Chapter 45
Chapter 45
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 045
Chapter Title: The Enemy is Behind Us (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The warhorse vigorously pounded the ground.
Dudududu.
It was a sort of ceremonial duel, but considering the horse's speed and the weight of their gear, it was no less dangerous.
"Woooah."
Familiar cheers swirled around his ears.
His ears rang from the fierce wind pressure, but that was familiar too. Ron Meyer gritted his teeth. After charging while scraping his lance along the fence, he finally caught sight of his opponent's silhouette.
'Here I go, Senior.'
Ron's lance struck Philip's shield dead-on.
Kwangkwangkwak!
The lance and shield ground against each other, shattering bits off both. In that instant, Ron's lance dug under the bottom of Philip's shield—right at the midpoint of the fence.
In the end, Philip Casamir's body was flung into the air.
"Uwaaaah!"
The soldiers went wild.
Dudududu.
As the now-riderless horse galloped off to the opposite side, Philip tumbled onto the hay bales.
"Whoa, incredible."
"Did you see that? He flew like five meters up."
"Wow, look at him—totally fine."
If this was a show, it was nothing short of art.
Crack, crack.
"Huff, huff. Whoa, whoa. Good job."
Neighhh.
Ron dismounted after stroking the warhorse's neck to calm it. By then, Philip had climbed down from the hay and was checking himself for injuries.
"That's it, right? The young knight won."
"Gotta say so. In a real match, that would've snapped his back."
"Doesn't that make the older knight even more impressive?"
The soldiers were spot-on in gauging the knights' skills by distinguishing show from reality.
Thud, thud.
The two, now switched positions, met in the middle of the fence and faced off.
"Ooh, are they gonna fight? Draw swords?"
"Nah, once you're unhorsed, it's already over."
Someone's analysis was sharp.
Clank.
Ron drew his sword and set it on the ground, then raised both hands. Philip approached and patted his back.
"Good work. I'm honestly jealous of your strength."
"I trusted you, Senior, but it was still nerve-wracking."
"Let's do the ceremony."
Philip grabbed Ron's hand and hoisted it high. Only then did the soldiers realize it was over and erupted in cheers.
"Woooah."
"Man, that was fun."
Nil Carpenter, who'd been watching, clapped enthusiastically.
"Should I have the cavalry run a league or something?"
"For real?"
"You think? More realistic to have gladiator matches against the heavy infantry."
Ray Schumacher scratched his chin for a moment, then shook his head.
"Too much hassle. We can barely handle combat losses—training injuries on top?"
"Tch. Come on, let's go say something to our hardworking guys."
'Good thing they're sane despite the looks.'
Landiv, who'd been watching, let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Setting aside the utterly cool-headed Nil Carpenter, even Ray Schumacher—whose hot-blooded appearance suggested otherwise—possessed the cautious instincts of a true commander deep down.
Grateful anew for his capable comrades, Landiv approached the pair who'd finished their bout.
"Hahaha, that was impressive."
"Well done. Thanks for the great show."
"We condensed it for convenience. Normally, it's best of three, swapping weapons each time—but given the circumstances."
Ray Schumacher nodded at Philip Casamir's explanation.
"I get it. Once you're mounted with sword in hand, it's kill or be killed, whether in the imperial capital or here at Westguard. Stopping short shows skill and honor, doesn't it?"
'How far are they gonna keep surprising us?'
Landiv and Nil blinked at each other with identical expressions.
Even after the match ended, the soldiers lingered, whistling and savoring the afterglow.
Meanwhile, Philip and Ron were sizing up their surroundings.
'The heat rivals a stadium.'
'They look rough, but polite and welcoming.'
The knight with the half-handsome, half-monstrous face was one thing, but the man leading the cavalry was clearly a field-promoted knight. Same for the bearded knight with the noticeably broad shoulders.
'Ray Schumacher, heavy infantry commander.'
Philip knew many people thanks to his years. Folks from the capital were usually rude—those shielded by their families, convinced of their safety.
But those fighting on the northern frontlines, steeling themselves for death, were earnest.
'I'd fight alongside comrades like these.'
Philip and Ron met eyes and gave a small nod.
The main god Aimzel Seligma was originally the god of agriculture.
Shortened to Aimsel, the church was the sole denomination brought over by the migrants.
From the early settlement days, they never shirked caring for the needy while actively cooperating with those in power, propelling them to success. Now, they enjoyed status rivaling major imperial institutions.
At the pinnacle sat the pope, backed by divine authority, advised by cardinals.
Baron Vailun von Aimbor walked the temple corridor, strikingly similar to the imperial palace.
'People are all the same.'
Cardinals wielding power beside the pope was no different from ministers grasping it beside the emperor.
If folks worked for money and wielded power for politics, the world would be peaceful. But people chase power for money, and more money through power connections.
When unified goals corrupt the process, leaving no one able to achieve them—who benefits?
'Anyone who can claim the top spot wouldn't care how it happens.'
He flashed a friendly smile at the priest glancing back repeatedly as they walked.
Soon, the priest ushered the baron into the reception room and bowed.
"Please wait a moment."
"Sorry for the inconvenience. This is an offering."
"May the main god's blessings be with you."
What he slipped the priest privately wasn't an offering—it was a bribe. Yet both giver and receiver acted with pious calm.
Alone now in the ornate space of white and gold—where all are equal before god—the precious time of an imperial heavyweight ticked away, as if to affirm the words.
