Chapter 336: Thirty Reinforcements (6)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 336: Thirty Reinforcements (6)
Inside the pitch-black cave, Jairo stared up at the ceiling, his face gaunt and haggard. Through a tiny crevice in the stone, he could see a sky just as dark as his prison.
A few days ago, the orc guards had delivered devastating news.
"Chweek! The great Lord Graxar has brought down Luna's Fortress! There is no one left to help you now, so you had better start thinking about how to survive as slaves. Chweek! Especially you. Keep glaring at me with those eyes, and I'll gouge them out and eat them alive."
The orc had jabbed a thick finger toward Jairo.
The fall of Luna's Fortress was a crushing blow. Graxar had only recently departed with his forces; Jairo had never expected the stronghold to collapse so swiftly. From that moment on, his mind had begun to unravel. He bore the weight of Luna's destruction. If only he hadn't planned that foolish operation outside the fortress walls. If only he had waited for Roman Dmitry to arrive. The fortress would never have fallen so easily.
...Jairo. You pushed Luna off the cliff of destruction.
He felt like he was suffocating. Prisoners were constantly being dragged away, their agonizing screams echoing from afar.
At first, he had tried to endure the situation with dignity. But as time passed, every horror around him felt like a personal accusation. The soldiers trapped in this cave had merely followed their commander's orders. Yet, because of his foolish defeat, they were now nothing more than livestock waiting to be slaughtered.
He forgot his hunger. His face grew increasingly gaunt.
Just as he was beginning to look more like a corpse than a living man, an orc mockingly tossed something through the bars.
Thud.
"Chweek! Eat that if you want to live. Kehehe."
With a grotesque laugh and a snort through its upturned nose, the orc slammed the iron bars shut and vanished down the tunnel.
Everyone's eyes locked onto the floor. There lay a chunk of meat.
For men who had been starving for days, it was something they should have fought over, drooling with hunger. Instead, their faces turned pale with horror. It was only natural. The chunk of meat was unmistakably human. It was a severed arm thrown in as feed. No matter how close they were to death's door, they couldn't bring themselves to touch it.
It was wretched. Their faces contorted in agony, a burning rage rising from deep within their chests.
Yet, Jairo crawled toward the severed limb.
The others watched him with startled, terrified eyes. Contrary to their fears that he was about to abandon his humanity, Jairo grabbed the meat and began to tear it apart with his bare hands. He had no intention of eating it. As he stripped away the dripping flesh, the thick bone beneath was revealed. Hiding the gore in a corner, he stealthily pocketed the bone.
"Everyone, quiet," he whispered, his voice raspy and weak from starvation. "Even if I die, I'm taking a few of them with me."
Jairo retreated to a dark corner. Hiding his hands behind his back, he began to quietly scrape the bone against the stone floor, muffling the sound with his body.
Scritch, scratch. Scritch, scratch.
A faint, grating noise filled the damp air. He worked tirelessly, grinding the tip of the bone into a razor-sharp point, making it lethal enough to pierce an orc's tough hide.
The Swordsman of the Snowfields. His life was over. The only thing left for him to do was to die like a human being.
* * *
Scritch, scratch.
Scritch, scratch. Scritch, scratch.
His mind raced. What if? What if he had actually waited for Roman Dmitry? Could they have turned the tide?
No, it would have been impossible.
There were only thirty of them. No matter how he looked at it, that was not a force capable of victory. Roman Dmitry had proven by the meager size of his reinforcements that he didn't care about the safety of the Luna Kingdom. It was merely a token gesture. Since he couldn't openly ignore Luna's plight, he had sent just enough troops to claim credit if they somehow miraculously won the war.
He understood. Dmitry had no prior relations with Luna; there was no reason for them to sacrifice their own people for a foreign kingdom.
So there was never any hope to begin with.
Isabelle's disappearance. The reason for it still remained unknown. What was certain was that she had fought desperately to thwart Kronos's plans, and that very action had led directly to Luna's ruin. A bitter sense of resentment welled up inside him. Isabelle was the Queen of Luna. No matter how devoted she was to God, her priority should have been the people of Luna, not the welfare of all humanity.
