An Honorable Death
The command staff was deep in an emergency council when a soldier burst through the doors.
"My lord Viscount! The enemy is advancing!"
Even at the soldier's frantic cry, the Viscount remained composed.
"Estimated time of arrival?"
"About four hours…"
"Any changes?"
"None, my lord."
"Very well. You may go."
Once the soldier had withdrawn, the Viscount took in the faces gathered around the table.
Seated immediately to his right was his loyal knight Lockton, and beside him the domain mage Phaloren. Both men had served Hadion since the previous Viscount's day; their years had long since carried them past middle age into old age. Closer to elder statesmen than active combatants, they had sat out the last territorial war entirely.
But now, with a crisis unlike any Hadion had ever faced bearing down upon them, they sat once more in their places as the domain's guardians.
And to the left…
Khtun.
The bastard son of Phalaon. A necromancer. Beside him sat the rest of the Phalaon contingent.
Viscount Hadion swept his gaze across everyone present, then spoke.
"Given the circumstances, I will say one last thing before we adjourn."
What was he about to say? Every eye in the room fixed on him as a low but resolute voice filled the chamber.
"A battle that will decide the fate of ancient Hadion is upon us. No small amount of blood will be spilled. Most of us in this room will likely never see tomorrow's sun. And so I ask you—"
The Viscount's voice pressed on.
"Is there anyone who wishes to withdraw, even now?"
Silence held the room.
He looked to his right and asked again.
"It is not too late. Survival, too, is a form of honor. I, Font Hadion, your lord, will vouch for that honor myself. Is there anyone who wishes to withdraw?"
Survival is honor.
At those words, someone shot to his feet. A young knight.
"My honor does not lie in living!"
"Then where?"
"In protection!"
"And what do you protect?"
"Everything that is Hadion!"
"Even if the end is a hollow death? Listen well, young knight. The end of this battle will be wretched. Your death will go unremembered, and even your corpse will vanish down the ravenous gullets of demons. And still you call that honor?"
The tone was sharp as a blade's edge. Even so, the young knight answered without flinching.
"Death is my honor."
That was the spark.
"An honorable death!"
"An honorable death!"
One by one the knights rose and took up the cry. Young and old alike. A single heart, a single will, roaring the word honor — and at their head stood Lockton, the knight who had served Hadion since the previous Viscount's reign.
"My lord, grant us leave to die with honor."
Phaloren, the domain mage of the same generation, spoke as well.
"A knight's honor is all well and good, but this old man received no small kindness from the late Viscount. I have long wondered when I might repay that debt — and now that the chance has come, how could I not rejoice?"
"…"
The Viscount's piercing gaze raked over them. A moment later, his mouth opened.
"Very well. Then let us die."
"Loyalty!"
"Loyalty!"
"Even if the world forgets you, I will remember. Even in death, I will not forget you. Come — let us go and fight!"
With that, the Viscount strode from the council chamber. The knights followed at his heels. Even Phalaon, for once, watched the Viscount's back as he left.
Khtun, however, was thinking something else entirely.
Is that… really the same Viscount?
[You really are…]
What? What is it?
With the enemy already on the march, Hadion's soldiers were moving at a frantic pace.
"Arrows over there! Bring the arrows!"
"We're short!"
"Then rocks—!"
"Boiling oil—!"
Amid the scramble of battle preparations, Phalaon's forces had been assigned a section of the wall and stood ready. Zeke encouraged the men while making his own arrangements for the fight. When things were more or less in order, he gave the order.
"Hold your assigned posts."
"Loyalty!"
"Loyalty!"
Zeke started off to deliver his report. Or rather, he would have — if Milo hadn't sidled up beside him.
"Listen."
"What is it."
"Hah. Honestly, this is driving me mad. Is this right?"
"…?"
"I mean, is fighting for Hadion really the right call. Look — I'll concede a hundred times over that dying for the young master is something I can accept with humility. But Hadion? Hadion?"
"Hmph."
It was hardly the conversation to have on the eve of battle, but Zeke understood how Milo felt. How could he not? It was Hadion, after all — that very Hadion.
Years ago, during the territorial war between Phalaon and Hadion, Zeke and Milo had fought as mercenaries under Viscount Hadion alongside their comrades. As men-at-arms, they had used the martial skill honed on countless battlefields to press Phalaon's knights — and, ultimately, to eliminate Balt, said to be Phalaon's finest.
And the result?
Defeat.
Yes. They had lost.
And the moment the war was lost, Viscount Hadion cast us aside.
To be fair, the contract had never obligated the Viscount to take responsibility for Zeke and his comrades. But when had the human heart ever run on reason and logic alone? Milo still carried that day like a stone in his chest. Zeke could hardly claim not to understand the feeling, and yet—
"Don't talk nonsense. We are not fighting for Hadion. We are fighting for the young master."
"You really are…"
"If that is all you have to say, I will hear no more of it."
"Hah. Fine. Forget it."
Milo sighed and walked off. Zeke watched his back for a moment, then moved on. The man looked thoroughly disgruntled, but Zeke wasn't worried. For all his grumbling, Milo always did his job.
Zeke's destination was wherever Khtun happened to be.
