A War We Cannot Lose
Outside the City of Ahental, a military review and departure ceremony was in full swing.
Officially, it had been billed as little more than a public event. The people who actually lived in the territory, however, had already guessed the truth: this was a ceremony for the war to come.
The reasons were simple enough. Travelers visiting the city had dwindled while mercenaries multiplied. Serfs and mining slaves had been conscripted in droves, and the city watch had swollen with new hires. And the marketplace of a commercial city that had always thrived had begun to grow quiet. No one could miss the signs. Merchants who understood that the flow of goods now pointed toward war fled with remarkable speed.
They split into two camps. Some relocated their assets to safer cities. Others sold off their existing stock entirely and prepared to reinvent themselves as war merchants, trailing in the army's wake. For them, a war that failed to break out would now be the truly awkward outcome.
The Viscount of Ahental stood upon the dais, looking out over the soldiers and knights assembled for the coming territorial war, his heart a tangle of conflicting feelings.
The start of a war we absolutely cannot afford to lose.
Was there any war one could afford to lose? But for House Ahental, this had to be fought as if it were the last.
They had dumped everything they'd acquired as investments—land, luxuries, debt documents, tax-farming rights—in a fire sale. Converting it all to cash in a mere three weeks, in this era, meant they could never have gotten fair prices. They were taking losses before the war had even begun.
And still the viscount did not stop. Victory in war hinged on the combat strength of one's knights, and the Ahental Knights could not match the Crombell Knights in either fighting power or experience.
So they needed numbers, at the very least. They had to request knights and soldiers from nobles who owed House Ahental money or favors. Those nobles were in no hurry, so begging empty-handed was out of the question.
The same men who had once knelt to receive loans now sat with their legs crossed, pondering whether or not to send knights and soldiers at all.
It was enough to make a man want to vomit, but the viscount knew this was simply how the world worked. The only thing that could reverse this situation was winning the war—not clinging to pride and losing it.
This philosophy, combined with the money the viscount had spread around over the years, the name of House Ahental and the viscount himself, and the expectation that if Ahental fell, Crombell would inherit the debts and collect them with even more viciousness—all of it combined to draw more allies than he had predicted.
They had only three weeks, yet five thousand soldiers and two hundred fifty knights had gathered. Considering that Ahental's own departing force numbered three thousand soldiers, six hundred knights, and roughly a thousand hired mercenaries, it was a host the likes of which this region would not see again.
It far exceeded the typical scale of a territorial war in this era. One could fairly call it a force of national-war proportions.
From a dais built unusually high, the viscount summoned Messi and showed him the spectacle.
"What do you think, Sir Messi? Can we win?"
"The outcome of a war isn't necessarily decided by numbers, is it?"
Messi was no stranger to war. Before becoming a Woodcutter, his master Barcelo had been sold off from battlefield to battlefield according to his family's will, fighting as a proxy in territorial wars. What Messi had heard was far more than idle gossip; he knew this era's warfare in considerable detail.
"True enough. In fact, most of the rank-and-file gathered as allied troops will be wearing nothing but gambesons, and most of them will be untrained. That's because I offered to take responsibility for the supporting forces' provisions."
At the promise of food, the nobles had apparently seen a chance to save face and erase their debts by sending along the thugs and beggars of their territories. The numbers had grown, but the quality had plummeted.
The viscount was not disappointed. The knights who had led those men here, at least, were the real thing.
"But a knight is a knight. They've been raised or hired for the sake of each house's honor, after all... They'll be at the Brave Stage at minimum."
Knights arrived with their own armor, weapons, and warhorses, so all that was needed was food, maintenance oil, and fodder. From the viscount's perspective, they were the finest reinforcements imaginable.
"You said the Crombell Knights surpass Ahental in quality. Will those knights even matter?"
"Until yesterday, they wouldn't have. But after hearing from Ereb what you did, Sir Messi, they have meaning now."
"So you've figured out my plan."
"You have my thanks. To think you'd do something I never even considered."
It seemed Ereb had relayed to the viscount what Messi had said to Rowin. Messi apologized instead.
"I'm sorry for acting without your permission, my lord. They said they would hand over Young Master Rowin immediately, so I moved in haste."
"No. You did well. To think such a method existed... If it works, the enemy's Sword Master turns against them, does he not? If that's the case, we can set our purpose on holding out, and the burden lightens considerably."
"There's a fairly high chance of success."
"I do like that confidence of yours."
The viscount smiled. The omen was good. The trembling in his chest, stirred by the sight of the army, finally stilled.
After sending Messi down, the viscount announced that the time had come and formally commenced the departure ceremony.
Bwooooo...
A war horn bellowed, and a banner rose bearing a jewel-encrusted raven. The flags of each supporting house rose with it.
Mounted knights chased down soldiers too ragged to even form ranks and bellowed them into line. A few who still refused to obey were seized and executed on the spot. Once blood had been spilled, the formation began to take shape.
