Chapter 53
Chapter 53
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 53
Chapter Title: Embers of Rebellion
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Rough Oats felt like his chest was about to burst.
The chivalry he'd kept hidden for years was now making his heart race wildly.
A great victory that shook the North!
The triumph humanity had wrested from the orcs had spread far beyond the vicinity of Spring Road, reaching every corner of the North.
But this victory brought more than just emotional euphoria or satisfaction.
At last, a spark of hope had ignited in this land, where only despair and fear had lingered.
'We are not slaves.'
The main reason past rebellions and uprisings had failed was the lack of a proper focal point.
No matter how fiercely a fire burned, if it couldn't spread further, it held no meaning.
But this time was different.
A new king, bearing the formidable legitimacy of being the Knight King's successor and having boldly waged all-out war against Tiguma, had become the center of that flame.
Rise up, and rise again, people of the North.
The northerners, armed with sickles and pitchforks, rose from their seats without anyone needing to urge them first.
And behind them were those who had chosen glorious perseverance over safe convergence.
"Thank you all for gathering."
Having left Spring Road, Rough Oats mobilized every ounce of his capabilities and connections to swiftly track down veteran soldiers who hadn't yet joined.
What had once been a daunting task became as easy as gleaning stray sheaves from a harvested field, now that he had a solid backing.
Yet despite successfully completing his mission, Rough Oats did not return.
That was because a letter from Spring Road had arrived, keeping him in place.
The message was brief.
'Light a fire. Meet as counterfire.'
The proclamations and rumors spreading across the North were a political maneuver orchestrated and planned by Broken Sword to incite rebellion.
Having foreseen even this situation in advance, he hadn't stopped at mere scheming. He had sent a secret missive to Rough Oats, who was conveniently active outside.
Light a fire. Meet as counterfire.
Rough Oats, who had served under the Sword Saint for many years, understood its meaning perfectly.
With a resolute expression, he quietly intoned to the assembled retired knights and soldiers.
"The responsibility is grave."
The Northern Army needed time to recover from the war's damages and reorganize its ranks.
And the uprisings breaking out across various regions were a great boon to the army, which required that breathing room.
But Broken Sword wanted this rebellion to be more than just a temporary respite or a fleeting operation. He hoped it would evolve into another sphere of influence.
More systematically, more organized.
As guerrilla forces that would relentlessly harass the orc rear and delay their convergence.
To meet those conditions, the participation of experienced veterans was essential.
The so-called "Ash Heap Gathering."
There were no better fits for this scheme than the retired soldiers who had lived in hiding until now.
"......Let's meet again alive."
Could there be a more glorious mission than this?
Having pledged to reunite, the Ash Heaps scattered in all directions, steel in their hearts.
Clang! Scraaape!
Krunch! Kraaaagh!
"Just hold on a little longer, everyone! Just a bit more, and reinforcements will arrive!"
The young man Handman, thrust into the role of rebel leader, bravely stepped forward.
He vigorously encouraged the residents behind the barricade while thrusting his spear ahead.
Krunch! Slash!
But in vain, his spear, thrust with all his might, failed to pierce the orc's armor, and the resident right beside him was felled by a flying axe.
The orc warrior's crimson eyes gleamed menacingly through the steel helmet.
Handman swallowed hard and instinctively scanned the battlefield, from which screams emanated.
Aaaagh!
Sis, sis! No, sis!
All residents able to wield weapons—men and women, young and old—had gathered.
Yet, proving that wars weren't won by numbers alone, the steel-armored orc warriors breached the defensive line.
The residents yielded ground helplessly and began to retreat, casualties mounting as horrific corpses littered the field.
But there was nowhere to flee.
The first and second defensive lines had long been overrun, and if this final line fell, the trembling people behind would be in peril.
They had risen for family and neighbors—could they abandon them and run?
Even a mere rat bares its teeth when it forms a desperate last stand.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
Handman bellowed.
And he instinctively hurled himself at an orc warrior about to end a boy soldier's life.
"Gruk?"
Thud!
He mustered his final burst of courage.
And cleverly targeting the lower body, he succeeded in toppling the orc warrior.
Of course, he himself tumbled into the blood-and-guts mire, but he harbored no regrets.
Handman drew a tanning knife and stabbed at the gaps in the armor.
Grrruk!
Entangled in heavy armor and mud, unable to rise, the orc warrior took a stab to the throat.
Yet despite the fatal wound gushing blood, it swung a fist at Handman.
Thwack!
Handman collapsed amid surging pain, as did the orc warrior, driven now by pure instinct.
Like a beast, it mounted Handman and began throttling his neck.
Grrrrr!
"Guh, guk!"
How terrifying.
Blood pouring from its neck, yet the orc thought only of killing the human.
As his blurring vision darkened, Handman shed tears that soaked his bloodied face.
It wasn't cowardly regret in the face of death, but the final quiver of a falling flower.
Handman wanted to live.
Slash!
"Cough, cough!"
