Chapter 21
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: 5. Plateau. (3)
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The battle began with shocking abruptness. The enemy charged at them the moment dawn broke, as if they'd been lying in wait.
The fighting broke down along mercenary corps lines. With all the mercenaries looking so alike, it was hard to tell friend from foe at a glance, so they rallied around their leaders. The Herrera side wore red armbands, while the Wirgang side sported white ones—easy enough to distinguish.
"Don't give an inch—if you fall back, we're all done for—!"
Allen, with his red armband, had prepared perfectly for the enemy assault.
The front row of four formed a wall with tower shields. Behind them, the two at either end of the second row wielded spears, while the third row's ends held swords and axes—the best hands for those weapons. Bringing up the rear were the two most seasoned veterans with solid stats: Kallisman and Captain Aiden. With such a wide front to cover, they needed top talent back there.
The tactic was simple: the first row blocked with shields and stabbed spears through the gaps, while the second and third rows handled any enemies slipping around the flanks or rear.
Across the entire Herrera and Wirgang forces combined, Allen's Mercenary Corps was the only one fighting with such organized formations and tactics.
The eastern regions tended to view reckless charges as the height of bravery, and these weren't exactly elite professional outfits to begin with—they didn't sweat the details of strategy. They just threw their individual specialties into the mix and hoped for the best. Truth be told, it said less about the mercenaries' skills and more about their leaders' command ability.
...And the results of Allen's tactics were plain as day.
"Thrust with those spears—jam 'em in through the gaps—! Push 'em back with the shields at the same time—!!"
The first row held firm like a wall of tower shields, then cracked open gaps on signal to ram spears through, skewering the enemy. The moment foes were impaled, they shoved them back with the shields to clear space and reset for the next wave.
Any who circled around the shield wall met the second and third rows. Kallisman and Aiden, battle-hardened pros on long-term contracts, carved through the attackers like wheat.
"It ain't over till it's over—! No slacking—! Eyes front at all times—! You're doing great—keep it up—!"
Leader Allen kept rallying his men. Seizing a brief lull, he scanned the surroundings. The lines seemed evenly matched so far.
Then, not far off, a massive explosion rocked the air. Magic, without a doubt.
Magic on a battlefield like this was a double-edged sword.
Its destructive power outstripped any mundane attack, but it drew every eye like a beacon. Sure, if you had layers of guards cocooning you, that was one thing—but no one here was that snug. It was obvious they weren't safe.
...This could get dicey.
Allen felt a twinge of concern for Lady Elena's safety—not out of some moral urge, but because the battle's outcome hinged on it.
Mages wielded outsized influence in war, making Elena's protection a top priority for the Herrera side. Withdrawing her from the field would be a disaster to avoid at all costs.
"Shift right—keep formation—!"
The enemy was already surging toward the blast. Even tactical illiterates knew to prioritize the mage.
Naturally, as foes concentrated, the pressure on Allen's Mercenary Corps intensified. Their tactics held the edge, but sheer numbers were a bitch to overcome. After clashes with multiple corps, his men were gasping, stamina in the red.
Still, silver lining: Allen's group was starting to instill real fear. The wild rushes from the start had tapered off. Most leaders were mercenaries themselves, with nothing but brute kills under their belts—no counter to Allen's setup. They'd charged blindly and dropped like flies; counting the dead would take all day.
"Fuckin' cowards—! Come out and fight fair—!!"
The enemy leaders howled from behind their shields, but Allen ignored the taunts. Haggling with coin would work better anyway...
Allen's Mercenary Corps finally reached Elena's position. As expected, Roakin's Mercenary Corps—where she served as acting leader—was locked in a fierce scrum. Lady Elena directed from amid her guards' protection, but... Allen had his doubts about its effectiveness.
Soon, Allen's crew plunged into the fray. Stamina was hitting critical, leading to occasional slips that hadn't happened before, but even accounting for that, it was impressive work.
"Just a bit longer—hold the line—!"
That was all Allen could muster now.
Hold.
Until one side broke...
· · ·
In truth, the Wirgang brass had sized up the opposition and expected an easy win. That's why Count Wirgang's second son—secretly smitten with Elena—had stepped up to demand surrender. ...Not that it had gone well.
But the reality on the ground was a far cry from predictions. Aindolf, second son and commander of the Wirgang forces, reeled in confusion. How had it come to this? They pushed, but gained no ground. Casualties just kept mounting.
A skilled swordsman himself, Aindolf hacked through foes personally, pouring in maximum effort. Yet the tide didn't turn.
Then he stumbled into a mercenary corps. ...More precisely, his own men balked and left a gap he wandered into.
He noted the heaps of corpses around them already. ...Yet the enemy showed no damage.
They stood like a shield wall, staring down his side without a twitch. No fear in those eyes—just cold promise: come closer, and die. Even Aindolf felt chills race down his spine.
...Can't break that.
The certainty hit instantly. ...But he was eastern nobility—strip away the pride, and he was just meat. The thought of backing off without testing it galled him. That made him worse than a loser—a coward.
"What're you waiting for—?! Attack now—! Break that wall—!!"
Aindolf bellowed, and a few grudging souls finally charged. Predictable outcome.
The two attackers' swings crashed into shields. Gaps yawned open, spears lancing out to gut chest and belly. Screams cut short as they crumpled—no one else stepped up.
Shields snapped shut. They waited silently, almost daring the next fool.
...So that's it. That's why...
Aindolf finally got it: why a sure victory dragged on. That mystery corps had bled them dry of men.
...And the longer it went, the worse it'd get.
"Goddamn...!"
His miscalculation. Too cocky a rush—fatal blunder.
"...Retreat—!!"
Aindolf ground his teeth near to cracking, but no choice. The enemy had momentum; his side was crumbling. Fight on, and it'd be irreparable losses.
An utter blindside. Humiliating, but they needed to regroup and adapt.
Wirgang mercenaries bolted like they'd been waiting for the word. They felt the shift too—no need to say it. The moment fear froze their charges, the battle was lost.
Herrera forces roared in triumph at the fleeing Wirgang rabble. Heavy losses on both sides, but victory was victory. Survivors bellowed their joy.
A pallid Elena—face drained from that big spell—broke into a grin. She thrust her staff high, cheering with her men.
When the enemy horde had surged bigger than expected, it'd been touch-and-go... but they'd won.
A hard-fought first victory.
But the smiles of triumph didn't last.
It was the dead's final salute.