A departure ceremony ended with each unit's commanding officer stepping forward to promise victory. Ahental's army had been divided into three, a division based on the routes by which Crombell was expected to advance.
The commander of the First Army was Airus. He had already proven his ability as a commander on the same stage as the 8 Kingdoms Grand War, so there was no room for doubt.
"Waaaaaah!"
Like a scene out of a medieval fantasy film...
Messi watched from below the dais. For a moment, he found himself wishing he had popcorn.
Airus's voice, amplified by magic, drew howls of every kind from the knights who followed him—but the rank-and-file's spirit was nowhere near as high. Who would feel cheerful about being dragged off to a battlefield?
Once the mounted knights rode out and circled the ranks, however, the cheering swelled of its own accord. As the roar grew louder on the outer edges of the formation, the soldiers packed inside caught the fever and began to shout as well.
That was precisely why a ceremony like this was necessary. Human emotion was contagious. Resolve, morale—they spread like a sickness.
Now it was Ereb's turn. The knights of House Ahental watched him with taut faces. Their lord was about to command an army for the first time.
Ereb, however, looked unmoved. Outwardly, at least. Inside his head, it was a different story.
Promising them the glory of victory won't reach the soldiers at all.
That was what Messi had told him just before the ceremony.
Only after hearing those words had Ereb understood what he needed to say.
"I am Ereb von Ahental—second son of House Ahental, and a man who loves this territory more than anyone!"
Every gaze snapped toward him at that opening. Airus had put forward the words rightful heir, and Ereb had not answered the challenge. That, no one had expected.
"I was born in Ahental! I grew up eating and drinking what this land produced! Everything that grows upon this earth became my blood and my flesh! So everything I am is here! What I must protect is here, and what I love is here! Is it not the same for you?!"
A hush fell in an instant.
The weight of that silence might have crushed another man. Ereb paid it no mind and pressed on.
"WAAAAAAAAH!!!"
The answering roar was of a different order entirely. Ereb had planted a clear purpose in the soldiers. He had pulled them out of someone else's war and into a war of their own—and that was what made it possible.
The Viscount of Ahental and his retainers watched it all. They nodded again and again, as if Ereb's words had struck home with them as well. Airus's expression had gone sour, which was proof enough that Ereb had done well.
The commander of the Third Army was the viscount himself. He followed his sons with an impressive speech of his own.
And then it was time for what came next.
"Let go of me!"
"You filthy Ahental bastards!"
Five knights were dragged up onto the dais.
They were the five Crombell knights who had raided the auction house with Rowin.
For a prisoner, torture and violence were as ordinary as breathing, so they were in no condition to look presentable.
The Viscount of Ahental raised a small dagger and cried out.
Gaia was the goddess of the earth, locked in eternal struggle with Ohgana, the evil deity represented by the forest. In a word, she stood for abundance—and, at the same time, for battle and strife.
On the eve of war, one offered the blood of one's enemies to the god of war. In an age when the gods still lived, what act could be more reasonable? For a departure ceremony, it was a perfectly fitting event.
To Lee Eunho's eyes it was nothing more than barbaric human sacrifice. As Messi, he found it entirely understandable.
The viscount had barely undone the heavy iron chains before he shattered the Crombell knight's mana hole with his own hand.
"Ghk—ghhhkkk..."
The nameless Crombell knight felt his mana vanishing and despaired. Something far more despairing still waited for him, and already he was carrying on like this.
Thuk. Rrrrip...
"GYAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Before every watching eye, the viscount drove the dagger into the knight's belly and began, very slowly, to cut downward.
Four knights pinned the thrashing man's limbs. The viscount unhurriedly split the belly open. The knight, who had been trembling violently, let his head slump forward.
Hot entrails and blood spilled forth. The viscount pulled them out with his own hands and held them up proudly for the entire host to see.
"S-spare me! I was wrong! I was wrong!"
"T-treat me as a prisoner, I—spare me!!"
As they died, the knights showed everyone what the bottom looked like. One whimpered like an infant before he went. Another soiled himself in terror and died in his own filth.
The Ahental knights and soldiers watching hurled curses and barked with savage laughter.
Even those vaunted Crombell knights were nothing special. By showing that to everyone, the viscount had made them forget their fear.
Last came Roatan. He was the one who had guarded Rowin's back from the auction house onward, and the only man who had not begged for his life while being dragged all the way to the dais.
The viscount seemed to recognize as much. He called for a fresh dagger, then addressed Roatan.
"Why do you not wish to live?"
"I am a knight. I die following my lord's command. To wish to live would mean I regret having obeyed that command, and that I cannot accept."
"Hrm."
The viscount frowned. It was not because the man had spoken without courtesy, nor because his opponent was honorable.
Messi knew exactly why.
He needs them to die looking as wretched as possible. If Roatan goes like this, it becomes the viscount slaughtering a dignified knight.
"Have you no last request?"
"I would wish to die as a knight, but that is merely my own greed... Split my belly. I will not scream. I will take in, with both my eyes, every one of you who kills me. The Eye of Crombell will remember you."
