs in droves.
But the orcs had long since become fearless, pain-forgotten monsters.
Arrows piercing their backs or spears lodging in their skulls—they ignored it all. They rampaged wildly, eyes fixed only ahead.
The fragile spark of hope crumbled all too easily before that madness.
"The infantry can't keep up with the knights!"
No matter how fiercely the knights fought, the front line refused to budge.
Overextended knights became isolated in the enemy ranks, shredded into unrecognizable pulp by orc spears and axes. Fatigued soldiers were grabbed by the collar mid-fight and dragged into the horde.
At this rate, their own forces would be slaughtered before they could advance the line.
Bwooooooo!
Then the horn blared across the field.
Bwooooooo!
The reinforcements across the river answered with a thunderous battle hymn.
Count Richter Lichtain and the knights widened their eyes.
The reinforcements' morale soared in an instant, palpable as if tangible.
Bwooooooo!
The horn sounded again, louder. The hymn from across the river swelled even more.
Grrr.
In that moment, a change rippled through the orcs.
The berserkers, raging like frenzied warriors since their king's arrival, began uttering suppressed groans. Their madness-filled eyes wavered uncertainly.
The Warlord roared.
As if on cue, the First Prince blew a long note on his horn. The elves clashed their blades together, humming an eerie, unknown melody in clear voices. The monster's horrific bellow drowned in the tune and trumpet, reduced to a hollow echo.
From that point, the tide turned dramatically.
The madness fully ebbed from the orcs' eyes.
The undying berserkers were no more.
An orc turned at the thud of an arrow in a clansman's skull beside it. Cracks formed in the orcs' tight formation.
Front-line orcs fought ferociously, but the second rank kept glancing back.
"Now! Push them!"
The commander seized the moment and shouted.
"Ha!"
Knights and infantry stamped forward as one, shoving the orcs back.
"Ranks! Shove!"
"Ha!"
Count Richter Lichtain matched the officers' calls, stomping and swinging his sword. Dozens of spears sprouted beside him, turning orcs into pincushions.
Whiiiish!
Iron maces launched arrows arcing over the orcs' heads.
"Their front line's broken!"
Until now, only allied lines had crumbled. Elated by the orcs' first collapse, soldiers thrust spears with renewed fury.
"Knights, charge!"
"Waaaaah!"
Whose command it was, none knew—the knights bellowed from their guts and burst from the ranks.
Plunging into the shattered orc lines, they danced a deadly waltz. Orcs toppled in seconds.
"Hup!"
Count Richter Lichtain shook off his blade vigorously and fell back.
No more was possible. Mana flow had ceased.
The energy invading his body during the monster fight clung to his rings, blocking mana circulation. He needed time to withdraw and regulate it.
Fortunately, the battle had turned enough that one more stepping back wouldn't matter.
Moments ago, they'd braced for a last stand.
The situation shifted too rapidly to follow.
The Warlord's monstrous power, the sudden northern reinforcements—nothing was predictable.
And who could have imagined the savior leading them was the Leonberger firstborn, branded the kingdom's disgrace?
Count Richter Lichtain withdrew from the front and surveyed the rear.
The monster that could upend the field if unleashed was pinned by the First Prince and nineteen elves, unable to budge.
Bwooooooo.
The First Prince blew the horn fiercely, slipping between elves to thrust his sword.
That wastrel beyond saving?
Had the kingdom's elite gone collectively blind?
Richter Lichtain let out a hollow chuckle, eyes tracking the First Prince.
Grraaaah.
The elves' sword auras barely pierced the red energy cloaking the monster like armor. Occasional breakthroughs left mere scratches on its hide.
Only the First Prince's sword churned through the red aura, carving deep gashes into the beast's flesh. The Warlord, aware of it, guarded more against that single blade than the nineteen from the elves.
It was unbelievable, even watching it.
Aura blades barely wounded it; even the finest central elite knights couldn't breach the red aura at all.
Yet a boy not even past his coming-of-age rite was achieving the impossible.
No—not impossible for everyone, strictly speaking.
The late Count Ballerhard had pierced the aura, wounded it deeply—even severed an arm. Alone, without aid.
"What Silver Lion, what kingdom's greatest swordmaster?"
Recalling his praise of the late count before nobles filled him with shame.
Richter Lichtain berated his own arrogance.
This shame wasn't his alone.
Count Branburt had prided his Iron Mace Archers as rivals to Ballerhard's Rangers.
An illusion.
Ballerhard's Rangers numbered barely a hundred. Yet that scant force utterly dominated the orcs.
At range, bows and crossbows; up close, swords. When needed, shields to shove orcs back.
Each skill rivaled the central lords' boasted elites.
