Chapter 77
Chapter 77
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: 25. Not One, But Many (2)
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Time flows slowly.
Shattered fragments of the broken, crimson sea whirl chaotically before my eyes. Some of them brush against my arm, my chest, and my shoulder. A horrific pain scorches my skin like it's burning away, jolting my hazy mind awake.
The blurry world sharpens into focus.
I can see the Warlord.
The fighting spirit that had enveloped his body like armor is gone.
This is the first time I've seen him so defenseless since the battle began. This is my last chance.
I grit my teeth against the pain and grip Dusk tightly.
I desperately wish—no, pray—that this slash reaches where I want it to.
Was that too greedy? Was it impossible from the start for my sword, which has barely reached the Extraordinary realm, to reach the Warlord?
The price for forcing power beyond my level comes faster than expected.
My thrust has only traced half its path when my mana snaps, cut clean.
The True Dragon's Will vanishes like a lie. The chill of the usurper clinging to Dusk melts away rapidly.
Ah...
All that's left is a faint spark of True Soul. In contrast, the Warlord's spear still burns with vigor.
What a cursed turn of events.
We've both lost our power equally, but he's a monster born with the might of Reverse Emanation, while I'm just a frail child.
I knew the phrase "throwing an egg at a rock" was made for times like this.
But I didn't withdraw my sword.
With this meager body I'd trained over the past year,
clinging to the faint spark at Dusk's tip,
I would see this slash through to the end.
The Warlord glares at me.
I grind my teeth at the parched, victorious gleam in his red eyes.
His iron-pillar spear is already closing in on my face.
I twist my body and step forward. I swivel my waist, lowering my stance, but keep my advancing sword on course.
His spear grazes past my chest. The immense force behind it makes my body sway.
But my hand—my sword—keeps pushing forward.
Kwachik.
A heavy sensation of rending flesh reaches my fingertips.
A repulsive resistance, like parting rushing water with an open palm.
And then, that resistance suddenly vanishes.
I look at his face.
What rises on that savage visage isn't smug victory, but bewilderment.
I follow his gaze and turn my head.
A diagonal red line scars his massive shoulder.
The tightly sealed line begins to shift out of alignment. Then, along that line, his shoulder slides away.
Thud.
His shoulder drops free. The hand gripping his spear twitches savagely.
His mouth gapes wide.
Krwaaaargh!
A roar laced with agony and rage erupts from the gap.
And in that instant, time, which had slowed, begins to flow swiftly again.
"For Ballerhard!"
A black shadow flashes past me. Right after it passes, a long rod protrudes from the Warlord's face where nothing had been moments before.
It was the short spear favored by the Black Spear Cavalry for throwing.
Krwaaagh!
The Warlord, with a spear jammed into his eye, lets out a scream of torment.
"For Winter Citadel's silver envoy!"
In that moment, a bold spearman slams into the Warlord's body.
Ihiiing!
Amid a mournful horse's neigh, the Warlord—who'd seemed invincible—topples.
"For Winter Citadel!"
"For the men who fell before the biting wind!"
The Black Spear Cavalry tramples the fallen beast.
Krwarrgh!
He wails. It sounds like a beast in terror, or a child sobbing uncontrollably.
The Black Spear Cavalry dismounts.
They gather flashes of light along their spears and thrust them into the Warlord's body in unison.
The Warlord thrashes.
But without his fighting spirit or arms, his struggles are mere grotesque spasms.
"You damned monster!"
"Die!"
The Black Spear Cavalry stab wildly like madmen.
The Warlord's flesh shreds into rags in an instant.
Kruk.
Yet he still lives. That makes it all the more pathetic.
Stabbed hundreds of times, his legs severed.
And in that state, he's skewered on a spear and hung like a flag.
There is no kingly dignity in that sight.
The one born a king, who wished to die as one, meets his end like this.
The leader of the monsters who breached Winter Citadel,
the monster who claimed countless soldiers' and knights' lives.
My uncle's nemesis dies so pathetically.
"Ah..."
My legs give out.
I collapse to my knees in the sticky pool of blood.
My vision blurs.
Something keeps trying to force its way out through clenched teeth.
I can't hold it back. I let it out.
A handful of jet-black blood,
a measure of joy at finally butchering the brutal Warlord,
a handful of mourning for the fallen who won't return,
a fragment of longing for my uncle and lament for past follies.
Everything pours out from within me.
As the messages flood my ears, I sob.
The moment the Warlord falls, the orcs begin to flee. Nowhere in their turning, running figures is the savage invader who ravaged the North.
They are mere beasts fleeing in terror.
And the hunters do not let the beasts escape freely.
"First Knight Order! With the cavalry, eliminate the surviving orcs!"
At the commander's order, knights and cavalry scatter in all directions.
The rest tend to the wounded, recover the fallen, and clean the battlefield.
"Hm."
Even as they tidy the field, their eyes keep drifting to one spot.
In the center of the battlefield, where the butchered monster's corpse hangs like a flag, five hundred soldiers and knights have gathered.
Ballerhard's troops.
Even as the survivors cheer their final victory over the orcs, they remain silent.
