Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: The Price of Arrogance
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"You bastards! Get your heads in the game! If you scatter, we're fucked! Keep those shoulders glued together!"
Veteran mercenaries with plenty of battle experience, mixed in among the ranks, bellowed their orders. Even the greenhorns who'd never seen a real war caught on quick and raised their shields, pressing in so tight it felt suffocating. They might lack battlefield know-how, but they were survivors who'd clawed their way through hordes of monsters.
That alone was enough to make the soldiers facing them swallow hard. Normally, mercenaries were posted in the center—that was standard doctrine. But no soldier forgot these were men who lived by the sword, even if they just play-acted back there most days.
"Fuck! Hold those spears steady! Those bastards are human too—they'll die if you stab 'em!"
As the soldiers' spear tips wavered unconsciously from fear, the officers scattered among them roared to rally the men. The spearheads slashed sharply toward the gaps behind the shields, but the seasoned mercenaries tilted their shields and ducked low, shoving forward. In an instant, the spears were useless.
Mercenaries rarely used spears themselves, so their tactic in a standoff was to glue right up to the enemy, robbing them of leverage. The veterans knew this inside out and had drilled it into every mercenary in the line.
Thud! Crunch!
Spears were battered skyward by shields, and the crash of shield on shield echoed deafeningly. Now it was a full-on shoving match, and just as planned beforehand, the mercenaries dug in to hold the line.
They didn't know the enemy's exact numbers, but with their own right flank massively reinforced, their job was simple: endure. And their choice proved right. The enemy right flank they faced was beefed up for breakthrough power too.
"Hold! Brace the back, you sons of bitches!"
"Give it some muscle! Fuck! They're pushing us back!"
Amid the grunts and the clamor of colliding shields, Kyle—built like a giant compared to the rest and positioned just behind the front line to support—poured on the pressure while stealing a glance around.
Prrrngh!
The light cavalry was moving frantic now, unlike at the start. And from the enemy lines, a band of horse and rider emerged, circling beside their right flank like they might charge any second. Fur pelts draped over armor, relatively small mounts. Elves.
'Elves on the right flank. Countering with light cavalry?'
Not a bad call, he thought. Light horse couldn't chase down and annihilate elves, but they'd make fine harassment. But against Kyle's expectations, the light cavalry spurred their mounts high and charged straight at the elves.
Bwooo—
The lead rider blasted a horn, the blare ringing across the field. Kyle spat a curse at the sight.
"You crazy fuckers! Charging light cavalry at nomadic riders?"
The Mongol Empire, once the world's mightiest, hadn't conquered empires and kingdoms through sheer numbers. It was their nomadic horse mastery—the instinct honed from cradle to grave on horseback.
Regular cavalry had delays: commanders issuing orders, messengers relaying them. Nomads? None of that. They moved as one with their fellows, always in the saddle.
They eroded enemy strength methodically, striking fatally at the crucial moment. Less tactics, more inbred instinct from generations of horse-born life.
"Charge! We'll kill every last savage and head home!"
Patrick, captaining the light cavalry and with zero experience against nomads, saw their shabby armor and pony-sized horses and figured he'd wipe them out in one go. The commander's "never engage head-on" order? Long forgotten.
These were noble sons who'd joined voluntarily to earn glory, bringing their own horses. Smash the savages utterly, and think of the honor, the ballroom tales.
They thrust swords forward in unison. For glory. But the elves didn't meet them head-on.
"They're splitting to the sides!"
"Splitting left and right!"
"If they split, the formation collapses!"
That simple maneuver threw them into chaos. These weren't drilled troops—just rich boys with fencing lessons and mounted hunts. Fighting as an army? Doomed from the start.
Commander Lenia knew it, which was why she'd hammered home "don't engage elves directly." Now came the price.
"Wheel around first! Regroup into formation...!"
Even in their panic, horses thundered straight ahead. By the time they decided to turn, elves had slipped behind them, nocking arrows.
Twang!
And the infamous elven horse archery debuted on them.
"Grahk!"
"Cotton!"
Armor or no, their chain mail and gambesons offered scant protection against elven bows. Their unarmored horses? Forget it.
Hiiing—!
"Aaaagh!"
Screams and shrieks spread as horses crumpled under arrows, riders tumbling to the dirt. These hunt-chasers were now the hunted.
"Let us go!"
"If they all die, no cavalry to cover the left flank!"
The knights begged to rescue them, but Lenia refused.
"They brought this on themselves! And if you go save them, their knights hit our main force—then we're truly done!"
The knights nodded, but Lenia seethed inside. She'd warned them endlessly, double-checked their grasp of orders. Yet here they were.
That damn honor. Noble arrogance. Pity for the light cavalry dying like wretched prey? No, just contempt. If this war was lost, it'd be on them!
Thud thud thud!
As she foresaw, the elves smashed the light cavalry flat and dove straight for the left flank's side.
Lenia had to decide. A bad move maybe, but she couldn't just watch.
"Pull the archers and my guards to cover the left. Sir Barton commands them."
"...That leaves us one knight short. How do we—"
She pointed to her sword. Commander or not, she wielded aura—stronger than any knight here.
"Hurry and shield the left flank's side. But no charges, no matter what. Passive response only—harass, don't engage. I trust Sir Barton."
"I'll repay the lady's faith!"
That was Lenia's best play. Minimal drain on forces, maximum cover for the left.
But she'd never fought elves either. Why northern lords feared them so, why the empire mustered punitive expeditions yearly against mere tribes. She didn't know.
"Fuck! What the hell are those bastards?"
"Arrows! Cavalry shooting arrows!"
The mercenaries holding strong against the main force fell into disarray. Enemy riders wheeled sideways—not charging, but loosing arrows. And they targeted the lightly armored mercs, skirting the heavily equipped ones.
"Aaaagh! My arm!"
A merc with an arrow in his arm screamed and staggered. Now the mercenaries split attention front and flank.
"Die!"
A spear pierced the shield wall, aimed right at me. My height made it target my neck even through the top gap.
"That weak-ass thrust ain't gonna cut it."
But after clanging off shields so many times, it wobbled slow and dull to my eyes. I snatched the shaft right behind the head; the enemy soldier yanked back in panic.
"Hup!"
One breath, I heaved the spear up—heavy with his weight. He clung white-knuckled, dangling like a fool till I shook him off into his own ranks.
"Ow!"
"What the fuck!"
Soldiers cursed under the sudden pile-up, formation crumbling. Front-line mercs seized the gap, shoving them back a hair.
But it only bought seconds. Enemy numbers dwarfed ours, and the flank was under relentless elven assault. The commander knew—rushed archers to harass—but it wasn't enough.
If it were that easy to counter, Europe's kings wouldn't have been trampled by Mongols across Eurasia. The elf riders kept just outside archer range, peppering us with arrows.