Valhalla Calls!
What kind of evil bastards were these?!
Daring to fire the first shot?!
Don't panic—raise your shields!
Panic? As if a warrior of Valhalla could ever feel such a thing.
I raised my shield at once.
What worried me more were the others.
At this rate, won't they all just break and run?
The sheer spectacle of that arrow rain had been genuinely shocking. My knees were still trembling. It was more than enough to shatter morale.
But then—
"All forces, form up!"
"Form up!"
"Raise shields!"
"Raise them!"
"You brats! His Lordship said raise your damn shields! If you don't want to die, get them up now!"
Father's command was followed at once by the standing army's rough, cursing shouts. I glanced back. The soldiers had closed ranks shoulder to shoulder and hoisted the shields pieced together from wooden planks.
Was that the phalanx shield wall or whatever they called it?
I had no idea. Military tactics were never my strong suit.
But one thing was certain: the wall of shields worked surprisingly well.
Thwack, thwack-thwack-thwack!
The arrows that had fallen like rain failed to punch through the soldiers' shields. Or rather—there simply weren't that many arrows to begin with. The first volley had startled me so badly I hadn't noticed, but looking closer, the number of archers itself was small.
"Loose! All of you! What are you doing?! Keep shooting!"
At Viscount Hardion's order the archers loosed again and again, yet the earlier menace was gone. Of course it was. Our side had realized that simply holding the shields was enough.
And amid it all, one figure stood out above the rest: Sir Valt.
Is he seriously batting arrows aside with his sword?
Sir Valt sat tall in the saddle, calmly cutting down every shaft that streaked toward him and Father.
How long that continued, I couldn't say.
"Tch! All forces—advance!"
Having gained nothing from the arrows, Viscount Hardion ordered the charge. The knights behind him moved first.
Hiiing—!
Viscount Hardion's knights spurred their mounts as one and thundered forward. Sir Valt was never going to sit still and watch.
"My lord, your orders."
"Be careful. Hardion's knights are far more numerous than we knew. He must have hired outsiders for this territorial war."
"Understood. Then I'll be off. Hiyah!"
Sir Valt charged out with fearless valor, his own knights streaming after him.
But could that even be called a fair fight?
I know Sir Valt's skill, but…
Viscount Hardion's knights were many—roughly thirty. That made it twelve against thirty.
Relax. It will be a little rough, but it's a fight we can win.
"Can you see the future as well, Ancestor?"
I had thought my ancestor was a fantasy spirit… turns out he was a Korean shamanic deity?
Well, technically an ancestor spirit is a kind of ancestral god!
But that wasn't it.
Knights can gauge each other's level just by how they sit a horse. Those knights aren't the real danger.
"Then what is?"
See him? The one standing behind Viscount Hardion. The fellow wrapped in a robe like Golgol.
"Ah… yes."
That one has real skill. Perhaps above this Valt fellow—or below him.
Hmm. "Above or below" meant he had no idea which. In other words, he was clueless.
Of course, being a good Confucian necromancer who respected his elders, I kept that thought firmly behind my teeth.
Anyway.
"Son, remember this. Hardion has prepared something, but he does not know you exist. Therefore…"
"Yes—I can be the variable."
"Exactly."
"I don't know what I'll be able to do, but… I'll give it everything I have."
What was it again? I had awakened a bloodline talent, yet I was no knight, so I fell outside the rules of a "restricted war." My combat power was nothing special, but Father had said:
"This father of yours believes. Great deeds are not accomplished by those with power, but by those who possess will. And you have will. Now then…"
Father drew his sword with magnificent flair.
"Charge!"
"His Lordship says charge!"
"Charge! Charge!"
"Waaaaaaaah—!"
The standing army took the lead; the conscripts roared and surged forward after them.
What are you doing? Hurry up and follow.
I'm the trainer, remember?
Tch.
"Golgol, let's go."
I set off late with Golgol, racing after the conscripts. Perhaps it was the physical gains from training and awakening my bloodline, but I soon overtook the conscripts and was running alongside the standing troops.
"Young master, be careful. We won't be able to look after you out here."
"I'll be fine."
His name was… Herben, I think. I reassured the old soldier, then gripped a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.
I had no intention of showing off either.
For now… keep it moderate.
Father had said the enemy had a card up their sleeve—something aimed at Sir Valt. And Ancestor had spotted that suspicious figure to back it up. So for the moment I planned to keep my head down as much as possible.
Stay out of sight.
If I moved at all, it would only be after I learned what their card actually was.
But there was something I hadn't expected.
Having run all the way to the front, I came face to face with the enemy's vanguard.
And then—
"Uwaaaaah—gah?!"
"Huh?"
I had only swung my sword lightly. Yet look at that. The man crumpled, blood pouring from the wound my blade had opened.
"Y-you bastard! Hans!"
A friend of the one who'd just fallen, maybe. A soldier charged me with murder in his eyes. In the old days that vicious strike would have made me flinch and squeeze my eyes shut!
But why…?
Slow?
I dodged the attack that was so sluggish it nearly made me yawn. I didn't even need the shield.
And then, simply—
Thrust!
"Gah!"
A light stab, and he convulsed and toppled over.
What was this? It was far too easy.
Maybe I actually had talent for swordsmanship?
You idiot! Don't get distracted!