They simply cluster together, backs turned, standing still.
"Shouldn't we go over? I saw His Highness the First Prince was badly wounded too."
One of the lords speaks up, and the others nod.
But no one steps forward toward the Ballerhard men.
Maximilian feels the same.
"Brother..."
After driving the orcs across the bridge and returning, he sees his brother collapsed beside the Warlord's flag-hung corpse, sobbing bitterly. He never imagined it.
His brother, steadfast even as countless died at Winter Citadel. His brother, who planned the enemy's annihilation instead of mourning when he awoke in the North, carted pathetically from the ruined fortress.
He showed anger, but never sorrow.
Yet now, that brother weeps bitterly.
He can't even approach to offer comfort.
No one can.
Except one probationary knight.
Arwen Kirguyen, finishing battlefield cleanup, heads toward the Ballerhard men, clutching a large flag.
She pushes unhesitatingly through them and kneels on one knee before the dazed, seated prince.
"Arwen Kirguyen. Reporting back after fulfilling Your Highness's command."
The knight who brilliantly executed her lord's order—to lure the orcs and remain on the defensive line supporting the Second Prince—reports in detail. "Of the 29 Ballerhard cavalry in the lure operation, all 29 perished. Only I and Young Master Ilai survived."
Why report casualties now, of all times? It makes no sense.
If he could, he'd drag her away right then.
Maximilian looks to the Ballerhard men, hoping someone stops her.
But they neither stop her nor pull her out by force.
"Of Black Spear Cavalry's 19, 7 perished."
"Ballerhard Ranger 2nd Company, 124 men: 43 dead."
"Ballerhard 4th Infantry Company, 198 men: 72 dead."
Instead, they kneel alongside her and report the damages.
This isn't the time, Maximilian thinks. Reporting the dead now is cruel. His brother might break down sobbing again.
But no.
The First Prince, slumped in daze, rises.
"Everyone... you did well."
His voice cracked and hoarse, but he praises the survivors.
"Your Highness. The Warlord's standard."
The knight respectfully offers the massive standard.
The First Prince takes it but does not unfurl it.
"Let's go home."
He grips the pole and says,
"To our fortress."
Before the battlefield is fully cleared, the Northern forces depart the defensive line.
They must divide merits and plan ahead, but with the greatest contributors vanishing suddenly, the lords panic.
The commander urges them to stay and watch developments, but the First Prince refuses.
"I have work to do."
He simply hurries north for important business.
"Brother, I'll come with you."
"No. Return to the capital. You have your own duties."
The First Prince places a hand on Maximilian's shoulder, eyes intense.
He doesn't say what, but Maximilian guesses.
"We'll meet again soon."
Bidding his brother farewell, the First Prince heads north.
Those left behind rack their brains.
"What to do with those who fled mid-battle, ignoring honor."
"I'd love to execute them now, but their houses aren't weak."
"We were equals before, but now we're at a disadvantage."
"To risk our lives and end up like this—truly lamentable."
How to handle the noble deserters and report it? How to recover from the losses?
Heads ache, tasks pile up.
"But we survived and held the line. That's fortunate, no?"
Count Branburt tells the head-clutching commander and nobles. The survivors chuckle wryly in agreement.
The Northern forces leaving the central front head to Ballerhard and finally reach Winter Citadel.
Before the south gate, still bearing scars of the wretched retreat, Vincent Ballerhard and Winter Citadel's men await.
"Your Highness. You've returned."
At Vincent's words, the First Prince nods to a nearby knight.
The knight opens the large chest just behind.
Inside lies the Warlord's mutilated corpse—the orc king who died shrieking in pain and fear.
"They really tore him up. Useless for anything now. And where's one arm?"
Vincent feigns calm, but his eyes tremble wildly.
"One arm was cut by Uncle and went missing somewhere."
Vincent squeezes his eyes shut at the First Prince's words. But he opens them quickly, acting unfazed.
"As expected of Father—he didn't go down easy."
Vincent orders the Warlord's head severed and preserved separately. Soldiers grunt as they carry the chest inside. "You've worked hard. Come in."
But the First Prince doesn't move. Instead, he silently pulls a cloth-wrapped staff from his back and offers it.
"What's this..."
"The Warlord's standard."
The wind blows. The standard, swollen with air, unfurls.
The emblem of the orc kingdom flutters, tattered and faded.
"Looks like I'll never beat Your Highness at flag-taking now."
The First Prince shakes his head and gazes at the ramparts.
"Hang it highest, so everyone can see this flag."
He surveys the surroundings.
"This standard belongs to Ballerhard."
And before the soldiers, he declares.
We fought and won. Victory at last.
At this victory cry, suppressed since the central defensive line,
Winter Citadel's survivors roar in cheers.
"Say it again."
The King frowns.
"His Highness the First Prince refused to return."
The King's frown deepens at the messenger's words.
"Say it again."
The exact same words now drip with thick fury.
The messenger trembles, stealing glances at the King. But he can't skip his duty, so he squeezes his eyes shut and relays the First Prince's message.
"His Highness the First Prince said he will return in due time."