Even If Those Bastards Fight Well
Despite the enemies' fiercer-than-expected resistance, the count didn't lose his composure. Or rather, he was just pretending to be composed while inwardly cursing the incompetent mercenaries nonstop.
'You useless bastards! How much silver have you pocketed from me!'
Strategy—anyone who's played a sim game gets it. When the expensive units you've shelled out for underperform, it's human nature to let the swears fly. But fortunately, the count's frustration couldn't touch the battle unfolding far away. What could he do about it anyway? He wasn't the commander or a warrior. He was just the moneybags boss.
Did a grumpy boss ever make his players choke? Sure, if he ran out there yelling about how he couldn't fight, it might mess with morale—but with Sir Dikedo on guard duty, that kind of insanity wasn't happening.
So the count decided not to blow his top at all. A wise call. If he raged every time he remembered the mercenaries he'd paid top coin for were a ragtag mob, he'd burn out his temper completely.
"..."
Unlike the count, who was forcibly swallowing his anger, Sir Dikedo observed the battlefield with the utmost seriousness. It was the seasoned poise only a veteran knight could exude.
Ian and Lucy had lost interest ages ago. At first it was exciting, but the melee was such a chaotic mess they couldn't tell who was who. They just figured the sheer numbers meant they were winning, more or less.
"How's it looking, sir?"
Sir Dikedo's grave expression prompted Ian to ask the older knight.
"...The Black Knight."
"Pardon?"
"That knight in black armor... Definitely from the Baek Kingdom in the East."
Black Knight? Ian scanned the battlefield again. There was a knight in unusually black armor. Sir Dikedo had been watching him.
"Whoa, what the hell?"
Ian, spotting the Black Knight late, watched the knight fight as if mesmerized. And no wonder—the Black Knight's prowess was outstanding even to Ian, who knew zilch about war.
The Black Knight swung his blade nimbly, mowing down surrounding soldiers. One of the count's knights charged him but surrendered after barely ten exchanges.
As Ian and Sir Dikedo focused, Lucy and the count joined in watching the Black Knight. And everyone was stunned.
That knight fights way too well.
Grame's forces showed exactly the combat power they'd expected. They fought decently enough, but numbers overwhelmed them. Proof? The left and right flanks were slowly getting encircled and picked off.
But not the center, where the Black Knight rampaged.
"He's practically broken through the center single-handedly?"
"...It looks that way."
Ian had learned battle from fiction. Meaning he knew jack. If he'd had a gaming app for fun, he might've picked up tips from all the war stories he'd binged—but Ian was just an engineering student who giggled at his computer screen.
Even to him, the situation felt bizarre. Yeah, bizarre nailed it. With the flanks gaining ground, the center was quietly giving way? Ian had never seen that in his war stories.
A hot wind blew in. The thick, stifling battlefield gust tousled Ian's black hair. The heat of battle, plain as day.
Ian smoothed his hair and asked Sir Dikedo, "What happens if the center breaks?"
"..."
Silence fell, not even a cricket chirping. The only sound was the agonized screams from afar. The death rattles of lives snuffed out. The spot close enough to reach at a sprint had already turned to hell.
This was a medieval battlefield.
"Next... it'll be us."
Lucy's face went pale. Not just her. The count's guards, the handful of troops left to attend him—they all started quaking as the stench of death rolled in.
"If the center retreats... the enemy won't chase the runners. They'll head straight for Your Excellency."
"Yeah, probably."
A truth even Ian grasped. The enemy wanted the count. Snag him, and it was like rubbing a magic lamp—problem solved.
"You... you worthless scum!"
The count finally unleashed his bottled roar. A noble's fury: charismatic, weighty, enough to cow those around him.
But... this was a battlefield. Might ruled, not charisma.
"Fight, you cowards! Idiots! I said fight! Did you crawl all the way to this godforsaken land just to die like dogs to the enemy? You fools of the world!"
"Your Excellency! Compose yourself!"
Ian eyed the count's wild glare and got chills. This guy's lost it a bit.
Consumed by rage, the count bellowed, "Sir Dikedo! Take the field! Go slay that vile Eastern Black Knight!"
"...Yes, Your Excellency!"
Sir Dikedo drew his sword at once. Though relegated to guard duty amid younger knights, he'd had no complaints till now. He'd served Count Catania since his youth. The count had elevated a landless free knight and sent him into battle with trust. Unlike contract knights, he was family to the house—loyal to the core.
With a direct order from His Excellency, Sir Dikedo would obey anything.
"Mercenaries! Follow me! His Excellency expects great deeds from you!"
As Sir Dikedo mounted, Ian couldn't stand it and dashed forward.
"Sir! What are you doing?!"
"By His Excellency's command, I'll hold the enemy."
"Alone? Against those maniacs steamrolling down?"
Sir Dikedo replied calmly, "I've been summoned by His Excellency. A knight's oath demands I act."
Act? Ian coolly assessed. The center wasn't just crumbling—it was past that, barreling to the next stage. Total collapse.
"Save meee!"
"Y-you monster! Get out of this battlefield... gahk!"
"Run! Just run!"
