Chapter 64
Chapter 64
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 64
Chapter Title: Black-Haired Knight King
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Two days had passed since Ogmar departed.
The orc chieftains, following orders, had exerted every effort to retreat the main orc force down to the boundary near Snowgarden.
But the Northern Army relentlessly harassed them, preventing any further advance.
Exhausted from the march, the chieftains were ultimately isolated in an unnamed forest.
If only the enemy would fight head-on—but the Northern Army tormented the orc main force with every dirty trick: ambushes, traps, night raids, and interceptions.
The once-mighty orc army was being gnawed away, slowly, ever so slowly, like bread before a starving rat.
But that wasn't the only problem.
"Our supplies have run out."
The provisions had finally bottomed out.
To make matters worse, winter's harsh grip brought death by freezing among their ranks, snuffing out what little fighting spirit remained.
The steel weapons the orcs prided themselves on had become cold instruments that tore at their flesh and morale.
The chieftains, their faces gaunt and haggard, finally bowed their heads, sensing the end drawing near.
Until Ogmar returned, no solutions or countermeasures were in sight.
A heavy silence settled over the tent.
Finally, an elderly chieftain with experience serving in the North spoke up gravely.
"We've lost the war. To save our tribesmen, we have no choice but to retreat to the homeland."
The rear command post had fallen, and contact with Supreme Commander Ogmar was severed.
With the main force in dire straits as well, the war's outcome was all but decided.
But the issue was that so many tribesmen were still holding out, looking to them for salvation.
To even save their lives, they had to escape the North and fall back to the homeland.
"Can we even make it back to the homeland?"
"...Do you think those bastards will just let us go? Damn humans!"
The Northern Army wouldn't stand idly by while this many orcs returned home.
They'd cling like demons, stripping them to the bone.
The orc chieftains, who had come to fear the Northern Army after just one war, gazed uneasily at the forest on the opposite side where the enemy had pitched camp.
The old chieftain let out a deep sigh and proposed the one plan with a sliver of hope.
"We still hold the advantage in raw power. So split the main force in two: one half holds them off, the other reclaims the capital."
Whatever had happened with Ogmar's side was unknown, but the Northern forces active near the capital were just the White-Horned Deer Cavalry.
If they marched now and attacked, it would secure a bridgehead—either to retreat to the homeland or hold out.
The other chieftains, seeing no better option, organized a detachment to pin down the Northern Army.
Dududududu——.
"?"
But at that moment, the rumble of hooves echoed through the air.
A cavalry unit was approaching from the south, where no Northern Army should be.
That direction was where Ogmar's mounted force had departed just two days ago!
The chieftains' faces lit up as they rushed out of the tent to welcome their returning supreme commander.
"Supreme Commander!"
"We worried for nothing!"
Of course. Ogmar was renowned even in the homeland.
How could such a great warrior lose to a mere human riding a deer?
As the chieftains hurried forward, the starving, shivering orc warriors rose one by one and gathered around.
Supreme Commander Ogmar! The only warrior who could save their hunger-weakened, weary souls.
Filled with anticipation, the orcs raised their weapons high once more, ready to fight.
"Uh...?"
But the lone sentry watching the rear couldn't share their joy.
Because the cavalry charging from the forest wasn't led by orcs.
Whose head was that, impaled on the long spear?
His face draining of color, the sentry shouted desperately about the riders' identity.
"Enemy! It's the enemy! Northern Army!"
Snow-white fur, snow-white antlers, and Northern humans riding atop them.
Charging with proud banners flying—it was the White-Horned Deer Cavalry.
Bwooooooo——!!
A thunderous cavalry trumpet signaling the war's end struck the heart of the orc main force.
The cavalry burst through the forest, forming a wedge formation before slamming into the orcs.
Thud! Crunch!
Aaahhh!
The deer's numbers had dwindled to less than half after successive battles.
But the ferocity they brought from the slaughter was incomparable to their first sortie.
Broken Sword drew his bowstring taut and loosed a flare arrow into the sky above the forest.
Pheeeeeew——!
Dong! Dong! Dong!
The time had finally come!
Receiving the signal, the Northern Army main force began its advance, encircling the orcs in the chaotic forest.
As if heralding the end of the Northern orcs.
Black storm clouds veiled the sun, dumping snow and plunging the world into darkness.
It was the curse of the dead and the sorrow of the living.
The orc warriors finally lost their will to fight and began fleeing in all directions.
"R-Run!"
"Uwaaaah!"
"Don't scatter! If we scatter, we'll all...! Gahk!"
The chieftains tried to stop the rout.
But the cowards had already fled with their tribesmen, while those who fought to the end ended up beheaded and displayed on spears.
Thus, that afternoon, the allied force Ogmar had gathered at the encampment was utterly routed.
