Chapter 155
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 155
The surrounding Orcs all took a step back from Sturman.
The chieftain was the strongest warrior in the tribe, a fact acknowledged by all. To them, Sturman—the man who had defeated that chieftain single-handedly—must have looked like the Grim Reaper himself. Not a single Orc dared to charge him blindly.
"Hmph."
Scoffing, Sturman slowly straightened his bent back.
Just then, a booming explosion echoed from afar. The deep indigo night sky, which had remained pitch-black despite Sian's sphere of light, instantly lit up as bright as day.
Turning his head, he saw a pillar of fire rising dozens of meters into the air.
"Tsk."
Recognizing the nature of the flames, Sturman clicked his tongue, his expression full of pity as he watched her final, desperate act.
Though it likely wasn't the end Kart had wanted, it was the one Rainmay must have chosen after agonizing over her options. He could only pray that her death was one without regrets.
"Whew… pant. I'm in no position to worry about others."
Sturman braced himself, steadying his posture once more. It was time to return. All he had to do now was go back and hang this Orc chieftain's head high in the Imperial Army's main camp.
"Commander!"
Right on cue, Imperial cavalrymen came charging in from the distance, cutting down Orcs as they rode. The Woldur Orcs, having completely lost their will to fight, scattered in all directions.
The cavalrymen surveyed the scene, unable to hide their astonishment.
"Did you really… win?"
"You sound as if you wanted me to die."
"N-No, of course not!"
"It was just a joke. Help me, soldier. We need to take this Orc's head."
Decapitating the corpse didn't take long. Soon, Sturman was holding the severed head of the Orc chieftain, staring at its mangled face for a long moment.
So this is it…
This was the ‘tangible hope’ Rainmay had spoken of.
The physical proof that would plant a single thought in the hearts of their soldiers: Maybe we can win.
"…We are returning to camp."
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"Once we return, prepare the tallest flagpole we can find. We're going to hang this head high, just like those Orc bastards did to ours."
The cavalrymen dismounted to support Sturman. His hand, which had been gripping his hammer, was caked in sweat and blood, making it difficult to let go.
It took nearly a minute just for the exhausted commander to mount his warhorse.
After nearly falling off several times, Sturman finally managed to steady himself. A few cavalrymen formed a defensive perimeter around him and took the lead.
It was just as they turned their horses to head back.
"Neighhh!"
"Aaargh!"
Suddenly, the warhorses shrieked and collapsed. Arrows and axes flew from the darkness, striking the cavalrymen who had lost their balance.
Sturman hit the ground hard, rolling and coughing up blood. He lifted his head and looked up.
"Dammit."
In that brief moment of vulnerability, another group of Orcs had rushed them.
This was the problem. There were simply too many. No matter how many they killed, more just kept coming.
Can we break through?
Sturman quickly scanned the area. Perhaps because they had rushed over, there were fewer than ten of them.
We can win thi—
Just as the thought crossed his mind, a massive silhouette emerged from the darkness behind them.
Another explosion of magic detonated in the distance. For a split second, the battlefield lit up, revealing the newcomer's identity.
"Nargu."
The Orc gatekeeper who had fallen from the sky and killed the Imperial Prince was approaching.
Why was a gatekeeper from another tribe in the Woldur camp? Sturman had no time for such questions.
He quickly assessed the situation. Two cavalrymen were still alive. One horse remained. It was limping, but the injury seemed minor. It could still run. Thank god.
"Get a grip," Sturman said.
The cavalryman lying face down in terror beside him slowly raised his head.
Sturman handed the Orc chieftain's head to him.
"Commander…"
As he took the head, the cavalryman understood. His face contorted as if he were about to burst into tears.
"C-Commander?"
"Can you do it?"
"M-Me, sir? I-I think you should be the one, Commander…"
"I asked if you can do it."
"B-But how can I, all by myself…"
"Stop whining and pull yourself together!"
Slap!
The sharp sound of Sturman striking the cavalryman's cheek echoed in the night. Clutching his stinging face, the soldier finally seemed to snap out of his panic, nodding frantically.
"Listen closely, because I don't have time to repeat myself. When you get back, you will not share any other news. You will tell everyone exactly what I am about to say. Do you understand?"
"I-I understand."
"Too quiet!"
"I understand!"
"Good! I took one, Sir Rainmay took one, and Sir Kart took one. We have slain three chieftains of the six great tribes that make up Nilkumbal! The enemy is just as chaotic as we are. Tell them to hold on. Tell them not to be afraid. The enemy is not an immortal army, nor are they invincible. Tell them we can win."
The Orcs, who had been hesitating, seemed to sense something was wrong and began to charge.
As Sturman finished his bellowed command, the cavalryman scrambled to his feet and threw himself onto the horse. He pulled the reins with one hand and spurred the animal into the darkness, galloping toward the Imperial camp.
"S-Screeech! Stop him! Stop him!"
Two Orcs immediately gave chase. Sturman snatched an axe from the ground and hurled it, splitting the skull of one of the pursuers.
The attention of all the surrounding Orcs snapped back to him. There were still only a few.
But in his current state, facing another gatekeeper was impossible.
Nargu was getting closer. Of course, Sturman had no intention of dying easily. Squeezing out every last drop of his strength, he raised his hammer.
Ah.
Gwyn died fighting Rene on the Knecht.
Ainar was brutally impaled by Swallow's black thorns.
Barisik, too, drew his last breath on this battlefield of the Annun Plains.
Is this karma?
He had believed that if his evil was for the sake of the Empire, he might find some small salvation. But in the end, was he always destined to pay the price?
"I guess this is as far as I go."
Limping, he advanced toward the massive Orc gatekeeper, Nargu. He channeled every ounce of strength left in his body.