Caden had told him that Roman Dmitry prioritized the safety of Dmitry above all else. He was envious. Deep down, perhaps Jairo had wished for a ruler like Roman Dmitry to lead the Luna Kingdom.
Luna did not serve God because we had a choice. An unbearable cold fell upon us, and a Saintess was born. If we did not believe in God, we had no way to survive. O God, is this truly what You desire? Luna served You more sincerely than anyone else, so why must we suffer such a ghastly fate while sacrificing ourselves for the Salamander Continent?
His blood boiled. Sacrifice was a crucial element of faith. Even though he knew this, and even though he understood Isabelle's true intentions, he desperately needed someone to blame. Someone to resent.
That was just how humans were—weak and pathetic creatures. In the absolute depths of despair, Jairo realized how contradictory a harmonious world truly was.
Even if Lady Isabelle hadn't disappeared, the peace of Arcadia would have shattered eventually.
Tap.
He stopped. The bone was now razor-sharp.
It was lethal enough to take down a few orcs. He breathed slowly, biding his time. He would unleash his last remaining strength to overpower the guards the moment they entered. If possible, he would help at least a few of the prisoners escape.
Jairo was prepared to throw away his life. His face, shrouded in the darkness of the cell, resembled a demon's. He lowered his head, hiding the murderous red gleam in his eyes.
Finally, with a heavy creak, the iron door opened.
His heart pounded wildly.
Step.
A footstep echoed into the room. Just as Jairo was about to explode with his remaining mana and lunge forward, an impossible sight unfolded before his eyes.
"...Ca-Caden?!"
"Jairo!"
Jairo's eyes widened in disbelief. The figure standing before him wasn't one of the hulking orcs who had tormented them. It was Caden, completely drenched in blood.
* * *
His first emotion was utter bewilderment.
The orcs had clearly boasted that Luna's Fortress had fallen. How could Caden possibly be here? Behind him, Luna's soldiers were swiftly clearing the area, stepping over the scattered, butchered corpses of the orc guards.
"Jairo. The war isn't over yet."
"...What do you mean?"
Jairo stared at Caden. Caden offered him a canteen of water first, but Jairo ignored it, his desperate eyes demanding the truth.
"While I was crossing the Endless Mountains, Luna's Fortress fell to the orcs. At the time, I thought Luna's future was over, but Lord Roman Dmitry thought differently. He laid out a plan to reclaim Luna with only thirty soldiers. It seemed like an impossible operation. Even as we carried it out, I was absolutely convinced it would fail."
Drip, drip.
Blood steadily dripped onto the stone floor. Caden's face was painted crimson, a visceral testament to just how many orcs he had slaughtered to get here.
"But the result is exactly what you see now. We reclaimed Luna's Fortress and slaughtered ten thousand orcs."
Jairo was struck with utter shock. Thirty men. That was absolutely not a number capable of deciding the outcome of a war. Even though he was from Arcadia—a land unfamiliar with the harsh realities of war—the military treatises he had read to pieces taught him basic common sense. He knew exactly how absurd Caden's words were.
And that was precisely why a profound sense of awe washed over him. Roman Dmitry hadn't disregarded Luna's safety; he had truly believed that thirty men were enough to turn the tide.
For a moment, Jairo was speechless. While he was overjoyed that Luna was not yet finished, a bitter sense of misery made him clench his fists tightly.
In the end, I was the problem.
Roman Dmitry was a savior. If only Jairo had waited a few more days, the situation would have been completely different. Instead, ignorant of the truth, he had plunged Luna into the depths of despair. It was a cruel reality. All he had wanted was peace for the Luna Kingdom, but in the end, his stubborn insistence on leading the troops outside the walls had been the fatal cause of their defeat.
He wanted to die. He wanted to bite his tongue and free himself from this crushing guilt.
But that would be a coward's way out. Jairo needed to take responsibility for his failure. He would fight the orcs on the battlefield until his dying breath.
"Where is... where is Lord Roman?"
