Chapter 48
Chapter 48
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 48
Chapter Title: Black-Haired Knight King 48
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The Northern Army pressed southward relentlessly, undeterred by the fierce cold and snow.
They seized six more large and small encampments, while simultaneously liberating and absorbing over ten slave villages.
Supply lines were no concern.
The war materials stockpiled from plundering the North overflowed in abundance—enough to sleep on loaves of bread—and the steel they so proudly boasted of was shipped straight to the Northplomb territory.
Yet even the finest blade dulls with use against foes.
The prolonged campaign had left the soldiers visibly fatigued, and the civilians trailing the march began to grow anxious over the endless advance.
We knew it was time to call it quits.
Thus, the expedition halted for reorganization, pausing what had seemed like an unending march.
'We'll camp here.'
The Northern Army stopped its advance and settled into a strategic position to begin constructing an outpost.
With a chance to catch our breath, it was time to handle all the postponed tasks.
'Get that in there properly!'
'One, two, three! Heave!'
Built on surplus manpower and resources, the outpost took shape at a rapid pace.
Considering it would serve as the main route linking Snow Garden and Northplomb, we couldn't afford half-measures.
I even named the outpost "Springroad" and led from the front until its completion.
The moment it was finished, we sorted out the wounded soldiers from the campaign and the freed civilians deemed unfit for combat, sending them back to the safe rear territory of Northplomb.
With more casualties and freed civilians sure to come, we needed to establish periodic relay points starting from Springroad.
This was all Snow-Covered's consideration—treating soldiers and civilians not as expendable tools.
Red Iron joined to run a field forge, and weapons began production on-site.
New recruits, diligently training in the makeshift barracks, received fresh blades and were formally assigned to units.
And that was far from the end.
The more we won, the more Northern humans would be freed—and join our ranks as soldiers.
Our one glaring weakness, limited growth potential, shattered with the outpost's construction.
Unfortunately, not all news reaching my ears was good.
For the "signs" we'd anticipated and awaited had finally arrived.
'Orc scouting party spotted.'
'Orc sergeant en route back eliminated.'
The nearby encampments, sensing something amiss, began grasping the situation.
The tide of change sweeping in with the harsh winter.
BAM—!!!
"Eek!"
Unable to contain himself any longer, Ogmar slammed both fists down on his desk, smashing it to splinters.
The trembling orc officials let out shrill screams in shock.
How furious must he be for the wise Ogmar to act like this?
He'd vent his irritation before, but never explode like this—smashing furniture no less. The officials couldn't hide their panic.
Huff, huff.
Still seething, Ogmar snorted hot breaths repeatedly.
One orc official cautiously picked up the fallen report from the floor.
[Rebellion outbreak. Suspected human perpetrators. Current damage scale unknown.]
Rebellions typically arose from internal groups with fractured unity.
Just as fires start from embers or breached dams from cracks, uprisings usually had precursors.
Say, slaves harboring widespread discontent, or the emergence of an uncontrolled liberated leader.
Encampments existed to manage and report such issues preemptively.
But had they?
No.
So it erupted.
The rebellion broke out.
Reading the report, the orc official understood Ogmar's rage.
Encampments were brute-force warrior hubs, never efficient administrative districts.
Ogmar's face twisted demon-like as he demanded,
"Has the origin been pinpointed?"
"W-We dispatched messengers in haste, sir."
"Not messengers—you go yourselves and confirm! Investigate the missing sergeants; that'll outline it."
He couldn't trust those incompetent chiefs.
Ogmar personally stamped clan seals on mobilization orders for encampment warriors, dispatching the officials directly.
This rebellion felt ominous.
Ogmar, who'd dragged these thick-skulled fools to this point, sensed it instinctively.
The fire was lit; he had to play firefighter himself.
"And you!"
"Y-Yes, Chief Administrator!"
"Tell Tigmar to prepare the army! Full readiness for immediate march once location's confirmed!"
"Chief Tigmar, sir?"
"Don't make me repeat myself!"
Chief Tigmar, war hero and Ogmar's close kin, commanded the largest encampment.
Age had dulled his fangs like a toothless tiger, but no one dismissed the chief running the biggest outpost.
"Yes, sir!"
Right—he and Ogmar went way back; he'd budge that heavy rear.