The viscount accepted the new dagger, but he seemed to hesitate.
Do I proceed with the execution as planned? If this man is right, our own side is more likely to be overwhelmed.
He wondered whether it would truly come to that—and then found it difficult to dismiss a knight's force of will.
Unlike the others, Messi read the viscount's dilemma. He climbed onto the dais and offered a quiet suggestion.
"Lord Viscount. If this man wishes to die as a knight, why not grant him that?"
"Sir Messi. You know perfectly well why we are doing this. This man is at the Brillant realm. If the soldiers watch him fight, their spirit may break instead."
If Bacillus, who was Ablaze, stepped in, the victory would be overwhelming—but he was the Knight Commander. The mere fact of his taking the field would elevate Roatan's standing.
Pairing him against a Brillant like Ramang, on the other hand, would leave the outcome uncertain. If Roatan won, or even distinguished himself, it would tell on their own army's morale.
Messi knew all of that. It was why he had spoken up.
"Does it matter how we get there, so long as we crush a Crombell knight into the dirt? I'll do it."
"You?"
Roatan's presence has to be smothered, and the win has to be certain. And the lower the victor's rank, the more effective it will be.
Messi was at the Lavish realm, an outlander most people looked down on. On top of that, his post was nothing more than healer. On the other hand, he wielded Holy Fire, so his presence was considerable. He did meet the conditions the viscount had in mind.
There was just one concern.
"Can you... truly win?"
The problem was not merely that he could not afford to lose. He had to thoroughly break his opponent.
Messi had only recently reached Lavish, so struggling against a Brillant would have been the natural outcome.
He had to overcome that gap and win. If he were slaughtered without ceremony, the whole thing would have been a stupid stunt and nothing more.
On top of that, it would mean driving the family's benefactor onto a killing ground, which was no small burden for the viscount either.
Messi only smiled, as if to say there was nothing to worry about.
"You trust me, don't you? Before we fight, just let me treat Roatan. That's all I need."
"I understand that you treated me... What I don't understand is why I now have to fight that healer."
Roatan could not make sense of the situation.
He spent all that time healing me, and now he wants to kill me?
"You said you wanted to die like a knight, didn't you? We're letting you die in peak condition. What's the problem?"
Judging by the Holy Fire, he's no ordinary man—but he's still a healer. Does he actually mean to fight me?
Roatan looked around. Knights and soldiers ringed them in a radius of thirty feet, leaving no gap. He had never intended to run in the first place. He meant to die here, as a knight of Crombell.
And yet his mood had soured.
He was in earnest. The men of Ahental, it seemed, had no intention of treating him that way at all.
I have staked my life on this...
When they had offered him the chance to die as a knight, he had thought it a rare opportunity.
He had planned to burn out so gloriously that it would erase the memory of the Crombell knights who had died so wretchedly. Taking a few Ahental knights with him would have been the finishing touch.
And yet... a mere healer?
In the distance, he could see the Viscount of Ahental on the dais. The fury boiling in his chest erupted.
"Does Ahental have no knights?! Why does no knight come forward?! Is this place full of cowards?! Is there no sword in Ahental that will let me die as a knight?!"
Even at Roatan's roar, the knights' faces remained calm. So did the viscount's.
Grit.
When no one answered, Roatan set his heart.
Fine... If that's how you want it, I'll kill the healer in front of me, then plunge straight into the knights and tear them apart.
"Healer, I'm sorry, but you'll have to die. You were pushed out here for some reason of your own, I expect. I'll be as careful as I—"
"Is that the same thinking you used when you killed the people at the auction house?"
Messi's interruption froze Roatan's face.
After a silence, he answered.
"It was a thing far from honor. But a knight's worth lies in obeying his lord's command. I merely followed orders."
"Haha. Knights have it rough, don't they. If the master says so, you steal, you set fires..."
"Shut your mouth."
"But did you know? When your precious master was being released for ransom, he didn't ask a single word about your safety."
"...!"
"Haha. All he cared about was his own neck. Grabbing my collar, begging to live... You'd almost think he'd forgotten you even existed."
"Y-you—"
"Must be a wonderful life. Dying on the orders of a master like that."
Roatan's eyes went blood-red.
"If you want to die, I'll grant your wish. You outlander bastard!!"
The knight's body shot forward. His sword surged upward as if to pierce the sun.
"DIE!!!"
It was a blade thickly tangled with the radiant shimmer unique to Brillant. It was a strike of genuine killing intent, and even as he brought it down he did not doubt for an instant that his opponent would die.
KWAANG!!
Sand and dirt exploded outward. From the shock, a figure was hurled out of the dust cloud and went tumbling a long way across the earth.
The man barely managed to stop his rolling body. Dirt caked his face, his hair, his clothes. Something was wrong. His expression was blank. He swept his gaze around, and only then realized that he was the one who had been thrown.
"...What... is this..."
The hand gripping the sword was trembling.
Which was to say... Roatan, in this moment, was truly, utterly stunned.