The surviving orcs were mere scattered remnants by tribe, and not a single chieftain made it back to the homeland.
* * *
The village chief who once governed a small slash-and-burn hamlet had risen to administer the vast territory of Northplomb.
Yet he still wished to be called simply "Village Chief," working tirelessly like an ant to develop the land, just as before.
He cared for the refugees and wounded evacuated to the rear with all his might and forwarded every supply demanded by the commanders to the front.
Thanks to him, the advancing Northern Army could focus solely on battle without worry.
Northplomb, the first reclaimed territory, and its Village Chief had fully fulfilled their roles as the rear base.
But cruel fate spared not even such a man.
Setting down his quill, the Village Chief covered his mouth with his hand and coughed harshly.
"Cough, cough!"
Blood stained his palm.
A young scribe, startled, rushed over with a clean cloth to wipe it away.
"Are you all right, Village Chief?"
"...I'm fine."
"You should head home early and rest today. This winter's been especially harsh."
Since the Northern Army set out to reclaim their lands, the Village Chief hadn't taken a single day off.
His efforts had stabilized the rear swiftly, but he'd contracted an incurable lung disease.
Was it inevitable old age, or the lingering effects of wounds from the barbarians long ago?
The Village Chief instinctively knew his time was short.
Mother North, how heartless to call me away amid this war.
With a faint smile, he picked up his weathered quill once more.
"Just some simple tasks. Let's finish them quickly."
"Yes, Village Chief..."
While he ate three square meals safely in the territory, the soldiers at the front were covered in blood and dust, fighting on.
Though his health was failing, he intended to see his duties through to the end.
The scribe returned to his seat with a glum expression and scribbled diligently.
Scratch, scratch.
A single oil lamp flickered softly.
The window overlooking the vast territory trembled in the winter wind.
Knock knock.
But then, someone knocked from outside the office, which should have been empty.
The messenger pigeon handler, who should have clocked out, had come urgently to see the Village Chief.
"Village Chief!"
"Hm? At this late hour..."
"A pigeon from the front lines. Looks like urgent news—they've been arriving one after another."
Normally, pigeons arrived by morning or afternoon.
But tonight, one from the front had arrived deep into the night.
"Thank you."
"No, it's my job. See you tomorrow."
What could have happened?
A twinge of anxiety hit him as he hurriedly took the tightly sealed letter.
"Hm?"
A crest he'd never seen before.
Not the crude sealing wax of old, but a beautiful emblem of Broken Sword and flames sealing the letter shut.
Pop.
Puzzled, the Village Chief peeled off the wax and extracted the missive from the battlefield.
His dimming vision cleared, revealing the brief message.
Reading it, he slowly closed his eyes.
'Capital reclaimed. North liberated.'
He had lived his youth chasing glory and honor, only to spend his later years in regret.
But a man and a girl who arrived with winter had planted a dream in him.
'Let's rebuild the North.'
'For humans alone.'
The Village Chief doubted his ears.
Not because the words seemed fanciful, but because his heart, which he'd thought dead, began to beat again.
He had given his all to the end.
Born an ordinary man with average talents, he poured everything into serving humanity.
Thus, after two years of fleeting seasons beyond the window, the promise was fulfilled.
They had returned the North, so brutally torn apart by orcs, to human hands.
"My king, live long and prosper..."
The Village Chief folded the letter with care.
And prayed for young King Snow-Covered, whose only remaining task was to ascend the throne.
Yes, heaven isn't entirely merciless.
It allowed him, in his allotted time, to witness a human king don the human crown.
Mother, grant me just a little more time.
To reach the distant capital, I must hurry over countless plains and mountains.
Finishing his prayer, the Village Chief smiled brightly for the first time in ages and turned to the scribe.
"I should turn in early tonight."
"Pardon?"
"You go first. Tomorrow at dawn, we'll head to the capital with the supply wagons."
"...Yes, Village Chief."
Nodding at his words, the scribe rose carefully and exited.
Young as he was, he wasn't so oblivious as to miss the moisture glistening in the Village Chief's eyes.
Creeak, clunk.
As the scribe left, the Village Chief extinguished the last lamp and stepped outside.
The wind was still biting cold.
Breathing out a puff of vapor, he slowly descended the snow-blanketed slope.
"———."
Northplomb, the quiet Northern territory visible from the hilltop council hall.
Grown from the residents' sweat, it had become the North's hub, sheltering refugees and sustaining the army.
This view will be my last of the year.
Thinking of heading south early tomorrow, the Village Chief quickened his pace.
Yes, it was around this time.
The day he clasped hands with Broken Sword and promised a future.
The Village Chief smiled warmly, quietly reminiscing on the now-cherished memory.
'That child will be my disciple.'
'...She'll make a fine king.'
'If it's Broken Sword, I can entrust her. Take good care of the villagers.'