He chuckled softly and muttered again.
"People are all the same."
"God created humans, so of course. Come in, Court Baron."
"Your Eminence."
Despite his high rank, the baron bowed in respect. The cardinal did the same. It violated doctrine—bow to none but god—but respect was shown.
"He just finished the three daily prayers and is in meditation. Please, sit."
"Yes. It's been too long."
"Too long? We've received word of Your Excellency's devotion."
A meaningful greeting passed, tea was poured, and state affairs discussed.
"Duke Arhun? How long since the barbarians started calling themselves lords?"
"It's already decided: his eldest daughter as a concubine."
"Heavens. Isn't that too hasty? Converting heretics takes time."
Cardinal Feis Balterheim openly showed displeasure.
Heresy trials and pagan conversions were the church's core business—and massive revenue streams. Losing one was a blow.
"For the empire, His Majesty has decided. A decree will soon enfeoff Duke Arhun as grand duke and elevate his lands to grand duchy."
"Hrm. If it's His Majesty's command, we must obey."
The cardinal sneered, but the baron looked fully understanding.
"The southern barbarians have raided using the desert as shield for over a decade. The damages were immense—but now, the empire's losses and the church's sacrifices end."
"So, you're asking to waive the heresy trials?"
"For Arhun Grand Duchy to stand with the empire means serving one god, one emperor, doesn't it?"
'One god' was the Aimsel Church's slogan.
Only then did the vast missionary potential of Arhun Grand Duchy hit Cardinal Feis.
"We'll need to prepare a new diocese."
"Congratulations on expanding without bloodshed."
"All thanks to the main god's grace. I'll be sure to inform His Holiness of the Court Baron's dedication."
The mood shifted instantly.
The cardinal lavishly praised the Court Baron and ministers' efforts; the baron credited all glory to god, pleasing him.
"Roughly fifty percent of missionary funds will be allocated."
"Oho."
"We're exploring other measures too. How about attaching a security force under the Holy Knights?"
"Feasible?"
Missions, dubbed silent invasions, often sparked violence. Elite Holy Knights were great for punishment but not versatile for all scenarios.
"The empire will use Arhun Grand Duchy as a shield to dismantle the desert league eventually. As part of that, we'll form garrison forces—with Holy Knights at the vanguard."
"Why not?"
"I'll arrange detailed talks through our staff."
"Our church will assemble bishops for the same."
Having aligned on key points, the two set aside tea for wine to toast.
"Wine in the temple—feels sinful."
"You didn't know? Even His Holiness enjoys it."
"Then, to His Holiness's reign."
'His Holiness's reign' was a phrase unbecoming of the Court Baron.
The pope neither ruled nor governed, merely conveying god's word. Yet the church hinted at parity with the emperor whenever possible, a growing issue.
"Hohoho, you're a model for all nobles, Baron."
"May the main god's grace and the empire's glory fill the continent."
They clinked glasses and quenched their throats with wine.
Clink.
Setting down his empty glass, the baron casually voiced a concern.
"One worry is the northern barons."
"Northern?"
"Hasseldorf—or Kasseldorf in their accent—then Brennenton and Caminity. Caminity's fallen, they say."
"Tch, messy."
Baron Vailun gave a wry smile.
"Very messy. I'd like some discipline."
"Think that'll work on border barons? Ah, perhaps?"
"All equal before god. It's dormant, but precedent exists for heresy screening on title inheritance."
Cardinal Feis nodded, recalling.
"True, but..."
It was a money grab on nobles, halted by pushback.
"Full audits are tough, but targeting suspects for trials?"
"Not impossible. Got a specific target?"
Baron Vailun shrugged.
"Someone I want to warn."
"Who?"
"Well..."
As the measured explanation continued, the cardinal nodded. They were scratching each other's backs, business done.
The next day, a church summons headed north.
Spring had fully bloomed in the north before long.
Westguard's camp buzzed with training.
"The line is your lifeline. Step together. One-two, one-two."
Drill Instructor Harrig, who'd been dozing to the chants like a lullaby, snapped his eyes open. Past fifty, he napped lightly more often, but his instincts stayed sharp.
"How's training going?"
"Milord?"
He saluted casually, as if he'd never dozed.
"Better than expected, but no spirit. Slave soldier trait, probably."
"If they're hopeless, shift to logistics?"
"Tricky. They mesh perfectly as shield troops."
"Hm."
Arun glanced at Baron Creep beside him.
"What do you think? Well-trained slave shieldmen?"
"You mean entrust them to me?"
The baron, who'd started private drills with five squires and fifty from his house, brightened.
"Your command experience is rare. How about consolidating the slaves into the 'Creep Battalion'?"
"Entrust it to me, and I'll do my utmost."
No baron would refuse reinforcements. He saluted fist to chest.
Brad's torturers mostly kept promises.
Baron Serjo Crim paid half the agreed 1,500 gold; the Meyer house sent 1,500 gold plus twenty carts of arrows and bolts.
Supplies stockpiled, funds fully spent.
Work began reinforcing palisades and widening moats; mobilized locals got daily wages.
Workshops processed leather into armor; smithies melted iron nonstop. Wartime economy in full swing.
And May arrived.
On a petal-strewn day, a summons reached the fortress.
"Whew, didn't see that coming."
Ominous premonitions always hit true; trials always exceeded imagination.
Arun smacked his lips.