Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Shield Wall Foundations
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“Crude.”
“...Your assessment is too harsh.”
“Isn't it the truth? That's why those barbarians treat the place like their own home.”
The next dawn, after a frenzy of cleanup from the battle, Red Iron and the mountain folk who'd stayed behind in the valley finally relocated to the village.
Of course, with the village still draped in mourning, no one could openly show their faces. But the residents welcomed us subtly all the same.
And why not? Red Iron had personally hauled in a cart loaded with an anvil and a heap of steel spearheads.
Quality weapons meant raw combat power.
The villagers, who'd spent so long hauling corpses and dousing fires, could now dream of a real future instead of vague hopes.
Of course, the real problems now fell squarely on us, the ones shouldering the heavy responsibilities.
Red Iron said to me,
“Let's scale it back.”
Red Iron had spent the day circling the village palisade and found more than four gaping holes.
We'd assumed the barbarians had simply scaled it, but they'd prepped infiltration routes in advance.
How porous were our defenses to let such amateur tactics slip through?
This wasn't just a palisade flaw—it stemmed from chronic manpower shortages.
Red Iron stroked his beard and said to me,
“The deployments are inefficient. We could cut them in half at least. Use the mountains as our rear and double up the front palisade instead.”
“What about timber?”
“Recycle what we tear down. Shame I can't reinforce it with iron.”
Cutting rotations to stretch thin manpower would only erode long-term fighting strength and morale.
Better to shrink the active zone and concentrate forces where they mattered most.
Next year's crops were a lost cause anyway.
We had to fortify the granaries and housing, then tough out the winter.
I shoved last year's farmland plans from my mind and told Red Iron,
“The palisade's yours.”
“Heh, don't worry. I'll make it feel just like the old days.”
If Northerners had one tradition alongside their rock-solid shield walls, it was defenses that clung to the enemy like a curse.
A desperate strategy born from outnumbered troops and shaky supply lines, sure—but no one could deny we hunkered down like pros.
Did that grit still run in their blood?
Didn't matter.
Born in the Northern cradle with a heartbeat? Grit could be forged rolling in the dirt.
“Leave room for the training grounds.”
I passed the open lot on a chill gust, a faint smile tucked away.
“...!!”
Snow-Covered's eyes snapped open.
She flailed her whole body—but instead of cold snow and reeking blood, she felt warm bedding.
Ah, a dream.
Or was it yesterday?
A cozy bread scent from somewhere made her swallow a sob before it escaped.
Snow-Covered slowly propped up her torso and rubbed her bleary eyes.
“Oh? You're awake.”
“Don't shove your face in! You'll scare her!”
Someone was nearby, as expected.
Through her fuzzy vision, Snow-Covered spotted two recruits bickering.
How could she forget?
These were the ones who'd guarded her through last night's brutal fight.
Snow-Covered brushed away the scars of that memory and asked the recruits,
“What happened?”
“You collapsed from blood loss. Do you know how scared we were?”
Right, she remembered.
The aura-wielding barbarian warrior—and how close she'd come to dying by his hand.
Even after all this time, that chill lingered on her skin.
But worse was the lingering revulsion that wouldn't fade.
A primal rejection of killing.
Snow-Covered quietly lowered her head to stare at her faintly trembling hand.
“- - - - - - -.”
I killed a man with these hands.
It was a world apart from catching squirrels—a sickening sensation.
The blade-sliced neck stump, the pupils dimming and cooling.
Reliving it all, Snow-Covered spat bile-tinged saliva.
“...Ptoo.”
Everything has a first time.
Snow-Covered had steeled herself for it, swinging her sword willingly.
But the unwelcome experience weighed too heavy for a green warrior.
Just tough it out today.
Shake it off tomorrow.
Snow-Covered clenched her quivering right hand and tried to stand.
I'll get used to it.
Have to act like it doesn't faze me.
It was a coward's blind denial.
Swish.
But in that moment, it wasn't her left hand that enveloped her trembling right— it was someone else's touch.
“Thank you so much, Knight.”
“Huh?”
“You saved us. All of us.”
One recruit grasped her shaking hand.
Then the other approached, stacking her hand atop with words of thanks.
Like sharing the chill—warmth seeped through skin to skin.
The tremors eased, like a hatched larva settling.
Those hands were heavy. Warm.
