Chapter 43
Chapter 43
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 043
Chapter Title: Submission
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Sherwood Forest lay at the boundary between Westguard and Springgarden.
Meltwater from glaciers flowing down from the north had formed this woodland, defended only by a ten-meter watchtower and a modest wooden palisade.
The barracks, warehouse, and watchtower were joined together to form the enclosure, and today the warehouse was serving as a makeshift prison.
Whiiish, whiiish.
A palm-sized window let the frigid wind howl mercilessly inside.
"Haa."
His ragged breaths turned to mist and scattered in the air.
Jamie was a Westguard native, born to an Imperial serf father and a native mother.
His parents had gifted him a sturdy body, and after being conscripted, he'd shown such talent that he'd risen to squad leader in just a year. But it seemed his streak of good fortune had ended there.
"Damn it all."
Every time he put force into his left arm, pain shot through it as if the joint were dislocated. At least he could feel sensation there, which was a relief—but the real problem was his ankle.
He gingerly probed the swollen bump on his ankle.
"Phew."
By some miracle, no bone was protruding. It stung like a bad scrape, but he'd dodged the worst of it. Only then did worry for his men flood his mind.
"Nullen."
"Ugh, yeah."
"Malphoi."
"Huff, huff. Yeah."
"Trable."
No response—he was about to raise his voice when an answer came.
"He just fell asleep from the pain, but his breathing's steady. This is Hailee."
Having confirmed his men's survival, Jamie let out a breath of relief.
"Phew, thanks for hanging in there, all of you."
Recalling the recent battle, Jamie sighed shortly.
They'd rushed into battle formation at the watchtower bell, but the enemy had been far too numerous. Surrounded by over a hundred foes, they'd held out to the end but couldn't overcome the sheer difference in numbers.
The overwhelming disparity in forces had ironically saved their lives. They'd been beaten like dogs, but no one had died.
Jamie apologized for his decision.
"Sorry, guys. We should've just surrendered."
"What're you talking about? Surrender from a Westguard warrior?"
"We should've at least made 'em squeal a bit. Heh heh heh. Ugh."
"Kuh ku ku, ugh."
The situation was much the same for everyone—light chuckles brought groans from all around, pain flaring from their injuries.
"Agh, can't even laugh."
"Look on the bright side. Means our nerves are still alive."
"Damn bastards. Least they could've poured some booze on us. This is gonna fester."
"Yeah. Half for swelling, half to drink."
"Hee hee hee."
Then came pounding on the door from outside, hard enough to shatter it.
Bang bang bang.
"Shut it, you lunatics."
"Can't even talk back? Cowards who only win with numbers."
"Wanna get beat worse? Shut your traps."
The Westguard prisoners fell silent at the low warning, a stark contrast to the initial threats.
"See? Yelling doesn't work. You gotta lay out specific consequences to get the reaction you want."
"Tch, ease up."
"That's your problem. Everything's a lesson if you learn from it, hm?"
As the chatting soldier straightened up, the palisade gate swung open.
The men, sprawled under straw bundles or blankets, stirred and sat up. Their weary gazes followed the newcomers inside.
Thud, thud.
They were knights at first glance. One swept his eyes over the warehouse, then turned away.
'Groans stopped. Whispers from the group.'
"How about we grab the kids and bolt?"
Arun shot back at Nil's whisper, half-scolding.
"Didn't peg you for the impatient type."
"Just say the word. Recon team's waiting within ten minutes."
"Cut it out. The guide up front—what's his sin? We can't pretend we didn't hear."
"Ahem. Would you mind disarming here?"
As soldiers approached, Landiv raised a hand to halt them.
"We walked into a ring of a hundred men accepting your demands. Now you want our swords? Planning to demand surrender right here?"
"We humbly request it."
"My lord, I cannot accept such humiliation."
Landiv turned his sword hilt forward and thumbed the guard.
Click.
"Whoa, hold on. Don't get heated—you lot, stand down too."
The guide blocked Landiv with one hand and the rising soldiers with the other. The air crackled with tension.
A command from inside ended the brief standoff.
"Silant, enough. Escort the guests inside."
"Yes, my lord. Phew, this way."
The guide bowed politely and opened the barracks door.
Creak, squeak.
Whiiish.
The three entered, bringing a gust of cold wind.
"Chilly. Close that door, would you?"
"Yes."
Thud.
The flimsy door shut, blocking the chill.
This former barracks now had a bed repurposed as a central table, where a fur-clad man in his mid-thirties greeted them. Despite lounging against his chair's backrest, his tone was courteous.
"You've arrived. Then we should even the numbers. Fetch Oland."
"Yes, my lord."
"Sit."
There was only one chair where he gestured.
"My apologies. Silant, bring more chairs. Tea ready? No mistakes this time—six cups."
Chairs were fetched, tea brewed amid the fuss. Arun stood arms crossed the whole time, while his host idly manicured his nails.
The soldier carrying in chairs muttered, "Why bother negotiating?"
Arun sighed at the obvious provocation.
"Nil, my apologies. You were right earlier."
"Then?"
Landiv stopped Nil's hand from going to his waist.
Tension spiked again.
The soldier quietly set down the chair and swallowed hard, debating whether to draw his shortsword or call for backup. Silant, setting down the teapot, and the tall knight just entering froze too.
"Tch."
Arun, casually scratching his nose, spoke up.
"I get provoking for advantage. But are you all ready to throw your lives away?"
