Chapter 51
Chapter 51
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Grassland Tale (1)
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Sven's first taste of field combat was a rough one.
There was no end to the discomforts. From morning till the moment he laid down to sleep, everything differed from life back on the estate.
The real problem, though, was that even after hitting the sack, he couldn't relax.
Ding, ding, ding.
A raucous bell tolled across the camp.
Sven bolted upright on instinct, mid-dream as he played tag with a mysterious beauty from Abra whose name he didn't know.
The hazy dreamscape shattered, replaced by the sight of his dilapidated tent and the armor he'd polished the night before.
Savoring the curves and face of the girl from his dream, he snatched up the sword leaning against him.
Someone shouted from outside.
"Night raid!"
He stepped out of the bedroll.
Adrenaline surged, snapping his mind and body into combat mode. No time to gear up properly.
He flung open the tent flap and charged out.
It was a battlefield.
The ominous aura of a slaughterhouse enveloped him.
"Young master!"
His adjutant came running, hair a wild mess from leaping out of bed.
"What happened to your hair?"
"Not the time to worry about my hair."
"Hilarious."
"Not the time to laugh."
"Then when the hell is? Damn it. What are the sentries doing? They should've woken us sooner."
Everything had felt perfect when they'd ambushed and smashed Kurui's orc settlement.
The Allied Forces, basking in victory, had resumed their march.
Next target: Okua, the new orc chieftain who'd unified the tribes.
But hell broke loose the moment they set out.
"These damn pests..."
The orcs wouldn't let the Allied Forces rest.
Scattered raids hit several times a day—sometimes small groups, sometimes hordes.
The mix threw their defenses into chaos.
Constant vigilance piled on the fatigue, slowing the army's pace.
"What the hell is the Empire doing?"
Gripping his sword, Sven grumbled as he ran, his habit kicking in.
"If they're calling up the Allied Forces, they should prepare properly. And didn't the Ten Strong join up? And that favorite of the supreme commander..."
Sven trailed off, thinking of Brioll's prince.
The kid had dirt on him, and their sparring session had left Sven thoroughly thrashed.
Still, the guy was just an eighteen-year-old boy, younger than him.
"What the hell is that pint-sized brat doing?!"
Muttering nonstop, he dashed toward the supply unit—where fighting was already underway.
"Hey!"
As Sven yelled, an orc charged him.
He tensed up.
The first time he'd faced an orc, his body had frozen.
Their grotesque looks, brute strength, and alien fighting styles had claimed many knights who'd fought alongside him.
Sven had survived thanks to backup from others.
Because his father was Wolf Gain.
"Damn it..."
Over time, he'd adapted to war.
He'd learned their patterns and his role in the fray.
Now, facing an orc didn't paralyze him—he could swing his blade instead.
If only he'd gotten here sooner.
"Ukuru durutiti akumekum!"
"Shut your trap!"
Sven parried the axe and slashed at its gut. The orc dodged. He pressed with rapid strikes, carving wounds across its body.
The orc fell back.
Sven lunged for the finishing blow, right on cue.
'Don't just charge ahead—keep your weight centered back.'
That kid's voice flashed through his mind.
Sven's toes hesitated.
The orc seized the moment, swinging viciously. The wind alone sliced Sven's nose bridge.
Going full tilt would've split his skull.
"Damn."
Yuri's advice kept stacking up, like mounting debt.
"That obnoxious bastard too."
Not content with tormenting him himself, Yuri had sent that Rolang guy.
Sven figured there couldn't be two princes like that jerk—but he'd lost even worse.
Unlike Yuri, Rolang toyed with him throughout the entire spar, without knocking him out quick.
The guy, slavishly loyal to his prince, claimed he was just training Sven on Yuri's orders.
Humiliating.
Worst of all, those two Brioll pains had actually made him stronger.
Look.
Sven dispatched one orc, then aided a struggling Liberda knight.
"Thanks, Sir Sven!"
"No problem."
The greenhorn who'd barely handled one orc was gone. In his place stood a battle-hardened, bold knight forged by war.
"Damn it, damn it..."
Then he squared off against an orc with a banner on its back.
Among orcs, it was knight-class. They called it an Orc Warrior.
Regular orcs were manageable now, but Orc Warriors were tough.
Tension hung thick.
The Orc Warrior leered at Sven without even proper weapons, then strode forward.
A knight tried to flank it.
"Akuak!"
The Orc Warrior spun, axe loaded. The knight's skull cracked open, brains spilling.
Blood splattered Sven's face.
Death came in an instant.
Not close, but they'd shared faces in the Allied Forces.
On this massive campaign, comrades kept dropping. The longer the war dragged, the more you knew them—and the deeper the grief.
"You bastard..."
Sven lunged forward on impulse.
But he halted.
Every emotional surge triggered that Brioll kid's advice, anchoring his feet.
"Okudoku, kemete duru."
The Orc Warrior beckoned mockingly.
Its turf everywhere.
Rush in rashly, and he'd end up spraying his ally's blood from his eyes, just like that knight.
Sven stepped back, scanning around.
Not just Liberda—fires lit the entire Allied Forces camp.