"Young master."
"Ah — yes, Sir Zeke."
"The men have finished their preparations."
"Is everyone all right?"
"They are at full readiness."
"That's a relief."
"However…"
"Yes?"
Zeke started to say something, then closed his mouth. He shook his head.
"No. It is nothing. I shall take my leave."
"Yes — thank you."
With that, Khtun turned his gaze outward again, looking past the walls to the open plain beyond. The three knights stood at his side. Zeke took them in as he walked a few paces away.
Someday…
Someday, those knights' places would be his. Someday he would be a strength his lord could rely on.
Having renewed that vow, Zeke walked on. In his memory, Khtun's hands had been trembling — finely, like those of a boy-soldier seized by fear.
[Nervous?]
No?
[Your hands are shaking.]
Instead of answering, I stared out at the distant horizon. Four hours, they'd said. Which meant the enemy should be showing themselves any time now.
[Hold the line. In a battle like this, simply enduring is already doing your part.]
Oh, come on!
Who was he calling a coward?!
I was Khtun the Saint — heir to K-Confucianism, blood of Phalaon, warrior of Valhalla. Fear, to me, was like a politician's conscience: something that simply could not exist.
And he thought I was shaking?
This is… the cold. It's just cold.
The wind really was fierce up on the wall. That was all it was.
Valhalla, Valhalla, a merry song. Maybe I should try singing it myself.
I am a warrior of Valhalla.
Steeling myself that way, I forced my thoughts onto other tracks — namely, just how serious Hadion was about this fight.
Shuren, Hadion's heir, had already fled with a number of soldiers, knights, and the civilian population. From the opposite gate you could probably see that long column of refugees stretching into the distance.
Against that backdrop, Viscount Hadion had set two objectives.
One:
Buy enough time for the refugee column to get clear.
Two:
Survive.
The goal was not "victory."
It was survival.
That said, it wasn't as though we planned to do nothing but dig in and weather the storm. I didn't know about the Viscount, but I had no intention of dying here.
If we can just take down the giant, we should be able to manage somehow, right?
The problem was how to take down the giant.
I couldn't count on Ren's help — he'd gone off on his own to deal with the demon worshippers. And Brother James?
Brother James… needs to stay with the soldiers.
Which meant the giant fell to me alone — or more precisely, to me and the three knights: Rowe, Kahn, and Halo.
But could the four of us actually bring a giant down?
My ancestor was skeptical.
[It will not be easy. A giant of the middle realm and a giant of the demon realm are different creatures — but a giant is still a giant.]
You've cut down a middle-realm giant before?
[I have. The one I faced could have single-handedly laid waste to a domain like this. I only won because fortune was with me at the time.]
He'd said he beheaded a giant at twenty. Did that mean that by the age of twenty, my ancestor already possessed the strength to raze a domain like this to the ground?
As a modern person(?), I found that hard to swallow. I'd believe half of it. Half.
Anyway.
So what do we do…
[So you truly mean to stand and fight rather than run.]
Of course?
[Hmph. A pity. If only you had a little more mana to work with.]
Hm? Did that mean there was a method?
Sensing my curiosity, the ancestor continued.
[As it stands, Giant-Cleaving—]
Click.
[…?]
Not Giant-Cleaving. Click.
[…Click cannot deliver its proper power.]
I knew that. He'd already told me. If I was planning to fight relying on "Click," I should abandon the idea. Against a genuine giant, the current "Click" simply wouldn't cut it.
But why bring it up now?
[Just double. If Vessel had just double its current mana, you could at least approximate the real thing…]
Double?
[Yes.]
That meant 12C. Double sounded simple enough, but it was a staggering figure. Even with Vessel fully charged and my own innate mana added in — a combined 7C — I was still short a full 5C.
[What about asking Priest James?]
Does he even have that much holy power?
There was a time when purifying a shadow demonkin's core had nearly exhausted him.
[He seems to have made considerable progress since the Mouth of Targis. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. In the end, the giant must fall for us to win — Priest James will agree.]
Fair point. The real question was whether Brother James's holy power even reached 5C. Five C… it was a little embarrassing to say out loud, but that was a considerable amount. And a priest's total holy power was said to run significantly lower than a mage's total mana pool, besides.
Still, it couldn't hurt to ask.
I was about to start walking when a shout rose from below the wall.
"My lord Viscount! My lord—!"
A soldier was calling for the Viscount at the base of the fortifications. Behind him stood a group of strangers.
What was this?
Travelers? At a time like this?
Frowning, I headed toward the Viscount. And before long, I understood who the strangers were.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bishop Philos of the Twelve Hour Church."
Priests of the Twelve Hour Church!
They spoke without hesitation.
"We were passing through when we heard that tens of thousands of demons are marching on this place. We will help."
They would aid this domain of Hadion, standing in the path of a demonic legion's vile violence. There was not a shred of reluctance in the declaration — only a plain, noble sense of mission, the simple conviction that where demons stood and someone stood against them, help was owed.
My heart swelled.
Auxiliary batteries… five of them.
[Auxiliary batteries? What are those?]
They exist. Trust me.
Maybe — just maybe — we could actually win this fight.