He stepped forward, planting both hands on the cot.
"Not the eldest, surely. Second son? Third? Speak. What's success worth after you're dead?"
"Think you can kill me?"
"If I lacked the confidence, why come?"
"Tch, that was over the top. My sincere apologies."
The man smacked his lips, straightened up. His face clearly said, 'Not so easy after all.'
Only then did talks begin.
Pour.
Arun's eyebrow twitched at the deep aroma of fermented tea.
"Red tea."
"You like it?"
"Just familiar. Too young back then to appreciate it."
"Lived in the capital as a child, I take it. Ah!"
Recalling nobles trained at the capital academy to build connections, the man nodded.
"Belated introduction. Zelvain Hasseldorf."
'No middle name? Bastard or branch family.'
Arun's mind raced, but he kept his composure.
"Arun van Brennenton."
"Oho."
Zelvain's eyes widened, then he pressed on.
"Suspected as much, but you coming personally? Heard the talk. Holding the wave alone? How'd Sir Brad die? Oh, genuinely curious—did Northguard really fall?"
"Mind your manners."
Arun stopped Landiv from raising his voice.
"More mind games? What's the gain?"
"The gain's already mine. Now just make you see it."
"Then make me. Without pissing me off."
"Been悩ing over it. How to convince you? How to lock this in?"
Zelvain Hasseldorf crossed his legs leisurely.
"But then it hit me—convincing's your burden."
"Ha."
Arun sighed in exasperation.
"Civil war on humanity's front line—what's with this familiar mess?"
"Humanity's always been like that."
"So it's fine? No shame?"
"Why do you think history's full of shameful acts?"
"Blind greed. Like yours."
"Bingo. Admit it—history's written by the greedy."
Not wrong. Sixty years ago, rebels and radicals from the western continent were exiled as pioneers, birthing the Astria Empire today.
They allied with natives for survival, drove out orcs. Then stabbed each other in the back. Winners became nobles, even kings.
The emperor ratified it, solidifying their rule.
Zelvain's face flushed as he spat.
"Humanity's great journey forsook justice. Shame's nothing compared."
"That cursed profit ruins everything."
"......"
Zelvain just ground his teeth and glared.
Arun shook his head, raising then lowering his hands.
"I yield to your greed and shameless courage. Sherwood's yours; we're taking our men."
"My lord, yielding territory so easily? No."
"Orcs are quiet now, perfect. Let's clash."
"Enough."
Arun reined in Nil and Landiv.
"Enduring shame's a skill. Credit where due."
"Huh? What does that have to do with ceding land?"
"Does that even fit the context? Explain."
Even cool-headed Nil lost composure; normally polite Landiv spoke rudely too.
Bang.
"Argh."
Zelvain slammed the table and stood.
"Thanks for the shame reminder. Might as well raise the stakes now."
"Zelvain, was it? Been pleasant so far."
Arun didn't add, 'Expect consequences if you snap.' No need.
"Silant, bar the gate. Oland, subdue them."
Arun moved first.
He leaped onto the table, smashing his fist into giant Oland's crown.
Crack.
That one blow decided it all.
Oland's eyes rolled back, foam at his mouth as he collapsed.
As Arun shook out his stinging hand, Nil twisted like a serpent, grabbing Silant's throat from behind and hoisting him up.
Crash and clatter.
Nil strode over, pressing his shortsword to Silant's neck and eyeing Arun. Meanwhile, Landiv's blade tip hovered at Zelvain's wrist, just drawing from his belt.
"Not dead? What kind of skull is this?"
Arun toed the unconscious giant's head, then plucked Zelvain's sword.
"Heh heh heh, kill me then. Only war left."
"If I march on Springgarden, your chance comes?"
"...!"
"I get it—I'm third son too. Wave cost my shot."
Arun slung Zelvain's sword over his shoulder.
"Take this as spoils; you live."
"Why?"
"It's profitable."
Zelvain's pupils shook, grasp of reality slipping.
"We pull back 'cause hope remains. Despair? We'd charge Springgarden, both sides end nicely. Sound like bluff?"
Zelvain gulped, nodding slowly.
"I'll relay that."
"......"
Arun turned without regret.
"Fetch our boys. Heading home."
"Yes, my lord."
Westguard recon stormed the outpost, loading the wounded.
"Nil."
"Yes, m-my lord."
Sensing déjà vu, Arun exhaled shortly.
"Probably nothing. What's our recon limit?"
"120 km north, 150 km east."
"Drop north to 30 km, keep east."
"May I ask why? Wait, no—could it be?"
Checking his warhorse's saddle, Arun glanced back.
"Gonna let orcs give those happy fools a taste. Possible?"
"Simple. Just shrink north radius."
Quick-witted Nil pictured a passage stretching west from north and brightened.
"I'll plan linking Sherwood."
"Oof, done. Leave it to orc instincts."
"Yes, my lord."
"By the way..."
Arun blinked.
"When did 'lord' become 'my lord'?"
"Bad?"
"Not at all. Feels closer."
"Heh heh heh."
Arun wound his reins, adding,
"Kinda gives me chills too. Hya."
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
Nil shrugged wordlessly and spurred after him.
That day, Sherwood outpost fell to Springgarden. In exchange, another orc route opened to them—the consequences of this irresponsibility unknown to all.
As April arrived, the weather began to thaw bit by bit.
And the quiet orcs began to stir.