Archery surpassing even Iron Maces; swordplay swifter and fiercer than most spearmen. With shields, sturdier than any heavy infantry he'd seen.
And their morale—sky-high.
Not once had they ceased their battle hymn since the fight began.
The northern knights were the same.
Fewer than a hundred, yet they sang ceaselessly, spurring the infantry.
At their center: the First Prince.
What meaning lay in his constant horn-blowing amid battling the monster? Richter couldn't fathom it.
One certainty: each blast stirred the northern army's morale to frenzy.
When it peaked to the heavens, the orcs were no longer savage beasts.
They were bloodied, groaning remnants.
All that remained was reclaiming the blood price.
* * *
The first thing I saw was its bare shoulder. The instant I spotted the void where something should have been, my uncle's final moments flashed in my mind.
Strutting so proudly, yet you managed to sever the monster's arm.
Knowing my uncle, left alone in enemy lines, hadn't gone in vain made my chest tighten.
And relief washed over me too. He'd left a share for me.
Grr.
The Warlord growled low, displeased.
Its blood-maddened eyes, pupils dilated to the brink, fixed on me squarely.
The emotion rippling in those red orbs was startlingly familiar.
Loss and rage over something forfeited to hubris—like gazing in a mirror.
Our feelings toward each other were so alike it was laughable.
Even the murderous intent to tear the other apart matched eerily.
The difference? This encounter was coincidence for it, inevitability for me.
I asked the Warlord,
The Warlord snorted and gripped its spear, face saying my question meant nothing.
I asked it again.
It had been breathing low, spear poised to thrust—yet it flinched and glanced around. I followed its gaze.
Humans bolstered by reinforcements squeezed out their last strength. Elves with cloaks billowing aided the human lines. Across the river, another human army savagely hammered the orcs.
The Warlord's unstoppable horde was crumbling under attacks from all sides.
Its face hardened like stone as it glared at me.
It finally grasped my intent.
But too late.
Hubris and overconfidence had doomed it. Drunk on successive victories.
How laughable human resistance must have seemed.
I could picture it: the thrill of crushing humans, toppling castles and cities, its excitement palpable as it escaped barren northern wastes for the bountiful south—its kingdom to be.
It had assumed the defensive line would shatter as easily as before.
Blind to its forces melting away.
I posed the question once more.
The Warlord glared, then spoke.
"I was born king, and king I shall remain."
⟨ Tyrant's Ode ⟩
The first answer not a beastly roar, but words.
A voice devoid of even the slightest tremor.
I merely sneered.
Mockery of the arrogant emerald-green sovereign—and self-derision at my own foolishness.
In the past, I achieved countless feats,
yet none were truly mine.
I am the sword-king who never sat the throne,
the darkest shadow, wretchedly cast into the gutters.
Only now resolving to reclaim it all—a fool awakened.
"I am the usurper."
⟨ Epic of Extraordinary Rank: Ode of the Tyrant King ⟩
Disgust at the incompetent perched on a throne of dragon bone,
hatred for the lord who abandoned his most loyal, bravest men,
wrath at the warlord who stole what was mine.
This insight gained carted off in ignominy,
my first poem forged not from karma, but will.
The twilight flames clinging and burning froze solid.
Flames like cerulean deepened to abyssal navy.
Grraaaaaah!
The Warlord bellowed savagely.
The red aura on its spearblade surged, as if to crush the world.
The sword maidens' ceaseless humming halted. Their fluid dance faltered.
The sword maidens withdrew as one.
The sword captain gestured urgently to me.
I glanced at her frantic hands, then turned away.
I focused solely on the bone-chilling cold from my fingertips, freezing even the soul.
How long since I'd felt this?
Now, at last, I felt whole.
This chill mirrored my essence, born of frozen wastes.
Grraaaaaah!
The Warlord's killing intent targeted only me.
A desperate assault, as if slaying me alone would end the battle.
But it had forgotten.
My will was not mine alone, nor was this battle.
Whuuuump!
A dull whoosh—not quite a whistle—sounded. A projectile from the fully assembled siege weapons across the river.
"Black Spear Cavalry!"
Under the falling steel rain, one-eyed knights charged.
"Charge!"
Knights gathered life's mana at spear tips, ramming the red aura.
A reckless charge that would have been futile against the Warlord's malice.
But I refused to lose them helplessly as before.
"Cleaving dragon scales no fine blade can breach, drinking its searing blood."
⟨ Dragon Slayer Ode ⟩
Epic of extraordinary rank, war ode,
overlaid with a mythic epic.
Heart tearing, soul scattering agony blurred the world.
In that haze, only the steel-blue glow of my blade's trajectory shone vivid.
The steel-blue line sliced the red aura's core. And the crimson sea parted.