Chapter 183
Chapter 183
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 183
Chapter Title: How to Flip a Turtle (1)
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*
“It can’t just be simple mercy that kept us alive.”
“Of course not.”
In the dense shrubbery of the forest, Fernandez stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at the wood grain of the trees and the delicate mistletoe sprouting finely between them. Barrein and his warriors stood behind him.
Abel watched Fernandez warmly with a cryptic smile. Not now, he thought. I need to maintain my composure. Fernandez furrowed his brow slightly and forced his expression to harden.
“This internal strife isn’t just happening to your group.”
“Naturally. We’re all scattered, destined to be picked off one by one.”
“Ever since Hazat Kazal rose up, every clan has faced the same fate. It doesn’t matter.”
That’s our role—to turn the tide. Fernandez stared quietly at the mistletoe. Tiny flower buds were intertwined among its branches. As he let out a small chuckle, the mistletoe twigs trembled faintly.
*
“My god...”
Kirhas narrowed her eyes and looked down at the map of flowers blooming and withering in an instant. It had changed every moment before, but never so dramatically. Kirhas sighed as she watched the flowers blooming wildly.
-Plop!
Yellow flowers sprouted sporadically amid the red flower graves, only to wither away in seconds. The yellow flowers signifying ‘potential allies’ bloomed across the entire map, only for more than half to wilt and shift positions.
Information about infighting among the enemy flashed through her mind. Forces resisting Erik were springing up amid the enemy ranks. And exactly as many were dying off again.
In that gap. Countless lives represented by those flower buds. How many humans were dying beneath this gorgeous, beautiful map? Watching the real-time slaughter of all life in the North sent chills down Kirhas’s spine.
It was brilliant. Like the venomous snakes of a jungle teeming with deadly poison. Flowers of every color burst open, red ones blooming atop them, and beneath it all, under the gaze of the gods upon the North, death wandered.
“Lady Freya... this...”
[Hush, child. Your master is calling for you right now.]
“Are you watching him?”
[That man is speaking to me.]
“How could I even respond?”
In grand strategy and the courage to execute it, Kirhas relied on Fernandez in every way. Though he wanted her to stand on her own, considering it had been less than two years since she escaped slavery, it bordered on unreasonable expectation.
Still, Kirhas tried. To think for herself, and to match his stride. Even so, in this rapidly shifting situation atop a bloom of death, she needed Fernandez.
[How did you think I could show him the map?]
A miracle that could never occur in natural circumstances. The ability to make flowers bloom on a wooden table regardless of season or seed. And the power to share senses with every new life that drew breath.
[You’re seeing the same thing now. Go on, speak. I’ll relay it for you.]
Freya sat gracefully in lotus position with her eyes closed, smiling confidently. Kirhas nodded and pointed to the table before her.
“Show him the map.”
*
“Oh, ooh...”
“It’s a miracle...”
The warriors began to murmur. Fernandez kept his back to them, eyes fixed on the flower buds unfolding before him.
The same scene must be unfolding at Hazat Phalen’s command post. Freya’s map was beautiful. Amid the thick trunks and branches of the shrubs, countless flower buds were blooming.
This was the North as seen by a god. Unlike Hazat Phalen’s map, it was a bit less user-friendly, but it contained far more diverse information.
Freya trusted Fernandez’s judgment and intuition. The flowers marked even more details on the map through their colors, sizes, and distributions. This was close to a perfected tactical map. A level of detail unimaginable for the North.
“Hmm... I’m having a hard time understanding this even looking at it.”
“No matter. I understand it.”
Unlike a wooden table, the shrubbery wasn’t flat or continuous. No matter how dense, a coniferous forest couldn’t provide the planar conditions of a table. To Abel, accustomed to Dane Kingdom tactical maps, it all felt alien.
“But one thing’s clear. The enemy is dividing up.”
“They’re splitting into three main fronts. Battles are breaking out between them even now.”
“What’s that black area?”
“Regions where we can’t gather intel.”
Fernandez’s voice grew slightly hoarse. Abel tilted his head, then hardened his expression rigidly.
“No way...”
“Exactly. Areas Freya can’t see... meaning every trace of new life’s breath has been utterly eradicated.”
Not just humans, but plants, beasts, even insects—all perfectly and obsessively burned away. Even in the North, no matter how harsh the terrain, life always sprouts forth...
“And it’s expanding.”
“Three days.”
Fernandez tore his eyes from the map. He turned to the warriors lined up behind him and spoke in the Northern tongue.
“That’s how much time we have left. Three days.”
“Does that mean Erik can end this war in three days?”
“No. At this rate of slaughtering life, in three days the North’s potential for recovery will be gone. Even if we win, the North will become land where no life can survive.”
The map blazed with red and black flowers, the affected area widening by the moment. The enemy lines were vast, and now even their intel was uncertain.
A thoroughly disadvantageous situation, slim odds of victory, and countless things to protect. Fernandez turned his gaze back to the map.
“From now on, scatter and lead out those in the same plight as you. Get them to safety.”
“Not fight back...?”
“Well, if suicide is your life’s goal, that’s fine. But it’s not a recommended way to live. Your deaths will just summon that many more demons into this world, meaning death for your families in the rear.”
