Chapter 23
Chapter 23
"Advance!"
Booooooooooom.
With the long blast of a horn, the castle gates opened, and the MacLaine family's forces marched out, led by knights clad in heavy armor atop their steeds.
Fifty-three knights.
Over five hundred cavalrymen—not conscripts but regular soldiers, also known as knight trainees.
And nearly five thousand conscripts.
A grand army totaling more than five thousand.
Three days after the declaration of war, the MacLaine territory had mobilized troops beyond its limits.
Among the conscripts, there were even boys so young that their downy hair still stood on end.
Moreover, a quarter of the conscripts carried nothing more than crude spears and makeshift wooden shields—barely equipped for battle.
It was no exaggeration to say they were merely filling numbers.
'There's no choice. The invaders have staked their fate, so we must throw everything we have into this.'
Patrick forcibly justified the excessive conscription and deliberately turned his gaze skyward.
Mounted on a massive black warhorse half again as large as an ordinary knight's steed, he wore a helmet adorned with a crimson plume. From the very front, he raised his hand.
"Waaaaah!"
The territory's people cheered at the sight, but beneath the forced enthusiasm, their expressions were thick with unease.
"Where's the enemy?"
"They've advanced within a day's distance."
"We'll meet them by midday."
"Yes."
Tension laced the exchange between Patrick and Heinkel.
But contrary to their inner turmoil, their faces remained calm as they surveyed the people—a deliberate facade to soothe the soldiers and civilians' frayed nerves.
Yet that composed expression vanished shortly after leaving the castle gates.
"Where has Logan gone?"
"...He left at dawn with the mercenaries."
"Why?"
"I'm not entirely sure..."
"What?!"
Patrick's face twisted at Heinkel's reply.
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"The command over the mercenaries lies with the Grand Prince. And..."
"Because he's been acting somewhat responsibly lately?"
"..."
"Heinkel, you've grown lax as well."
"My apologies."
As Heinkel hastily bowed his head, Patrick exhaled a deep sigh.
"Sigh... I suppose people don't change so easily after all."
"Huh?"
Heinkel gave him a puzzled look at the sudden lament, but Patrick wasn't blaming him.
"It seems I had foolish expectations for Logan."
"..."
"He must have fled. Consider him removed from our forces."
At Patrick's decisive tone, Heinkel jerked his head up.
Though their time together had been brief, the training sessions had shown him that the Grand Prince was not the type to abandon his people.
But before he could voice his thoughts, someone beside Patrick exploded in protest.
"That's impossible!"
A boy straining under the weight of armor slightly too large for his frame—Ronian, the prodigy who had awakened as a Force User before his fifteenth birthday—flared his crimson eyes and shouted in defiance.
"Big Brother would never do that!"
Ronian recalled the image of his brother, who had sought him out during training not long ago.
—Not yet. It's still not time. I can't control it yet.
When Ronian had asked why his brother sighed with such regret, Logan had demonstrated a technique so advanced it left even Ronian—still unskilled—stunned.
A secret art no knight, not even their father, had ever shown him.
—I'll teach you soon. Together, we'll save our family.
From that moment, Ronian was certain his brother had sensed something ominous brewing.
There was no way such a man would abandon their family now.
"Big Brother already foresaw this war! He would never—!"
Ronian raised his voice as if defending his own honor, standing up for Logan.
But Patrick only scowled at his youngest son's outburst.
"Ronian. Don't defend Logan. The fact remains—he isn't here."
"No! Big Brother would never flee! Never!"
Though Ronian only meant to take Logan's side, his booming voice only fueled the murmurs spreading through the ranks.
"The Grand Prince ran away?"
"So the rumors were true?"
"The lord's own son?"
Murmur, murmur.
As the soldiers' unease grew, Patrick roared at Ronian.
"Regardless, he isn't here now! He's absent from the battle that will decide our family's fate! If that's not fleeing, what is?!"
"..."
No matter how much Ronian wanted to argue back, he had no grounds to refute.
He could only clench his jaw, his face stiff with frustration.
Patrick looked at him and spoke in a voice cold with finality.
"A noble must fulfill a noble's duty to be a true noble. One who abandons the most basic obligation has no right to the title!"
