Blood Battle
It had not been a life to be particularly proud of.
Yet neither had it been so wretched that he could not hold his head high wherever he went.
He had done what needed doing and refrained from what should not be done.
Loyalty to the king. Respect to his vassals. Mercy to the people.
As one born of noble blood, he had fulfilled his duties to the utmost of his ability. As one who stood above others, he had striven constantly to set an example.
He, too, was a knight, and so his hands had been stained with blood more times than he could count—but he had always done everything in his power to keep them free of the blood of the innocent.
That was why the Duke of Orléans could not surrender.
He could not yield to the self-proclaimed Saintess who had stirred rebellion, nor to the Flame of Benevolence who had abandoned the earth.
He simply could not.
The terrible chaos that had followed the collapse of the Order still burned vivid in his mind—and now they turned their blades upon him?
They who had irresponsibly forsaken the earth for decades now claimed they would punish a king who was merely incompetent?
Now, of all times, these people who had no right whatsoever.
It was not that his faith had withered.
It was simply that his sense of duty as a noble ran a little deeper.
It will be decided soon enough.
So, O Goddess, please forgive this blasphemous old man.
These aged knees of mine are far too frail to kneel so readily.
“Hear me, knights of France—foremost among all knights—who have sworn eternal loyalty under the strictest of codes! Today we shall take that fortress where evil lurks, quell the chaos of the kingdom, and restore order!”
The Duke of Orléans mounted his horse.
The knights who heard his voice nodded and mounted as well.
The hour of decision had come.
A familiar ceiling.
Stone slabs utterly devoid of any trace of elegance, supported by a lattice of wooden beams beneath them.
It was the quarters in Clermont-Ferrand Fortress where she had been staying these past few days.
But why am I lying here?
“Saintess! Are you coming to your senses?”
Rebecca’s eyes were brimming with tears; Asty ignored her for the moment and lifted her head just enough to check the window.
The sun was low.
Has quite a bit of time passed?
Strange. There’s no way I would have slept this late.
She lay still and carefully retraced her memories.
First… she had proposed a parley to the Duke of Orléans.
They would surely be blinded by the title of Saintess and lower their guard; she had meant to exploit that opening, eliminate the duke who headed the royalist faction, and shatter the suppression army.
But that mad old man had been thinking the exact same thing.
So before they could even carry out the decapitation strike, the meeting hall had exploded, and Arturo and Count Montpellier had been badly wounded.
Fortunately she herself had survived thanks to Rebecca’s protection, but the duke’s escorts and the knights waiting near the hall had come running and surrounded them.
In that situation she had flapped her mouth however she could, trying to break the encirclement, and as a last resort she had used Divine Power—
“Ah.”
She remembered. A low-level scrub trying to mimic an ultimate skill and collapsing on the spot.
And it hadn’t even been an attack skill. She had just conjured a decorative flame for intimidation, run out of stamina, and fainted. She was too embarrassed to lift her head.
“…How long have I been lying here?”
She pulled the blanket up over her flushed face and asked how much time had passed.
The atmosphere still seemed peaceful, so the day probably hadn’t ended yet—but her predictions weren’t always right.
“About half a day, Saintess. I’m so glad you’ve woken safely…”
Hmm. At least this one didn’t go wrong.
The decapitation operation had failed for a reason she never saw coming, and her confidence had plummeted; the fact that this prediction held restored a little of it.
Only a little, compared to how much she had lost.
“Is everyone else all right?”
Next to surface in her mind was the well-being of the other two who had accompanied her to the talks.
Count Montpellier and Arturo Paleheart.
When the Duke of Orléans had blown up the meeting hall with that grim resolve, those two had been caught in the blast as well, hadn’t they?
She herself had come through without a scratch thanks to Rebecca, but the two of them must have been in pieces.
There were limits even to wounds Divine Power could heal; they might have lost a limb or two.
Or they might have died before Rebecca could even treat them.
“Yes. Count Montpellier suffered only light external injuries and was fully healed with little trouble, and Sir Arturo regained consciousness sooner than expected. Both of them will recover their combat strength quickly if they simply rest properly.”
They’re fine?
Why are they fine?
She had seen with her own eyes how badly they were hurt and how they were barely hanging on.
Arturo had even been knocked out by the explosion and still woke up before her. Maybe they should reclassify his species from human to zombie.
“I’m glad they’re safe.”
Still, knowing both of them were all right put her mind at ease.
Her own skill was still so lacking that she hadn’t even been able to heal Arisa’s eyes; if Arturo had died here, Arisa would never again have seen her brother’s face.
Just because this was a battlefield did not make the weight of death any lighter.
She did not want to deliver news of the death of a girl’s only remaining family when that girl had not even finished overcoming the fall of her house.
