Blood Battle
"Glory to France! Glory to His Majesty the King!"
"The yellow lily shall never wither!"
Crazy bastards.
Those conscience-less, common-sense-less human weapons.
Those rock-headed idiots who don't even know what a siege is.
Breaking a castle gate with a lance charge? Are you out of your minds? Do you think you're human missiles?
No matter how I looked at it, this made no sense.
Fine—knights shattering a gate with a lance charge. Mana exists in this world, so maybe I could swallow that much. It still violated every scrap of common sense I possessed, but this was another world, so whatever. I'd allow it.
But then what kind of absolute moron would pour massive amounts of time and money into building fortresses in the first place? Spaghetti code all over again?
"The Duke of Orléans has thrown down the gauntlet. Mobilizing the Royal Knights and every powerhouse from the north to recreate the mounted siege tactics of fifty years ago… It seems this place will be both the first and last battlefield of this war."
Ah, right. So it wasn't exactly a common tactic.
It would have been really nice if you'd mentioned that before the gate got smashed. My deepest thanks for the one-step-too-late information sharing.
"I will pull every soldier back into the inner keep and request aid from the Counts of Marseille and Bordeaux. Saintess, please gather the panicking troops and withdraw outside the walls."
"No. I'm staying here."
I firmly rejected Count Montpellier's order.
Considering he held command authority on the battlefield, this was outright insubordination. But the entire premise of our strategy had already collapsed—so who cared?
Every plan I had handed him had crumbled the moment the gate was breached. From here on, everything would have to be handled by pure improvisation.
"If we hand over Clermont-Ferrand Fortress, a salient will form right in the middle of the front line. The enemy cohesion we worked so hard to shake will recover enough to continue the war, and our side—having lost a strategic strongpoint—will be forced onto the true defensive."
We could not retreat from this place.
Unlike the delusion I had carefully planted in the royalist nobles, our army was not prepared for a prolonged war. We lacked the manpower and supplies to drag a conflict out for years or decades, and the Italian lords would never welcome a drawn-out campaign.
They had half-volunteered their elite troops for free, seduced by the banner of a holy war and the Saintess's free health checkups. The moment their men and war chests started getting ground down in a war with nothing to gain, they would pull out without hesitation.
Southern French independence alone was equally impossible. Setting aside the fact that it would make founding the Bene-Lux Holy Kingdom impossible, the southern lords had only been dragged into this rebellion by my coercion, riding the authority of faith. They would never agree to a secession that benefited only Count Montpellier. Even if we somehow forced independence through, few lords would swear loyalty to a half-baked kingdom.
Unless we wanted to fight yet another civil war inside a split nation, we had to crush the royalists and distribute rewards to the nobles who had joined the revolt.
"Bring up the forces you've stationed nearby as well. Even if the fortress falls, striking their main camp will force them to withdraw."
"Then, Saintess, you too…"
Therefore we could not run.
And Count Montpellier was not included in that "we."
So I shook my head once more.
"No, Count. You already know, don't you?"
If one of us had to die here, I was far better suited for the role than you.
"Hurry and gather the soldiers, then get out of the fortress. And if possible, strike the suppression army's main force so they cannot approach the walls—buy us time."
The reason was simple.
Count Montpellier had too many enemies. Even if he died on this spot, he could never become a martyr.
But a Saintess of the Order who had displayed divine power before every eye would most certainly become one.
Even if we fled now, without carving up their knightly strength we would only face a second battle under worse conditions. If the reserves marched north and forced the lords of the suppression army to retreat while I suicide-charged and killed the Duke of Orléans, Count Montpellier could ride the name of the martyred Saintess and grind the royalists to dust.
In theory, at least.
"…O Flame of Benevolence, please grant a miracle to your representative."
What the hell is this old man suddenly babbling about? If you've got time to pray, go swing a sword.
"Hah. Finally a little quieter."
Not that it was actually quiet. People were dying in every direction—how could it be anything but chaotic?
The Duke of Orléans and his knights, having smashed through the gate, were indiscriminately cutting down our men, while in the distance the main body of the suppression army was closing in. I had never expected the luxury of calmly collecting my thoughts.
It simply meant that the hesitation still clouding my head had finally vanished.
"The nuisances are gone, so let's just focus on our own work."