But in that instant, the pressure on his throat vanished, and fresh oxygen rushed into his lungs.
His hazy mind cleared.
Handman gasped for air, coughing violently and thrashing about.
What had happened?
Had the orc throttling him lost strength midway and fled?
Wiping mud from his eyes, Handman tried to face the enemies again.
"......?"
But where the orc warrior should have been lay only a decapitated corpse.
No, not just it—other orcs had long since fallen as corpses too.
Aura, longsword, black leather armor.
Knights had arrived on the battlefield, capes billowing as they swung their swords.
"For Mother North!"
Slash! Boom, crunch!
Overwhelming momentum, combat prowess armed with aura.
The orc warriors were decapitated without a chance to counterattack.
Was this really reality?
Handman and the residents were momentarily stunned.
The orc warriors who had driven the village to the brink were massacred by fewer than eight knights.
Step, step, step.
No orcs moved anymore.
Then, a brown-haired knight splattered in blood approached Handman and asked.
"Who is this Handman?"
"I-I'm Handman."
Northern knights, leagues beyond a nobody like him, had addressed him.
Startled, Handman hurriedly bowed to express gratitude for his rescue.
But the knight gripped his shoulder firmly, as if to say not to bow.
His eyes brimmed with the camaraderie of fellow warriors.
"I salute the courage you all showed. From now on, we'll stand together."
"Ah......!"
The knights approached in splendid array, contrasting the ragged residents fresh from battle.
They shouldn't have matched, yet strangely, the sight felt right.
The Ash Heaps who had joined to aid the rebels.
What they thought was a dying spark had bought a full month.
Slash, slash.
Plop.
I tossed aside the blunted quill and dipped a fresh one in ink.
Then, I penned replies one by one on the leather parchments, organizing future plans.
For now, the scheme had succeeded brilliantly.
The uprisings across the North were gaining heat, and the Ash Heap Gathering I'd named had safely linked up with the rebels.
The seasoned Ash Heaps would help establish the rebels' identity and maintain close ties with the main force.
Meanwhile, thanks to the time they'd bought, the Northern Army at Spring Road focused on recovering losses and filling gaps from the plains battle.
They reorganized the heavily depleted Oak Infantry and bolstered numbers with more White-Horned Deer from rear Northplomb.
Of course, they didn't neglect dispatching small-to-medium forces to expand influence.
Scattered though they were, each action greatly pressured the orcs.
All this, for the day of the decisive battle.
I folded the last letter and cleared the thoughts sprawled across my mind.
Creak.
The office door opened, and the armed Gray Wolf came to see me.
Lost in work without noticing the night pass, dawn had already arrived.
"Working through another night? You must be exhausted."
"......It's nothing. How was training?"
"Good as always."
Lately, with postwar cleanup, expansion projects, and such, reports piled up by the hundreds daily.
Thus, my daily dawn sword training with Snow-Covered had been taken over by Gray Wolf.
I was truly grateful to have him.
Thanks to that, Snow-Covered—who had reached peak form—was growing at a steep pace.
Gray Wolf smiled proudly.
"Aura sometimes forms at the sword tip."
"Impressive."
She had advanced from unconsciously sensing aura to manifesting it at will.
That meant aura condensation was just around the corner.
Would anyone believe this girl had learned sword and aura just a year ago?
Proud of my history-making disciple, I rose from my seat.
Crack.
Stretching brought the sound of cracking bones.
Rubbing my fatigue-crusted eyes, I accepted the water Gray Wolf offered and drank.
The water, chilled with thin ice from the cold winter, hinted at the weather outside.
Refreshed by the cold drink, I quietly asked Gray Wolf.
"How's the mood among the people?"
"Everyone's dazed. They don't grasp the war situation, but they feel it in their bones."
We unwaveringly trusted in our victory at the plains showdown, but the participating soldiers and residents harbored subconscious anxiety.
Unlike previous battles leveraging terrain and timing, this had been a raw clash of strength.
But we had seized victory on the open plains, proudly announcing the new king's lineage and the Northern Army's revival.
Now they realized it too.
That our bold advances, once mere thrusts, had become bricks to build steadily upon.
Gray Wolf asked me.
"Plans unchanged?"
"Unchanged."
Having drawn out and slain their maximum force, Tiguma, I planned to do the same with Ogmar.
Thinking of the fool who'd issued the muster order, I walked to the strategy map.
Step, step.
Even now, the rebels and Ash Heaps were dragging things out in delaying actions.
Winter grew harsher, yet the Northern Army expanded endlessly.
Ogmar would grow impatient.
Defending while awaiting aid? The homeland was mired in civil war with no end in sight. Press the muster? Guerrillas nipped at his heels.
With weather, timing, and circumstances all against him, Ogmar—tasked with holding the northern colony—had only one choice: a preemptive strike.
I advanced the Northern Army banners one by one, methodically encroaching on orc territory.
It was exactly like herding for a hunt.
"Keep stirring them up, enough to flush out the rabbit."