The most fundamental duty of nobility was to protect their people from external threats.
For a knightly family like the MacLaines, this was paramount.
Having declared as much, Patrick gripped Ronian's shoulder.
"So Ronian, you must take your brother's place. Do not waver!"
Ronian weakly nodded under his father's gaze—eyes so like his own, yet brimming with an incomparably fiercer resolve.
With a sigh, Patrick turned away.
It wasn't pleasant for him, either, to treat one of his sons as if he no longer existed.
But seeing the visibly plummeting morale and hearing the soldiers' hushed whispers, such sentiments were a luxury.
'I should have cast him out back then.'
He regretted the foolish hope he'd harbored when Logan had shown—or pretended to show—remorse.
Even if his late wife's face flickered in his memory, he should have hardened his heart.
Then, at least the soldiers' morale wouldn't be...
"No. No."
Patrick shook his head, dispelling the weak thought.
What kind of knight entertains such doubts on the eve of battle?
Grit.
He bit his lip, the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth, sharpening his focus.
'Right...'
Whether his son was here or not, whether they were outnumbered—none of that mattered now.
"We must win."
They had to protect their family.
That was the greatest purpose of his life.
His will transformed into fighting spirit, elevating Patrick's presence endlessly.
Blood trickled from his bitten lips as he swore victory.
"We will prevail! Without fail!"
That will and energy radiated outward.
"Yes!"
As fighting spirit spread rapidly, Patrick seized the shifting atmosphere and bellowed with all his might.
"Full speed ahead!"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The majestic drumbeats accompanied the enemy's flawless maneuvers.
The sight of their vastly superior numbers forming ranks was enough to sap the soldiers' morale.
And then...
"The Grand Prince ran away too, didn't he?"
"Shh!"
"Careful with that talk! It's just a rumor!"
"A rumor? Look for yourself—do you see that red-headed lunatic anywhere?"
Unintentionally, another rumor about Logan spread, further eroding morale.
But not everyone believed it—some even fired back in outrage.
"Shut up! Our prince would never do that!"
"What's with him?"
"That's the lunatic's attendant."
"Why's a noble's personal attendant here?"
"To lend a hand, obviously. Can't you see how outnumbered we are?"
Despite Rick's spirited retorts, the army's morale continued to plummet uncontrollably.
"Why are we even..."
"...Can we really win?"
"No, will we even survive...?"
Anxiety spread like a plague, and the soldiers' murmurs grew louder—until Patrick raised his sword and thundered.
"Do not fear! We will be victorious!"
Simultaneously, the knights raised their blades, and a sharp energy erupted from their ranks.
Especially from Patrick, a High Knight—his aura was so palpable that those nearby could almost see it taking shape.
A crackling, invisible force.
It soothed the frightened soldiers' hearts and inexplicably kindled courage.
Soon, war cries erupted across the MacLaine formation.
"Waaaaah!"
A roar to match the enemy's, uplifting each other.
The earlier unease had visibly diminished.
'This should suffice.'
Patrick had boosted morale by flaunting his might.
And seeing the enemy's lack of reaction only reinforced his hopeful conviction.
'They truly have no High Knight.'
Thus reassured, Patrick kept his eyes fixed on the enemy.
Before long, the two armies faced each other across less than a kilometer of distance.
"I will sever Baron MacLaine's head and avenge my grandfather! Sons of sinners, stretch out your necks and meet my blade!"
Haman Tesron, a golden-haired middle-aged man at the enemy's forefront, boldly drew his sword and pointed it forward.
In response, Patrick stepped out from the MacLaine ranks.
"Good! I'll take that blade! Let us test our mettle, knight to knight!"
His voice boomed across the plains.
The arrogance and confidence in his shout lifted his men's spirits once more.
Unlike Patrick, who stood alone at the front, Haman Tesron retreated into his formation.
Soon, a hundred heavily armored knights on horseback emerged at the vanguard.
"My knights are my blade. Try to withstand them, Patrick MacLaine."
From the enemy's rear, Haman Tesron's voice rang out. Patrick scoffed in response.
"Too cowardly to face me alone! Hiding like a rat makes my face burn with shame!"
Laughter burst from the MacLaine ranks at his taunt.
Seizing the rising momentum, Patrick roared again without hesitation.