A laugh slipped out.
For the first time since falling into this world, a real laugh—not a façade, not bluster.
"This is the worst possible situation. Those lunatics on the other side started the siege by smashing the gate before it even began, the soldiers' morale is in the gutter after what happened at the talks earlier, I just personally cleared out Count Montpellier and his knights, and I already sent the support that might have been our last hope somewhere else."
"Saintess."
"What will you do? Not as the Order's Lantern Bearer trained to obey orders, but as a human being with free will."
I calmly laid out the reality we faced.
We were fucked. I had made us even more fucked. And if you stayed with me, you would be fucked too.
I deliberately spelled out facts she already knew in meticulous detail.
"From the day an abandoned child was taken in by the Order's mercy, this body has existed solely to devote itself to the Flame of Benevolence. If the Saintess commands it, I will gladly obey. Please do not test me with such words."
Yet Rebecca only shook her head with an impassive face.
Exactly the reaction I had expected.
And the answer I least wanted to hear.
Why walk that path of thorns? I had seen countless moths burn to death at the end of it. I myself had burned out that way and fallen here.
"Why are you saying it's fine? Why? You should be stopping me, calling it reckless! You should refuse!"
Old, still-cold memories surged up and made my chest tighten, yet at the same time I felt disgust at myself for deliberately voicing a question whose answer I already knew.
"Because I want to. This is something I choose of my own will, so you need not concern yourself."
Yeah. I figured you'd answer like that.
My previous self had said the same thing. Without even understanding how terrifying those words were, I had swaggered straight into the fire, only to lose the person I loved most and realize too late that I no longer even had the right to resent anyone—and then I had despaired.
"In that case."
I'll teach you.
I'll teach you that blind devotion can sometimes be toxic. That there are things more valuable than admiration for someone or faith in something. I'll make you happy enough that you can live without clinging to faith.
So that at least you can escape this cycle.
"Will you die for me?"
So for now, I'll borrow the method of that senior I both loved and hated. Become a flame brighter than anyone else, and take everything from those who fall under my spell.
"If the Saintess desires it, as many times as needed."
Good.
With that, every preparation was complete.
I beamed and flicked Rebecca on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Why would your big sister die? If it looks dangerous I'll run right away, so stick close to me."
I had not the slightest intention of making this fortress my grave. I still had a mountain of plans left unrealized—throwing my life away just to kill one feudal noble would be pure stupidity.
In front of Count Montpellier I had worn the resolute face of someone prepared to die, but that had only been an act to put the future King of France in my debt. If I failed to eliminate the Duke of Orléans here, we would rejoin the Count under the story that "Rebecca, unable to bear watching the Saintess martyr herself, rescued me at the critical moment."
Not that I expected to fail.
"Damn it. Getting stuck with some crazy bitch—what the hell am I even doing?"
"S-Saintess? Why are you suddenly taking off your—"
Of course a high success rate didn't automatically make it a good plan, so I grumbled under my breath as I stripped off the nun's habit. For the record, yes, I was cursing Vesta just now. Forcibly reincarnating someone who had been nicely dead—she deserved at least this much abuse.
"I only have one habit. I can't let it get smelly. Hold it for me a moment."
I folded the removed habit neatly, entrusted it to Rebecca, and stepped down from the wall onto the battlefield wearing only thin underclothes.
Hundreds of soldiers were already dead or dying under the royalist knights' assault. I offered a brief silent apology, then stripped a leather cuirass from a suitable corpse.
"Remember? Last time we made oil from cotton seeds."
Clutching the armor, I headed for the armory. In one neglected corner of the busy armory sat several wooden barrels no one paid attention to—cottonseed oil I had pressed in bulk every night because I was sick of suffering under pathetic candlelight.
It was toxic, so you couldn't eat it, and the crude production equipment had left all sorts of impurities mixed in, but oil was still oil. It caught fire spectacularly well.
Without hesitation I dunked the armor into the cottonseed oil. Then I scooped oil with my hands and smeared it thoroughly over my arms and legs before pulling the oil-soaked armor onto my body.
"…Saintess. Don't tell me."
"Yes. Exactly that 'don't tell me.'"
Hadn't I just said I would become a flame?
This was the fastest and surest method I knew.