The nodding official saluted briskly and dashed from the office.
"Hoo..."
Confirming his reliable direct subordinates gone, Ogmar sank into his seat.
With a deep sigh, he scooped up the fallen report and burned it.
Whoosh!
Even as Chief Administrator, mobilizing large forces required a muster edict.
But he couldn't issue the one unused for six years over mere slave unrest.
Yes, Tigmar would handle it.
Ogmar recalled his once-famous warrior kin, forcing unease from his mind.
Outside, snow fell again today.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Stamp harder—more!
The field forge at the outpost hummed busily as ever today.
Freed blacksmiths had joined, boosting weapon output significantly.
Red Iron, of course, stood at the center.
"I miss my wife so much..."
"It's only been a week."
"You wouldn't understand love."
The man who'd loved only fire and steel had become a hopeless romantic.
They'd weathered that last spat well, it seemed—their bond deeper than ever.
No kids due to age, but their happy life made the years feel real.
I chuckled, carefully lifting a freshly made spearhead.
Superior steel and more skilled hands made it far better than Northplomb's.
"Quantities are on track. We should equip everyone by the deadline."
"...Good work."
Most orc stockpiles were raw materials needing only processing into arms.
Thus, reorganized recruits got quality weapons and armor too.
Red Iron smirked and asked,
"A big one's really coming, huh?"
"Yeah, soon."
Today alone: three orc scout units and four orc messengers to encampments slain.
Ambushed at key routes—that much; beyond our reach, intel on us was spreading fast.
No hiding or turning back now.
Time for the Northern Army's hidden truth to surface.
"And we'll win."
All as anticipated.
No—we'd waited for this since before the war.
Veteran expeditionaries with ample experience; green civilian soldiers rapidly filling gaps.
Commanders of exceptional talent, led by Snow-Covered blooming into her prime.
I guarantee it.
Not yet at kingdom's golden age peak, but among revival forces these past eight years, ours was the finest army.
I gazed at the new barracks and training soldiers.
A sudden thought prompted me to ask Red Iron,
"How's that coming?"
"Seventy-first blade. Rushing 'decent quality' ones as requested."
"Should time out perfectly."
Before leaving Northplomb, I'd asked Red Iron for one favor.
One hundred 'decent quality' swords suited to my swing.
Leaders wondered if for troops; I brushed it off as vague future need.
Red Iron, sole knower of the reason, confirmed,
"For that Ogmar bastard, right?"
"Yeah."
Chief Administrator Ogmar: the "wise orc," longtime competent overseer of this Northern colony.
Unlike his scholarly title, he wielded otherworldly aura reserves and an axe like an extension of himself—a true master.
Head-on? Even a Gray Wolf might barely gain edge.
Orcs faced thus far were elite warriors; from here, superhumans.
Fights where a hair's breadth decided death or maiming.
Ogmar was our massive wall—a mountain to surmount.
Red Iron nodded.
"I'll meet the deadline."
"Thanks."
'Decent' my foot—all one hundred hand-forged by him.
I thanked the ever-devoted blacksmith sincerely.
Weapons producing smoothly, time to circulate again.
I brushed snow from my snow-white hair, heading for barracks.
Clop, clop, clop!
But then—a soldier on deer-back galloped into the outpost's heart.
Familiar face, always bearing news to me.
I halted, looking up.
"Sir! You need to come quick!"
"Busy day. Main camp summons?"
"No, sir! Someone at the gate urgently seeks you!"
"...The gate?"
"They call themselves veteran soldiers! Insist on seeing you!"
Veteran soldiers— I startled, instinctively glancing aside.
Red Iron, equally shocked, bolted for the gate.
Northern Army veterans—how could I forget?
Once lords of the North, now our forgotten comrades-in-arms.
I hopped aboard before the proffered hand, gripping deer fur tight.
The white-horned deer shot toward the gate as if waiting.
Clop, clop, clop!
Overtaking the sprinting Red Iron.
Curses trailed from behind, ignored; I urgently asked the soldier,
"How many? Everyone safe?"
"Around thirty, sir! Ragged but outwardly fine."
"Mentioned old units?"
"Uh... no. But the spokesman—unlike others—wore a sword."
Sword, sword. Only one soldier type wielded them.
A possibility flashed; I spurred the deer harder.
They were all gathering.