“Oh, right! You must be hungry. The villagers baked bread and brought it over.”
“Whoa! Any wheat loaves?”
“You're such an idiot!”
She'd smelled it before even sitting up.
And sure enough, the bickering recruit hauled over a basket brimming with bread and held it out to Snow-Covered.
The loaves were rough, crude.
But the cloth and basket were covered in thank-you notes.
That heartwarming scent that woke her? Gratitude and care from folks who'd pooled and milled their barley in groups of three or five.
Beneath the revulsion lingered something else—like a whisper of duty.
Sniff.
Snow-Covered swallowed hard.
And wiped her eyes again.
A laughable span for “growth,” maybe—but it meant the world to her.
Fierce storms need a human lighthouse to cling to.
Her flailing heart steadied like a sword tip unmoved.
Nom.
Snow-Covered took a huge bite of a steaming barley loaf.
Her throat kept catching—not from size alone, but no water.
Pausing mid-chew, the girl embarking on growth peered out the window.
The whitening world choked her up.
Tears streamed, wetting her cheeks.
The two recruits quietly closed their eyes, pretending not to notice the girl's tears.
“One, two, three, pull!!”
“Heave-hooo!”
The able-bodied men yanked ropes with roars.
Thick palisade logs rose skyward, and waiting hands fixed their bases in pre-dug pits.
Tearing down the old setup and rebuilding efficiently.
Skeptical at first, the villagers grew thrilled as it took shape—work efficiency soared.
This is why you need skilled hands.
I felt grateful to Red Iron for his blueprints as I quietly opened my eyes.
Now my own task loomed.
With no clue when the enemy might strike again, it was time to forge soldiers.
“- - - - - - - -.”
The makeshift training ground.
Someone swallowed dryly.
Gulp.
Thirty-four of us stood there, me included.
Veteran militia plus promising mountain folk and villagers.
Snow-Covered and familiar recruit faces were mixed in, but I didn't acknowledge them specially.
Her expression was resolute enough not to need coddling.
I cleared my throat.
Loosened my stiff throat and spoke.
“Whatever your birth or life so far—doesn't matter. From today, you shed your old selves. You're soldiers now.”
A tiny village with a fresh palisade, just over thirty greenhorns.
Pathetic enough for orcs and elves to mock outright—but everything starts with a cornerstone.
I reached out.
spun the oak shield at my feet once, gripped it right, and faced front.
“Raise your shields.”
The recruits, laser-focused on me, flinched and grabbed theirs.
They clumsily erected them, forming ranks in whatever felt comfy.
Some high, some low.
Mismatched heights, varied grips.
But instead of scolding, I wove through the line, correcting each one's hold personally.
Thud!
“Higher.”
“Wrap your whole forearm.”
Not to hide yourself—shield your brother. Tuck your neck like a turtle.
Legs bent, ready to charge—they become anchors naturally.
“Huff... huff...”
Rigid stance drilled.
Following my cues, the recruits forming the shield wall panted roughly.
Silly shields felt heavy.
No running, yet sweat beaded foreheads.
Tension, nerves—neighbors' breaths and pounding hearts right there.
Despite the cold, bodies heated up, radiating strange warmth.
Sloppy.
But aligned right.
I circled the nascent shield wall and spoke again.
“No anvil, no hammer. War's the same! Without this wall you've made, ranks crumble like rootless trees.”
If I could bring one unit from the past? This oak-shield anvil line.
Northern army's core pillar—irreplaceable.
“...Is this really it, Knight?”
But a young recruit meeting my eyes asked dubiously.
Could rabble forming this shaky wall really be key?
I answered without hesitation.
“Yes. In war, this is everything.”
I drew my sword.
Struck the wall's blades to prove its solidity.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
“Eek!”
“Two ways home! Stacked on shields.”
Straight lines or circles—they form war's deep skeleton.
Heroes and foes mocked infantry walls, but they broke first—raven food or crippled retirees.
Core is basics.
I bellowed with grim resolve.
“Or march back holding your own!”
The recruit who'd questioned me blinked blankly awhile, then regripped his shield.
Wormed inward, reset his stance, bit his lip.
Now it begins.
Feeling winter's bite closing in, I exhaled a long plume.
Snow flurries swirled past us like a war omen.
But the chill shaking limbs couldn't quench the training ground's fever.
I roared.
“Front rank, charge!”