Blood Cult at the Romance Fantasy Battlefield
That night, the command tent on the northern frontline buzzed with tension as Volkrik Ironside and the other senior officers gathered. Kyle Hartvalt. Karon Hartvalt.
The key knights and staff officers responsible for the front lines. A broad map of the entire northern sector lay spread across the central table, dotted with small pegs and stone markers indicating allied and enemy positions.
Volkrik jabbed a gauntleted finger at one section of the map. "Scout report. Half a day's march northwest from this fortress, near a small hill area. We've got an orc pack on the move."
His thick finger pressed down hard on the spot. "Roughly fifty, though the exact count isn't confirmed. They're reported to be prowling the vicinity."
A heavy silence settled over the tent. To the central nobility, orcs were little more than stupid monsters—violent, ugly, oversized brutes. But for anyone who had bled on the northern front, orcs were something far more dangerous.
They lived in organized groups, employed crude but effective tactics, and were a sentient race. Unlike mindless beasts, they could assess when to retreat, set traps to hunt humans, and prove to be frustratingly clever adversaries.
Kyle narrowed his eyes at the stone marker on the map. Fifty of them. The number felt ambiguous. Too few to be a genuine assault force meant to hammer the walls. Yet their approach this close to the fortress was far too bold for a simple foraging party. Either scouts or bait.
In the memories of his previous life, the original novel had never described the northern front in this level of detail. It was simply the place where the male lead, Karon, earned his greatest merits.
A romanticized battlefield where he slaughtered monsters and rose as a hero. Nothing more than a vague backdrop.
But this was no stage for playing at heroism. This was a real war zone where only cold calculation and raw practicality kept you alive.
Kyle spoke in a quiet tone. "If it's only fifty, I'll take my two subordinates, confirm the situation, and deal with them."
Every gaze in the tent snapped toward him. One staff officer frowned deeply. "Grand Duke Heir. You're suggesting three people against fifty orcs? That's reckless, even for a knight."
"The goal is confirmation and elimination, not open battle," Kyle replied evenly. "Moving a large force would likely alert the enemy. If those fifty are scouts or bait meant to draw us out, a massive response is exactly what they want."
He traced the hill area on the map with a fingertip. "A small team approaching stealthily makes verification easier. If we can eliminate them, fine. If we spot a main force behind them or any suspicious ambush patterns, we withdraw immediately."
The tent fell quiet again. The proposal had logic; it couldn't be dismissed as mere recklessness. In fact, committing a large force might prove more dangerous.
From across the table, Karon stared at Kyle. Cold light gleamed in his blue eyes.
"Brother," Karon began, his voice outwardly gentle. "On the battlefield, knowing when to avoid danger is also a form of wisdom. You've only just arrived at the northern front. There's no need to push yourself from the very beginning. Why not leave this to the knights under my command?"
On the surface, it sounded like brotherly concern. The truth was far different. Karon didn't believe Kyle would die to a mere fifty orcs. Not after seeing Wulfran's displayed skill and reading the letter their father had sent from the main family.
Taken together, the information suggested Kyle had every chance of scoring achievements here. Handling an orc pack with only three people the day after arriving? That would leave a powerful impression on the soldiers and veteran knights.
I can't allow him to build merits the moment he sets foot on the front.
Whatever his inner thoughts, Karon kept his expression laced with worry.
"Lord Karon's point is reasonable," another commander added cautiously, echoing the sentiment. "We can't be certain those fifty orcs are all there is. As the Grand Duke Heir suggested, this could easily be a trap designed to lure us in."
"Which is precisely why I'm going with a small team," Kyle answered, not even sparing Karon a glance. "There's no reason to drag a large force into an enemy lure and suffer losses. A highly mobile small unit can verify the bait and eliminate it far more efficiently."
Volkrik stood with arms crossed, watching Kyle in silence. The contents of the letter from the previous Duke Valgrim echoed in his mind. This is a matter His Grace the previous Duke has already approved.
The former duke had granted Kyle independent operational authority over a small special squad. To ensure it didn't undermine the overall command structure, however, final judgment remained with Volkrik as commander-in-chief.
And in his assessment...
"Grand Duke Heir," Volkrik asked in a grave voice. "Are you confident?"
Kyle didn't hesitate. "If it's truly only fifty as expected, I can handle it with my current forces."
