The Key of Destiny (1)
Splurt!
Jeron sliced the neck of a barbarian who had breached the shield wall.
Hot blood sprayed, drenching his face.
At the collapsed section of the castle wall, allies and enemies clung to one another, hacking and stabbing in a desperate frenzy.
It was nothing like the grand, cinematic battles shown in movies.
It looked more like a tedious, grueling tug-of-war, yet whenever the shield wall faltered, a rusted axe would inevitably bite into a soldier's shoulder.
Because the soldiers wore helmets, the enemy knew better than to aim for the head, targeting other vulnerable areas instead.
Once the melee began, it degenerated into a chaotic dogfight.
Thwack!
"Aaargh!"
"Jerik's down! Pull back, hurry!"
Although it was still morning, a stifling heat hung over the battlefield.
The breach was barely six meters wide.
Through that narrow gap, the enemy fought like demons to break through, keeping the chaotic struggle alive.
"Garcia! Where are you?"
"Right here, Young Lord!"
Though Garcia was usually prone to severe narcissism and spouted nonsense, his knighthood was not just for show.
He dashed back and forth, plugging the gaps wherever the line threatened to break.
Covered in blood from head to toe, only his eyes and teeth were visible.
"What about the flanking force?"
"Sir Jenald hastily gathered a reserve of a hundred men and is flanking them now!"
"Damn it! What's taking so long?"
One by one, their own soldiers were falling.
Considering the cost of training and equipping a single soldier, accumulating casualties was a direct threat to the fief's survival.
To endure in this ruthless era, they could not afford to lose any more men.
Toward the rear, a steady stream of wounded was being carried out on stretchers.
Fortunately, the archers positioned atop the walls kept up a relentless volley, rapidly thinning the enemy's numbers.
The clashing of weapons, the screams of men struck by rusted axes, and the death rattles of the dying mingled into a deafening, disorienting din.
Yet Jeron forced himself to analyze the situation calmly.
The enemy numbers about two hundred. We have a hundred men holding them back, plus thirty archers. What about the flanking force?
In the distance, Sir Jenald was making a wide sweep, closing in rapidly.
The loyal veteran knight possessed a level of stamina that defied his advanced age.
Leading from the front, he ordered a full sprint once they were within three hundred meters of the enemy.
Just watching him made Jeron's own lungs ache in sympathy.
It was a perfect encirclement.
The hundred soldiers and ten knights led by Sir Jenald began to slaughter the barbarians from behind.
Focused entirely on the front, the barbarians' formation crumbled instantly.
Though they had put up a decent fight, being sandwiched and targeted by the relentless archers broke their morale. They surrendered, falling to their knees.
Sir Garcia reported, panting.
"Young Lord, rejoice! We have annihilated the enemy!"
"Hooray!"
The soldiers cheered, but Jeron felt no joy.
Dozens of casualties had been sustained in this single skirmish.
If those rusted axes had cut deep enough, the men would likely die of tetanus or sepsis.
It was absurd, but on this battlefield, a barbarian's axe was a lethal weapon that delivered a slow death sentence even with a non-fatal blow.
The battlefield was quickly cleared.
Realizing the danger the breach posed, Sir Jenald immediately put the soldiers to work, focusing all efforts on erecting temporary barricades.
Just as Jeron was about to turn back, a shout rang out.
"The expeditionary force is returning!"
In the distance, the gold dragon banner representing the family came into view.
There were roughly two hundred men.
With soldiers limping along and carts piled high with the wounded, the situation looked grim.
The Baron lay in a cart heavily guarded by soldiers.
"Damn it! Father!"
A cold dread washing over him, Jeron immediately ran out of the castle gates.
As Jeron approached, the knights and soldiers saluted, dropping to one knee despite their exhaustion.
"What happened?"
"Forgive us, Young Lord. The Lord was struck by an arrow during the campaign to subjugate the barbarians. We administered emergency treatment, but..."
Knight Commander James spoke with a grief-stricken face.
James himself was in poor shape, covered in cuts and bruises.
Many soldiers and knights were wounded.
Having lost thirty percent of their total force, it required no explanation to understand the horror of what they had faced.
"Move my father inside immediately, and summon the priest!"
The entire fief fell into a somber, funeral-like atmosphere.
One hundred men from the expedition had perished, and their bodies were brought back piled like mountains on the carts.
From what Jeron could gather, the barbarian horde had grown larger than before, and the expeditionary force had managed to slay their chieftain, a Great Warrior.
The surviving warriors had fled south in the aftermath.
Jeron's prediction had been correct.
The force that had attacked the fief was merely a remnant of the defeated army.
The barbarian threat seemed to be resolved for now, but the cost was devastating.
And the most critical casualty lay right before him: Baron Ark Farrow.
"...I am deeply sorry to say this, Young Lord, but we must amputate the arm."
"What? Amputate? Do you even know what you are saying? Our family has been a military nobility for generations. If the Lord loses his arm, how is he supposed to lead in battle?"
"Right now, it is the only way to save his life."
Jeron wanted to punch the bald old priest, but he barely managed to restrain himself.
Striking the old man might offer temporary satisfaction, but it would alienate the clergy from the fief forever.