"Valhal—la!"
I answered Ancestor's advice with a cry of Valhalla and reset my grip on the shield. A moment later a massive flail—who brings a flail to a battlefield?—slammed into it.
A flail is a vicious weapon that can crush a man's skull! It isn't only for threshing grain!
"Valhal—la!"
True enough, the flail was a threatening weapon.
But where's Golgol?
I glanced sideways and spotted Golgol diligently swinging a sword at the enemy soldiers. Did that skeleton have talent for swordsmanship too? Golgol was handling the soldiers with equal ease.
Huh. This might not be so bad after all?
Look.
"Hold the formation! Block! Strike! Nothing else matters! Block! Strike!"
"Block! Strike!"
The conscripts pressed forward behind their shields, locking into formation and grinding the enemy back. Meanwhile the standing troops, directing those same conscripts, carved through the opposing ranks with free rein.
And Sir Valt…
"Hraaah!"
Oh—he was putting on an absolute one-man show. Despite being outnumbered, Sir Valt alone kept the fight even.
"Come—! For Falaon—!"
Hearing that thunderous roar filled me with confidence. At the same time, a thought struck me.
We… might actually win this?
A warrior's blood boiled in my veins.
"Valhal—laaaaaa!"
Golgoool—!
Valhalla was calling me!
"Wh-what in the world…!"
As the heat of battle intensified, Viscount Hardion stared at the field with eyes wide open.
"What—what is the meaning of this?! We have the greater numbers!"
A soldier standing beside him answered, sweat pouring down his face.
"It seems… they are trained regulars, my lord. Baron Falaon's exploits in the kingdom wars are well known, after all."
"Even so! And that one! Is that Valt?! Was he not merely a non-bloodline knight?!"
Viscount Hardion seethed at Valt's overwhelming martial prowess. His own knights were non-bloodline as well, yet they never neglected their training. How could the gap be this vast?!
In the end his fury found an easier target.
"You there—what is the meaning of this?!"
"To what do you refer, my lord?"
"Your comrades! You told me to trust them to you! And look at this mess!"
Of the roughly thirty knights, twenty belonged to Viscount Hardion. The rest were comrades of the robed swordsman.
"Hmm."
The robed swordsman watched the battle with calm, measuring eyes. After a moment he spoke.
"Indeed. That knight is beyond expectations."
"Beyond expectations?!"
"Yes. Beyond expectations. How could I have known? That a man like that would be lurking in a backwater like this."
"I told you again and again! A man who distinguished himself in the kingdom wars! You were the one who claimed confidence!"
How much gold had he spent to bring this swordsman and those knights? And this was what he had to say for it?
Rage climbed to the top of his skull and was about to erupt when the swordsman opened his mouth again.
"I know. Yes—if one takes the coin, one must earn it. But as I see it, the real problem is not the knight called Valt."
"Then what?"
"Look over there."
"…?"
At the swordsman's words Viscount Hardion turned his gaze. And at once he understood what the man meant.
"Valhal—laaa!"
A youth—no, closer to a boy—was slaughtering soldiers while bellowing that bizarre war cry.
"That one…?"
"He is no ordinary boy. He has almost certainly awakened a bloodline talent."
"Come to think of it, Baron Falaon was said to have two sons, was he not? The bastard he took in around last year was about that age…"
"Then that boy must be Baron Falaon's second son. A bloodline bearer."
"Th-that—that madman! Dragging a bloodline knight into a restricted war?! And his own son at that!"
"In that case, it would be grounds for a formal protest."
"That is…!"
Viscount Hardion's words stuck in his throat. Because he knew the truth as well.
"The second son… I never learned what talent he awakened, but it has been less than a year since he opened his bloodline. He is still a greenhorn—hardly a bloodline knight yet."
"I see."
"Even so—his own son!"
Whether he was condemning the act of dragging a son into a deathtrap or simply looking for someone to blame for the unfavorable situation was impossible to tell. The swordsman briefly wondered which it was, then discarded the idle thought.
"Is this not actually fortunate?"
"Fortunate how?! My soldiers are dying by the score!"
"If that boy truly is the baron's son, then capturing him alone would win you everything you desire, would it not?"
"Huh?"
For an instant Viscount Hardion's eyes seemed to light up.
Why hadn't he thought of that sooner?
"Yes! Exactly! Valt or whoever else be damned—if the master's own son is taken, what can they possibly do?! But…"
Who would catch him?
He had hired the swordsman and his comrades, yet their contract was to deal with Valt. Had they been mediocre he might have browbeaten them, but men of this caliber made troublesome enemies.
So what then? There was no one. No one at all.
That was when the swordsman stepped forward.
"Just this once, I shall exercise a little flexibility."
"You would do that for me?"
"In return, should capturing that boy end the territorial war, I expect compensation equal to the deed."
"Agreed! Valt or no Valt—what matters is winning the war! Capture that boy and I will pay the promised price even if you never face Valt!"
"I shall hold you to that."
The swordsman bowed his head, then walked forward—straight into the heart of the battlefield. His steps were unnervingly calm.
…Meanwhile, Khtun was howling.
"Valhalla is calling me!"
Golgol!
My experience is Golgol's experience! Golgol's experience is my experience!
Real combat experience was piling up at a blistering pace.
He had not the faintest inkling of the crisis walking toward him.