His way of addressing the man had fundamentally changed. From the distant 'Roman Dmitry,' he had become 'Lord Roman.'
Helping Jairo to his feet, Caden quickly explained the urgency of their situation.
"Lord Roman Dmitry has headed east to wage an all-out war against Graxar. So pull yourself together. Before the battle ends, we must quickly regroup and ride to Lord Roman's aid."
* * *
Around that time, the elves found themselves in a dire situation.
Pushed back by the sheer, overwhelming numbers of the invading orc horde, a significant portion of the elven territory had already fallen.
"Attack!"
"Stop the enemy from advancing any further!"
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Arrows rained through the air. Moving with agile grace atop the withered trees—branches that barely held their shape through the lingering energy of the World Tree—the elves continuously loosed their bowstrings.
Thud.
"Kwek!"
"Chweek! Do not retreat!"
An orc struck by an arrow collapsed heavily to the ground. Although a significant number of orcs had already fallen to the elven volley, the horde continued to swarm forward relentlessly, completely indifferent to the deaths of their kin.
In this place, once known as the Forest of the Elves, roughly ten thousand elves remained to defend the World Tree. Even if a single elf could kill three or four orcs with their arrows, the horde following Graxar boasted more than double their numbers.
Human Wave Tactics. It was a battle with a grim, predictable conclusion.
Graxar severed the head of an elven warrior blocking his path in a single, brutal swing.
Crunch.
"Chweek! Pathetic fool."
Blood splattered across the battlefield. Graxar's entire massive frame was stained crimson. Throughout the war, he had always stood at the absolute vanguard, personally hunting down and striking down the strongest-looking enemies.
Graxar was an extraordinary being. From the moment he first held a weapon, he had naturally awakened mana. The older orc warriors who had once looked down on him had all been brutally defeated, forced to acknowledge him as the strongest. He was the greatest Orc Lord in history. Whether in martial prowess or intellect, those who witnessed his rise to power had no choice but to recognize Graxar's terrifying genius.
And from the moment he seized the mantle of Orc Lord, Graxar had dreamed of conquering Arcadia.
The foolish other races didn't know the truth—that even if Isabelle hadn't disappeared, Arcadia would have eventually been drenched in blood and war because of his ambition.
"Chweek! Advance! Do not retreat!"
Rumble!
Graxar explosively unleashed his Aura. Granting explosive strength to the surrounding orcs through his race's unique Assimilation ability, he hurled his massive axe with all his might.
With a deafening crash, every withered tree in the axe's destructive path shattered into splinters. The elves leaping between the branches plummeted to the ground, and three or four orcs immediately swarmed each fallen warrior, hacking their bodies to pieces.
Agonized screams filled the air. The end was drawing near. If the elves fell here, there would be no one left in Arcadia to oppose the orc horde.
It was then.
"Aaargh!"
"Ugh!"
Strange, panicked noises echoed from the rear of the horde.
Graxar stopped in his tracks. It was a sound that shouldn't exist on this battlefield. With the elves entirely cornered, who on earth could be attacking his army from behind?
"Chweek! It's a surprise attack! Humans are attacking our rear!"
"Chweek! Humans?"
At the frantic report of an orc scout, Graxar turned his heavy gaze toward the back lines. In that instant, an unfamiliar, chilling sensation washed over him.
The Luna Kingdom had already fallen. They were the only nation established by humans in Arcadia; there were no other human factions left. If so, this situation could only mean one thing. It was the existence the Luna soldiers had babbled about under brutal interrogation—a tiny force of about thirty men, led by an unheard-of human who had somehow crossed the Endless Mountains.
Finally, the chaotic scene at the rear came into full view.
At the sight of the fluttering flag of Luna, Graxar's monstrous face stiffened.
No way.
It was undeniable. The fact that Luna's soldiers were alive and fighting here meant that Kalot's army of ten thousand had been wiped out.
Which meant that a human from beyond the Endless Mountains—a man whose name he didn't even know—had overcome an impossible, tenfold disadvantage.
This was a variable that had never existed in Graxar's grand plans.