"Toss the count as bait! We won't chase you!"
Despite defeat, most fleeing mercenaries survived—absurdly—by ditching the count as bait!
They knew: their one-kill scrub lives versus the count's body, on which the whole battle hinged. No contest.
Hordes of bloodthirsty foes surged toward the count's position. Ian's mouth went dry, heart pounding like mad.
...Block that now? Just 'cause the count ordered it?!
"Sir Dikedo!"
Ian stuck close and hissed. Unlike the thuggish knights, Sir Dikedo was a true gentleman who knew his duty. He'd chatted with Ian on the march, never crying "witchcraft!" at his magic.
Why should he clean up some idiot's mess? On a suicidal mission, no less!
"Let's retreat with the count!"
"And the remaining troops?"
"What other troops? Look with your eyes! Our center's knights got chewed up by those dog-food bastards!"
"You! Do you even know what retreat means?!"
Ian yelled, "I do! Even a mage like me knows that! Running from defeat! Routing! But look, sir! Do we look like we're winning?!"
"..."
Sir Dikedo clamped his mouth shut stubbornly. For the first time since dropping into this world—hell, maybe ever—Ian was genuinely pissed.
He hadn't foreseen this mess. The knights? Annoying, but not worth him stepping in. He wasn't the count's or Talian's vassal. Someone else's war. So he'd stayed out.
Or rather, nothing hinted it'd go south. Double the numbers—how could they lose? Victory was a given; he'd yielded the glory share.
But those knight bastards shredded it...
"Sir Dikedo!"
Then a count's knight galloped up from afar. Ian gaped again. Wait, weren't you one of the center knights? Why the fuck are you here now?
"I hate to admit defeat! Beware that black-armored knight! He's a monster!"
...Simple: a routed knight fleeing.
"'Hate to admit'? Shameless as hell. Reincarnate later and you'd make a great politician."
"...What nonsense is that? Insolent cur!"
Shockingly, the knight didn't catch Ian's grumble—carefully modern slang. But the vibe hit, so he figured it was mage fancy ancient curses.
"If it weren't urgent, I'd cut out your tongue!"
"What? Fuck, you mad bastard? Cut it? Do it! Right now!"
"Enough! Both of you!"
Sir Dikedo barked. "Sir Sirg! Rally the troops! Every second counts!"
"And you, Sir Dikedo?"
"I have His Excellency's order. I'll fell that black-armored knight."
No sooner said than Sir Sirg scoffed at Sir Dikedo.
"Ah, right. Good luck."
"Sir Sirg, join me...!"
"I'll retreat with His Excellency."
"...!"
"Don't look like that. Gotta live for the next chance, right?"
Before Sir Dikedo could stop him, Sir Sirg vanished. Blatant as day. Ian had to admire the sheer speed of that panty-drop sprint.
"This okay?"
"What?"
"A defeated knight shirking... Ugh, later!"
Anyone who's seen medieval noble ranks knows: knights are mid-tier, half-noble. They could act freely-ish. Fleeing with the count—not deserting—meant no punishment.
"Mage Ian, return and guard His Excellency and Baroness Talian."
"But..."
Sir Dikedo donned his helmet. The picture of knighthood.
"I'll buy time here."
"Sir Dikedo."
"What're you doing? Move!"
Lucy arrived to fetch Ian right on cue.
"Ian! What're you doing? The count's ordered retreat! Hurry!"
"..."
Sir Dikedo and a few loyal men spurred off like arrows. All ready to die for the count.
That instant, Mage Ian vaulted onto a horse.
"Ian?!"
Stunned, Lucy yelled.
"Lucy! Go flee with that Sirg thug or whatever! Damn, telling you to go with a thug feels off!"
"Ian, you—!"
Mage Ian...
"I'll retreat with Sir Dikedo!"
"What?!"
Impulsively, Ian chose to ride with Sir Dikedo. No clear reason. Maybe he just couldn't watch a friendly knight die.
But Ian was sure: Send Sir Dikedo alone, 100% defeat. Add a mage's tricks...
And they might beat this ordeal. Like a mage aiding a knight in old tales.
"Ian!"
Lucy cried. She saw it—the earnest fire in Mage Ian's eyes. How sincere he was.
She didn't want to let him go. Of course she worried. Wanted him by her side forever.
But... Ian was nothing to her officially. No vassal, no fiancé.
So she just wished him luck. Please come back safe.
"Ignore me, Ian!"
"You too, Lucy!"
Ian whispered Maronius to the horse's ear and galloped like the wind.
"Sir Dikedo!"
Sir Dikedo startled as Ian rode alongside.
"Ian? Why are you here?"
"Why? Heavy-ass mage offering hands-on help—got a problem?"
"It's dangerous. I can't guarantee your life!"
"Not your worry! I'm a mage! Got tricks to save my own skin!"
Sir Dikedo burst laughing at Ian's flippant tone. Even to an acquaintance, Ian seemed downright eccentric. That mad mindset! Real deal wizard!
"Of course! If the mage says so, who am I to argue!"
Knight and mage charged the foe like loosed arrows.
The arrowhead aimed straight at...
The Black Knight in ebony armor.