A truly horrific death. Fernandez said this while looking at Barrein’s face. Barrein bit his lip.
“What should we do? Just blindly raid nearby camps? Never mind distinguishing friend from foe— they have demons.”
“If you encounter the enemy, flee without fail. If you recruit allies, scatter immediately. Ideally, split into groups of at least four heading completely different directions.”
“...But then we’re just deserters? What help are scattered warriors across these rugged Northern mountains?”
Wouldn’t it be better to all flee together toward Hazat Phalen for a higher chance of survival and rejoining the main force? As Barrein asked, Fernandez shook his head with a smile.
“That’s herbivore thinking. Northerner.”
Sticking together for survival was the worst of the worst options. Detached units, forces spent on flight—all precious manpower when every single person mattered. Not worth considering.
But scattered across the mountains, they couldn’t aid the current battle, yet each individual’s survival rate would skyrocket.
No matter how many troops the enemy had, with Hazat Phalen openly preparing for battle right before them, they lacked the resources to hunt down scattered deserters in the mountains.
Searching takes vast time and effort—a tedious task. When tasty prey was clustered, preparing for a hopeless fight. Individuals unable to support Hazat Phalen were mere annoyances, not problems.
Erik and Bard probably thought:
-First crush all resistance, then leisurely enjoy the winter hunt.
‘Spot on.’
Even if deserters reinforced Hazat Phalen’s resistance, it wasn’t bad for the enemy. From their view, it would consolidate untraceable resistance forces, ripe for a major battle.
So they’d ignore them. Deliberately encourage flight. What they wanted was to break the enemy at a single point, expand gains, secure maximum sacrifices.
Until now, resistance had moved organized but hidden. Sticking to vicious guerrilla tactics and rescues via intel superiority.
Realizing this, the enemy would think: ‘They’re building strength for a showdown.’ Naturally, a trap.
So ignore the infighting deserters. Don’t bother wiping out fleeing rabble in the woods. But the forest is a cradle of life, and all Northern life falls under Freya’s gaze.
“Have you ever seen a hawk hunt a turtle?”
“...?”
“First, flip it over.”
Fernandez drew his greatsword and slammed it down onto the map. Crunch. The branch with its flower buds shattered.
*
[Your master’s message. I... don’t quite get it, but he said ‘flip the turtle.’]
Freya opened her eyes and spoke. A section of the map collapsed as if sliced by a blade.
[And he cut out that area. What does it mean?]
“Turtle... turtle...”
Kirhas looked down at the map scarred by blade marks. The enemy’s long front line, thinly sliced at the extreme southern end adjacent to major resistance forces...
‘Flip the turtle... not lifting and turning it over.’
If a beast without hands, like a hawk or eagle, wanted to flip a turtle, how? Kirhas cautiously stabbed her dagger into the opposite side—the northern front line.
-Crunch.
*
The flower crumbled away with a soft rustle, as clean as if sliced by a knife. Fernandez watched and laughed deeply.
“Correct.”
Like playing mock chess. Or explaining a brilliant move in a chess game record. Across the vast distance between them, they alternated moves, stabbing blades into the map.
-Thud, crunch.
-Rustle. Crunch.
The blooming flower garden was slowly carved away. Red petals withered. The enemy would wait for resistance to muster enough forces, resolving their own infighting.
They weren’t fools. Resistance’s best wasn’t a threat, and even if it grew large, it was good for them—more sacrifices.
Stronger demons, greater demons, and finally...
‘Even Sadarkelia.’
Turning the battlefield into one fit for summoning great demons. The plan to summon Einherjar and disrupt the enemy rear had lost meaning as their self-sabotage. Tactics always adapt to situations, but strategic goals never change.
Fernandez’s goal had been singular from the start.
“Force the turtle to stick out its head.”
-Crunch.
Rear disruptions, intel superiority. Potential allies scattered in the mountains. Enemy camps stiffened by infighting. Prod the huddled turtle to expose its head, shake its hard shell, flip it onto its back.
Thus, his tactics remained spear, spear, spear.
“From now on, disperse as many troops as possible.”
Stabbing the map, Fernandez said to Barrein.
*
“Thought you were starting the offensive, but you’re still just staring at maps. Southerner?”
Fully armed Aeren strode into the tent. She clicked her tongue at Kirhas, who leaned exhausted on the table, blankly staring at the map.
“What are you doing?”
“Look at this.”
Aeren scowled and approached Kirhas. Her face bore heavy fatigue, as if she’d pulled an all-nighter.
The map was a mess of blade marks. Has this southern wench gone mad? Just as she grew indignant at the ruined precious ops map, Kirhas tapped one corner with her finger.
“Us.”
Then another corner.
“Them.”
And the scattered, broken yellow petals and purple flowers in the enemy’s heart.
“Mercy.”
Now Aeren could see the map fully. It wasn’t ruined. Since the map itself was flowers and leaves—not paper or parchment—it was an ops sketch drawn with blade strokes instead of ink.
The enemy lines still hunkered solidly. She’d heard of infighting. They seemed weakened by it, but their forces still doubled the resistance’s.
Yet something felt unstable somewhere. The vibrant multicolored buds trembled faintly.
“The turtle’s been flipped.”
*