…Honestly, she wouldn’t have minded much if Count Montpellier had died, but he was still valuable combat power, so she would call it fortunate that he was unharmed.
She doubted the count’s son possessed the same shrewd ability as his father.
Thomas Montpellier, the count’s eldest son, was not a man who could bear the throne of this country.
He was diligent enough, but far too orthodox—or rather, simple-minded—to serve as the founding monarch of a nation that still needed to be stabilized. He might have been fine as the heir of an already settled kingdom, but that was all.
“Saintess, this is urgent! The enemy has begun to move!”
See? Even now he’s panicking at the enemy’s bluff and running around in a fluster.
The basics of a siege were thorough preparation and at least a threefold numerical advantage.
A castle itself was an architectural structure designed to inflict suffering on the enemy; taking one required considerable time and effort.
And yet they were already launching an assault.
Clermont-Ferrand Fortress might be a little rundown, but it was not so flimsy that it would fall overnight.
These were troops who had rushed out in a hurry to suppress a rebellion without so much as a single catapult; the fortress was not the sort of place they could simply ram with bare bodies.
“It’s true! Father said we must bring the Saintess no matter what—”
But why is this kid so persistent?
The fact that he was even invoking Count Montpellier suggested the story wasn’t completely baseless. Maybe if she went and showed her face once, he would quiet down.
“Absolutely not. The Saintess still needs to rest—”
“All right. I’ll go right away.”
“Saintess?!”
She was sorry, but she had no choice but to ignore Rebecca’s concern.
In a world where miracles and magic were accepted as common sense, fainting from overuse of Divine Power might be considered a serious problem—but from her perspective it just felt like she had collapsed from overwork, taken a nap, and woken up again.
It wasn’t as if she had suffered some life-threatening injury where simply being alive was a miracle. Telling her to abandon her duties and rest just because she had collapsed while working was nonsense.
“I’m fine. Probably nothing serious will happen. But if you’re still worried, you can carry me.”
“…”
She grinned shamelessly and spread both arms.
Rebecca made a slightly awkward face for a moment, then sighed as if she had no choice and scooped her up.
“Eep.”
I didn’t actually mean for her to carry me.
And this isn’t even a piggyback—this is a princess carry.
Being carried in this pose by a girl who was still school-age… this was the greatest humiliation of Cheon Si-jun’s life.
“Let’s go. If it turns out to be nothing, I’ll kill him.”
Whether she knew Asty was writhing in indescribable shame or not, Rebecca left the room with an impassive expression.
I think I just heard her say she’d kill Count Montpellier’s son. At this rate we’re going to self-destruct from internal strife before the royalists even get us.
I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. Asty is a baby. Baby knows nothing. Waaah.
“Father. I have brought the Saintess.”
“Good. Fortunately you returned before it was too late.”
Carried in Rebecca’s arms all the way up onto the walls, they were greeted by Count Montpellier, a bandage wrapped around his shoulder and a grave expression on his face.
“I apologize for disturbing your rest, Saintess. The situation is urgent; I beg you to forgive my discourtesy.”
He did not look their way.
Even as he asked her forgiveness for summoning her so suddenly, his gaze remained fixed on the distant encampment of the suppression army.
Something really has happened, then.
Following the count’s line of sight to the enemy camp, she saw long spears gathering in one place.
Knights in gleaming armor were mounting their horses one by one as well.
They’re actually going to attack? The sun will set soon, and they’re going to smash their heads against the walls without a single siege engine?
And why are those knights coming this way? Defection? Or suicide applicants?
Where have I seen that blue field with the yellow fleur-de-lis before?
“…The Duke of Orléans?”
The knights began to gallop.
Dozens of warhorses pounded the ground with savage force, racing across the battlefield, and dust rose in a mad cloud as if someone were driving recklessly across the wasteland.
Asty froze, unable to speak at the bizarre spectacle, while Count Montpellier merely muttered something incomprehensible—“The Royal Knights, the White Lions, and the Unicorns, is it?”
“What.”
What in the world are they trying to do?
She could not understand it.
She did not want to understand it.
Yet watching the knights’ frenzied charge, she had no choice but to understand whether she liked it or not.
What their goal was.
And what result their charge would produce.
“Glory to France! Glory to His Majesty the King!”
The duke raised his lance.
““The yellow fleur-de-lis shall never wither!””
The knights raised their lances as well.
Not the ordinary spears used by foot soldiers, but conical lances forged for cavalry.
And so the knights who had gone mad slammed headlong into the gate without the slightest hesitation,
“Crazy.”
and they did it.
In the distance, the soldiers of the suppression army began to pour forward in a roaring mass.