"Crush these rabble led by a spineless lord!"
His sword pointed at the enemy.
"Charge!"
The war had begun.
'Break through the vanguard!'
Patrick, at the very tip of the spearhead, spurred his horse forward with terrifying speed.
To overcome their overwhelming numerical disadvantage, his role was crucial.
He had to shatter the enemy's knightly order, disrupt their cohesion—only then could they hope for victory.
So, he poured his life's strength into his lance charge, the first clash.
His will was to obliterate at least two or three knights in a single strike.
His steed, enhanced by Force, accelerated further, and the energy concentrated in his lance grew stronger, emitting a vivid crimson glow.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
In an instant, they closed the distance. The enemy's knights, clad in thick armor like his own, came into view—along with their leader at the forefront.
'Hm? A shield?'
Regardless of their primary weapon, the essence of a charge lay in the lance.
Nothing concentrated destructive power into a single point like a lance at full gallop.
Of course, if one could achieve the same effect with another weapon, there was no need to insist on a lance.
But he hadn't expected the enemy's leader to meet his charge head-on with a shield.
'Does he truly believe he can withstand my charge? How dare he?!'
Rising fury amplified Patrick's energy to explosive levels.
Whoooooosh.
He would smash this fool and skewer the knights behind him in one go.
Kwaaaaaang!
A deafening crash echoed across the battlefield.
But the result was far from what Patrick had envisioned.
"Ghk!"
Gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his wrist, Patrick staggered his horse to a halt.
Though he'd dispersed the impact through masterful Force control, a sharp ache radiated through his lance hand, and the shock had reached his steed.
Had the impact been even slightly stronger, his sturdy warhorse's legs might have buckled.
Of course, the enemy wasn't unscathed either.
Unlike Patrick's mount, the enemy's horse had collapsed from the impact, and the leading knight had fallen, blood seeping from beneath his helmet.
It was clearly more than a minor wound—yet Patrick couldn't hide his shock.
'He blocked it?!'
Beneath the helmet, the enemy's lips curled into a smirk despite the blood.
Cough. "As expected of the Baron. Even with all our preparation, this is the result."
The bastard's taunt only stoked Patrick's fury further.
He couldn't afford to stall here.
"Damn it!"
"Pair up and take them down! Crush them all!"
"You think you can stop me?!"
With Patrick's advance halted, the MacLaine knights were being pushed back by the enemy's superior numbers.
'No. This can't happen!'
The dire consequences of this setback flashed before his eyes.
Patrick felt like he'd go mad. He had to kill this man and regain momentum.
"I'll slaughter you, you bastard!"
Ignoring the voice in his head screaming that it was too late, Patrick discarded his lance and drew his sword.
Hiiiiiiing!
His massive black steed lunged forward, charging straight at the enemy knight.
Patrick's sword, blazing crimson, swung down.
Kwaaaaang!
Yet once again, his strike failed to land.
Two knights who'd appeared out of nowhere intercepted him with a greatsword and spear, the clash ringing with explosive force.
"Baron, you'll have to play with us."
Worse, the first knight—the one who'd blocked his charge—wiped the blood from his mouth and drew a longsword.
A chill seeped into Patrick's fury-heated mind.
The shield-bearing knight's words resurfaced in his memory.
"...So you were prepared for me, is that it?"
His voice, now icy, trembled faintly.
"Do you like our welcome?"
The first knight smirked, tilting his head mockingly. Patrick glared.
One thing was certain from having his charge blocked.
'A High Knight. To think they had a High Knight...'
An inexperienced one, perhaps—but undoubtedly a High Knight.
That was why they could stand against him.
Now he understood what gave Haman Tesron such confidence—but the realization came too late.
'And the other four are at least Mid-Knights.'
Beneath his helmet, Patrick's face darkened with despair.
'If I'm held back, the knights are held back. And if the knights are held back...'
Their already outnumbered main force would be crushed under the enemy's weight.
Even if the knights were their main strength, without them, they stood no chance.
The image of the knights being hunted down in a pincer attack—the worst-case scenario—flashed through his mind.
"I won't allow it!"
His despair gave way to rage, manifesting as a vicious slash.
But—
Kwaaaaang!
The enemy was no pushover.