Baron Ark Farrow remained unconscious. The wound from the arrow had succumbed to metal poisoning and was rotting away.
Pus and blood had already soaked through the bandages. If they did not cut the arm off now, he would almost certainly die within days.
Even with amputation, it was uncertain whether they could prevent tetanus or sepsis from taking his life.
"You must decide."
The vassals pressed Jeron for a decision.
Even his mother and younger sister looked to him, waiting for his word.
If the arm had to be severed, Jeron had to be the one to do it.
The knights could not bring themselves to cut off their lord's limb.
Jeron grit his teeth, wiped his sword clean, and sterilized it over a flame.
The brazier was heated further, and a branding iron was prepared.
To stop the bleeding immediately after the amputation, the wound would have to be cauterized with fire.
"Hold him down tight."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
How could it be easy for a son to cut off his own father's arm?
But this was not a matter of choice. Jeron steeled his heart.
If he did not sever it cleanly in one strike, it would only cause greater complications, and Ark Farrow's life would truly be forfeit.
"Forgive me, Father!"
Slash!
Spurt!
Blood sprayed in all directions.
Severing a limb without any proper medical equipment was bound to be a horrific sight.
Sir Jenald, who had the most experience with such grim tasks, immediately pressed the red-hot iron to the stump.
"Aaaaargh!"
Ark Farrow screamed even through his unconsciousness.
The priest immediately poured his holy power into the wound, and after a moment, the Baron fell still as death.
For Jeron, who possessed modern memories, the psychological toll of this act was immense.
Could any normal human remain unfazed after cutting off their own father's arm?
It would likely leave a deep trauma.
In this primitive world, such traumas were forged daily, and one simply had to endure and live on.
Even after leaving the keep, Jeron could not rest.
He had to manage the aftermath of the day's battle and oversee the treatment of the returning expeditionary force.
The crude, temporary tents were packed to the brim with the wounded.
As mid-June approached, the interior of the tents under the blazing sun felt like a steamer basket.
Cramming the wounded into such conditions made it feel less like a hospital and more like a breeding ground for infection.
Those injured today were relatively fortunate. Those who had spent a week marching back in this heat had wounds that had festered and rotted, filling the air with a sickening stench.
The methods used to treat the sick made Jeron grimace.
Festering wounds were sliced open with a knife, stitched up, and wrapped in bandages. If all else failed, limbs were amputated.
Large basins filled with severed arms, legs, and other body parts dripped with dark blood.
Though Jeron had insisted that the healers wash their hands and boil the bandages, it was uncertain if this alone would prevent infection.
They could only pray that the priest's holy power would be enough to keep them alive.
"Forgive me, Young Lord."
Knight Commander James, his head and arm wrapped tightly in bandages, approached with a solemn expression and saluted.
Jeron did not miss the flicker of despair in the stern commander's eyes.
"Follow me."
Outside the tents, under the shade of a tree, Jeron listened to James's report.
"Through this expedition, we have discovered that the scale of the barbarians is far larger than we anticipated."
"Larger?"
"Until now, small bands of barbarians would raid south and return. But now, they are moving down in large numbers with the intention of settling. This will undoubtedly become a major crisis before the year is out."
"Sir James, you must have heard that war with the Lapis Kingdom is imminent."
"Yes, I have."
"We do not have the luxury to worry about barbarians."
"But... if we do not increase our military strength, we will face disaster."
James's eyes wavered.
In the eyes of this steadfast knight, Jeron saw fear.
Assuming the worst-case scenario, if the barbarians launched a massive migration southward in search of warmer lands while their main forces were away at war, the fief would likely fall.
A depleted military could not be rebuilt overnight.
It required at least six months of training and proper equipment. Even then, they would only be useful after gaining actual combat experience.
It was a heavy financial burden, and conscripting too many young men would inevitably disrupt the harvest.
This was not a game or a novel where resources appeared out of thin air.
"To prepare for the future, how many men do you believe we need?"
"At least two thousand."
"Whew. What a godforsaken situation."
This was not a problem that could be solved simply by consulting the Knight Commander.
After a long day of running around dealing with the aftermath, Jeron received word in the evening that Baron Ark Farrow had regained consciousness.
The atmosphere in the room was solemn.
Knights strictly guarded the entrance to the Lord's chambers.
His mother's face was stained with tears, and his younger sister's eyes were swollen red.
To anyone looking, Ark Farrow's condition was critical.
If only I had a few antibiotics, it wouldn't have come to this.
Despite the amputation, his father's condition had not improved. If anything, it had worsened.
His complexion was pale, and fluid was seeping through the bandages on his arm, showing no signs of recovery.
"Father."
Jeron took his father's hand.
There was barely any strength in it.
The Baron let out a raspy, rattling breath and managed to speak.
"I have... little time left."
"You will recover. I will make sure of it."
"I know... my own body. *Cough!* My time is short, and it is time for you to succeed me."
"You cannot say that! I still have so much to learn!"
Jeron meant it.
There were still many things in this world he had not fully adapted to.
Could he truly carry this burden?
Ark Farrow parted his dry lips.
"My son... you must now inherit the family's power."
"The family's power...?"
"The Dragon's Legacy. The power passed down through the eldest sons of our family."