Leaping into the air, Sturman swung the final strike of his life.
Phase. 3
A lone cavalryman sprinted against the tide of battle.
Though he was a cavalryman, he had no mount. His warhorse was long dead. The limping beast had been an easy target for the Orcs, breathing its last before it had gotten far. Having barely escaped with his life, the cavalryman had nothing to rely on but his own two legs.
"Pant, pant."
Stray arrows and magical fireballs flew from all directions, but he had no time to dodge. He simply ran straight ahead. He had to return to the allied camp, no matter what.
"Can you do it?"
I will. I have to.
Though he hadn't been able to give a straight answer back then, he was duty-bound to carry out Sturman's final command.
"Pant, pant."
He ran and ran, cutting across the battlefield until his breath caught in his throat. Every time it did, he looked down at the gruesome prize he clutched in his arms.
The Orc gatekeeper's head.
The small sliver of hope that had to be shown to everyone.
It was what Sturman had traded his life for. It was more precious than his own. That was why, no matter how much his body screamed in protest, he could not stop.
"Gasp, gasp."
After running for what felt like an eternity, the allied front line came into view. As the cavalryman staggered toward it, two knights spotted him and blocked his path.
"For what reason have you returned—"
One of the knights, who had been glaring with wary eyes, fell silent the moment his gaze drifted downward.
He stared at the Orc's head, at the blood still dripping from it, and said, "Wait here."
Immediately, a Count who had been observing from behind approached, his expression bewildered. He could tell from the cavalryman's solemn face that this was no joyful news.
"What… happened?"
"Pant, pant. I have a message to deliver."
"What message? Whose command is it?!" the Count snapped. With the front line being pushed back and soldiers dying left and right, his temper was frayed to its limit.
In response, the cavalryman held out the Orc's head.
The Count fell silent. He stared at the head, then at the distinct helmet still fixed upon it.
Though the face was crushed beyond recognition by a hammer, the helmet undoubtedly belonged to an Orc gatekeeper.
"We must, pant, tell all the soldiers… and we must hang this in the highest place where everyone can see it. Pant, pant, raise it up…"
The Count's expression stiffened. He stared at the head, his eyes widening as despair washed over his face.
"Whose… command is this?"
"It is the command of the Subjugation Squad Commander! So…"
"Sir Sturman's command? Then where is Sir Sturman?"
"That is…"
In an instant, the Count drew his sword.
Even amidst the chaos of battle, his breathing was heavy enough to be heard. His face was flushed red.
The cavalryman's hesitation was all the confirmation he needed. His worst fears were real.
"You bastard! I asked where Sir Sturman is!"
"The enemy! Three of their gatekeepers have been killed!"
At the cavalryman's tearful shout, the Count flinched.
"That is all I have to report! I was ordered to report only that! I will take full responsibility for my silence after the war is over! If you demand my life then, I will gladly give it!"
"…"
"So, so right now…!"
Clatter.
The sword slipped from the Count's hand and fell to the ground. For a moment, his face was a mask of pure emptiness.
After the two stared at each other for a brief, tense moment, the Count asked in an unnervingly calm voice, "What can I do to help?"
"We have to let all the soldiers know. We need a flagpole to hang the head!"
"I understand, but the battle is too chaotic. This is a plain, there's no high ground. Even if we raise it, there's no guarantee everyone will see it."
"Then what should we…"
The cavalryman frantically scanned his surroundings. His gaze stopped at one spot.
"The watchtower."
A makeshift watchtower, temporarily erected on the right side of the battlefield, caught his eye.
"Can't we climb the watchtower?"
The Count followed his gaze.
Since the watchtower was a temporary structure, it had no roof. Raising a flag from it wouldn't be a problem. Furthermore, it was the highest point on the plains, offering the best chance for the most soldiers to see it.
"But that place is…"
It was a fierce battleground, teeming with Orcs. It had originally been Imperial territory, but night raids had turned it into a contested zone, constantly changing hands.
To reach that watchtower, they would have to break through the Orc lines.
The problem is… there is nowhere else.
The Count looked around, but not a single other watchtower was intact. The rest were either burned down or destroyed, utterly unclimbable.
There was only one option.
"…You must be prepared to die."
"I should have died long ago," the cavalryman replied, his voice trembling.
With their resolve solidified, things moved quickly. With the help of another soldier, the cavalryman impaled the Orc gatekeeper's head on a flagpole. The Count gathered his remaining men and ordered them to retake the watchtower.
Though the soldiers were steeped in despair, the cavalryman's story lit a fire in them. Squeezing out every ounce of strength they didn't know they had, they charged.
"Fight! Fight!"
"Clear a path!"
"Protect the flag!"
Breaking through a lost position was no different from diving headfirst into the enemy's heart.
Countless soldiers fell.
The clash of steel and the screams of men blended into a horrifying symphony that slowly ground down the resolve of the survivors.
Yet, they fought on. As corpses piled up, a path slowly began to form.
"Ugh… Argh…"
The soldier guarding directly in front of the cavalryman had his head obliterated by an Orc shaman's magic. Another man holding the line with a shield rolled on the ground, his ankle shattered.
Amidst the absolute carnage, the cavalryman stubbornly clawed his way up the watchtower.
"Finally…"
Stepping over the bodies of his comrades, he reached the top and raised the flagpole high.
The cavalryman bellowed.
"Soldiers of the Empire!"
But his voice was swallowed by the din. The battlefield was far louder than he had ever imagined.
He had always heard the commanders' orders so clearly; he'd assumed his own voice would carry just as well. It was a complete illusion.
Panicking, the cavalryman raised his voice once more.
"My comrades!"