"This raid's big?"
"Yes. Engaged everywhere."
"No backup?"
"Not yet..."
His adjutant stood by him.
Not top-tier, but solid enough against regular orcs while guarding Sven.
"The Empire?"
"No word."
"Those jerks dragged us here—they should take responsibility. Those coal-miner-looking bastards in black armor, just dead weight..."
Orc Warrior numbers swelled.
Bad luck.
This time, the orcs' main force targeted Liberda. Nations like that usually took heavy hits.
Maybe retreat.
But his feet wouldn't move.
There, far off, his father fought bravely. Wolf Gain hadn't lived righteously, but Sven wasn't trash enough to abandon him.
Sven gripped his sword tight and spoke to his adjutant.
"Hey."
"Yes."
"You've suffered because of me."
"Young master?"
Sven lowered his stance.
"So if I die, tell the Empire exactly what I said. Tell those Empire bastards they caused all this hell, so they should all choke and drop dead. Curse their lineages for three generations, those filthy whoresons..."
"Your tongue's as nimble as ever."
"Just answer me..."
Sven froze.
Different voice.
His adjutant stood rigid. Beside him was an unfamiliar knight.
"Just as I heard."
"Who..."
Brioll knights didn't uniform their armor. He'd mistaken the affiliation at first.
Sven spotted the crest on the knight's chest and got it.
"Brioll?"
"Yes. Call me Jared."
He stepped forward.
No hesitation, no fear—like routine work.
"Opponent is..."
An Orc Warrior.
But before Sven could finish, Jared charged. Axe and sword clashed, sparks flying repeatedly.
A blistering exchange too fast to track.
Sven bit his lip.
In Liberda, only a handful of veteran knights could match Orc Warriors evenly.
But Brioll—what kind of country was it? Guys his age traded blows with Orc Warriors like it was nothing.
"Damn it..."
Sven raised his sword again.
Couldn't just watch. As he turned to act—
"Your Highness! Reinforcements!"
Knights in mismatched armor poured into the Liberda lines.
Looked more like mercenaries than a knight order—but that's how you knew they were Brioll.
Leading them was a familiar face.
A black-haired boy with a sword outsized for his frame slung over his shoulder, sauntering in.
"Yuri Brioll."
Sven must've shouted louder than he thought.
Yuri glanced his way sharply.
Sven added quickly, gauging the mood.
"Your Highness."
Yuri grinned.
"Oh, Sven—my dear friend!"
He pointed at Sven.
"A friend in need? Brioll doesn't turn away. That's Brioll for you!"
Yuri mimicked the boastful Brusenspeech trending in the Allied Forces.
Utterly at ease amid the chaos.
What grated more was the reactions around them.
"He called him friend."
"Sir Sven, friends with Brioll's third prince..."
"As expected of Count Abra's heir...!"
The awed stares pissed him off even more.
The guy's just messing with me.
"Alright, charge!"
Yuri unslung his sword from his shoulder and yelled. On cue, the Brioll knights scattered.
Mismatched gear, but maneuvers as disciplined as the Empire's orders. And Brioll's wild swordplay was more practical than any knight order.
"Sven."
Yuri sidled up before he knew it, throwing an arm around Sven's shoulders.
Fresh orc blood stained his blade.
"Waiting long? Happy I'm here?"
"..."
Blackmailed, beaten with wooden swords, subjected to humiliating guidance spars. At first, it'd cowed him—but now he was used to the misery.
Catering to moods wasn't his style.
Sven slung his arm back around Yuri.
"Yes. Thrilled to see you, my friend Prince Yuri."
"Ooh..."
Yuri's eyes widened, then he burst out laughing.
"Right—my friend, Sven!"
Sven awkwardly mirrored the laugh.
Up close, it'd seem off—but from afar, Wolf Gain watching saw heartwarming camaraderie.
His wayward son had straightened up after befriending Brioll's third prince.
Witnessing battlefield bromance stirred his own youth, warming his chest.
After the campaign, a trip to Brioll, he thought, eyeing the Orc Warrior before him.
His aura shifted. The Orc Warrior frowned and retreated a step.
"For Liberda!"
Wolf's sword whipped ten times—too fast to see.
Gain family secret technique.
The Orc Warrior, clueless at first, collapsed spewing blood from everywhere.
Wolf declared.
"No matter how you harass us, it's futile. The Allied Forces will kill your boss Okua. You trash."
Hearing "Okua," the Orc Warrior muttered.
"Okua, ganir jogobe rate..."
Wolf silenced it with a head-cleaving strike before it finished.
Then looked up.
With Brioll's aid, the tide had turned.
Liberda, cornered before, now crushed the raid. Orc screams echoed everywhere.
Wolf approached Prince Yuri.
Yuri and Sven had just tag-teamed an orc.
They were chatting.
"...do."
"...won't."
"Tch..."
Wolf drew closer.
"We'll repay this debt."
"Looking forward to it. Make sure you do."
"Count on it."
The prince and his son shared friendship to the end.
Of course, far from Wolf's imaginings—their real dynamic differed greatly—but it looked wholesome on the surface.
Wolf clapped.
"Bravo!"