He added immediately, "But I won't make absolute guarantees on the battlefield. If they have large-scale reinforcements, if it's a trap, or if any variable exceeds my control, I'll withdraw without delay."
Kyle's green eyes cooled like frost. "I have no intention of dying a dog's death just because I'm blinded by glory."
The atmosphere in the tent shifted subtly. This wasn't reckless bravado, nor was it shallow posturing to gain an edge in the succession struggle. He was clearly distinguishing between manageable risks and situations that demanded immediate retreat—the exact kind of logic the battlefield demanded.
A faint smile touched Volkrik's lips. "Very well."
He nodded. "I recognize the independent authority over the special squad granted by His Grace the previous Duke. However, I'll personally assign guides familiar with the local terrain."
Kyle bowed his head. "Thank you, Commander."
"I'll select three who know the paths well and understand how to return alive without showing off when they encounter the enemy."
Volkrik turned to his staff and issued orders. "Departure at dawn tomorrow. Pick three mid-level knights with extensive reconnaissance experience. No horses—we move with stealth maneuvers across the snowfields. Mages, prepare color-altering concealment spells immediately!"
"Yes, Commander!"
Kyle remained perfectly still throughout Volkrik's commands. No excitement. No trace of elation at the prospect of his first achievement to prove his worth. He simply stood there, face calm and composed.
Hah, such composure at such a young age!
I expected a hot-tempered personality, but this is surprising.
Several veteran commanders regarded him with new respect. Karon's gaze, however, grew even colder.
After the meeting ended, Kyle headed straight for the quarters assigned to him. Leina and Wulfran were already there, organizing their weapons and equipment.
The pair rose immediately as he entered.
"My lord."
"Welcome back, my lord."
Kyle gave them a short nod. "We move out at dawn tomorrow."
"Understood. What is the enemy, my lord?" Leina asked.
"An orc pack. Current scout estimates put them at around fifty."
"Fifty shouldn't be too difficult for the three of us to handle."
"If that's truly all of them," Kyle replied calmly. "But they could be scouts, or bait meant to draw the fortress forces out. At the first sign of variables, we withdraw immediately. Remember this—we won't risk our lives chasing unnecessary merits."
"We will remember."
"I will remember as well."
Both Leina and Wulfran bowed their heads in solemn oath.
"It's been a long time since I've slain orcs," Wulfran remarked.
"Indeed. It has been a while since I've seen orc blood."
Kyle studied Wulfran for a moment before turning to Leina. "Leina. How does the newly fitted armor feel?"
"Excellent, my lord. Truly superb."
Leina answered without hesitation, lightly tapping the chest plate of her black ice iron armor with her fingertips. It was noticeably heavier than the uniform she'd worn before.
Yet it didn't restrict her joints, and it covered vital areas—the neck, armpits, and inner thighs—with reliable protection. Most importantly, it blocked the brutal cold of the northern front with remarkable effectiveness.
"During my days in the Golden Lion Knight Order, we were never permitted to wear such plate armor," Leina said, her voice calm but her eyes filled with deep contempt at the memory. "They considered it beneath a knight's noble dignity. Besides, the cost of such high-purity black ice iron armor was far beyond what my salary could cover."
She bowed deeply to Kyle. "This magnificent armament is entirely thanks to your grace, my lord."
Kyle let out a short laugh. "Call it an investment rather than grace. If the subordinates I've gone through the trouble of raising die to some stray arrow or axe on the battlefield, the loss would be mine."
"Even so, I thank you for your profound consideration, my lord."
Leina spoke with genuine feeling. Wulfran quietly inspected his newly issued weapon—the long polearm slung across his back.
Far longer than a standard knight's sword, with a blade wider and thicker than most spears, it was a glaive. The weapon paired fantastically with his Blood Source Mind Image Scripture.
Rather than relying on sight, he perceived presences as lines, like reading a drawing. For him, a weapon with extended reach greatly expanded his killing range.
Since he didn't depend on his eyes, he treated enemies behind him with the same precision as those in front—making the glaive an ideal main weapon alongside his sword.
"Prepare thoroughly," Kyle said. "Tomorrow will be the first time you draw blood on the battlefield with your new strength."
A chilling, blood-red gleam flashed through Leina's eyes. "I look forward to it."
A faint smile crossed Wulfran's scarred face as well. "As do I, my lord."