Chapter 238
Chapter 238
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 238
Chapter Title: Throwing the Ember (4)
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Sand whipped across his cheeks as the horse galloped on. Grains pelted against his armor with a relentless clatter. Thanks to Fernandez and Kirhas's expert horsemanship, their mounts barely stayed on their feet.
Fernandez couldn't see a thing. He relied solely on the instinctive sense of direction unique to the Demonica, backtracking from their entry point and the capital's position on the map to charge straight ahead.
Through the thick veil of sand, he dimly made out Kirhas's form keeping pace beside him.
—Kwaaaah!
A scream scattered into the wind. It was a clear late-spring noon under bright sun, but beyond the yellow curtain woven by sunlight and sandstorm, countless silhouettes writhed.
The terrified horse reared. Fernandez stroked its cheek to calm it. All around, the battle—no, the massacre—was in full swing. This city of the dead had become a place overrun by death in the truest sense.
The chaos of street fighting, sudden assaults by specters in blocked sightlines, and the camp plunged into panic by surprise disaster. The fight was barreling toward its finale.
But not yet. It wasn't time for the end. Not until the imperial troops left in the rear, preparing for rescue, could all witness it. Not until a hero could be born.
The climax of this performance had yet to come.
—Shiiieek!
Dodging the arrow hurtling straight at him was pure instinct for Fernandez. A rusted shaft streaked like lightning, striking his helmet and ricocheting off. The strap snapped, sending the helmet flying behind him.
—Shring.
He gripped the hilt and drew his sword. He couldn't pinpoint the attack's origin or the enemies' positions. Sand-swept illusions danced in every direction. At some boundary where bearings and senses faded—
—Clang!
He parried. The strike came from the right—a spear blade.
"Tch...!"
Fernandez spurred his horse and leaned sideways. Another spear flew in, piercing the horse's skull. Had he stayed upright, it would've skewered him too with its brutal force.
—Boom!
As the horse collapsed, he planted a hand on the ground and rolled forward. The momentum from their long charge made regaining balance tricky. But it was a perfect landing. From his crouch, he spun his sword half a turn to block the next assault.
—Clang! Scraaape! Boom!
A shape emerged from the sand. A stone construct with a crocodile head. The rigid thing hammered down at him with spear after spear.
Another spear blade plunged. He smacked the shaft and swept it in a clean arc. Through the gap, the creature's forearm crumbled and sailed into the air. He reset his stance and spun once more.
—Clang!
Even slashing its torso felt like striking rock, the impact resounding like so. The statue shattered in half and crumbled. Labirata's main force... So the skeletons on the walls were mere decoys.
As he'd predicted, the streets would be a four-way slaughterhouse. Against swarms like these, scattered regular troops stood no chance. He scanned around. Screams and silhouettes dispersed in the sand.
"Kirhas!!"
"Sil... Silver Light!"
—Tap-tap!
Light footsteps approached. Fernandez let out a low sigh, gripped his hilt, and faced forward. Kirhas soon appeared. She'd lost her horse too, it seemed.
She panted heavily, clutching her sword tight. Blood soaked her forearm and lower body.
"You hurt?"
"My horse is dead!"
"As long as you're safe, that's enough."
Fernandez ruffled her hair once. Thank goodness. That was his only thought now.
"How far to the city?"
"It's still a ways to the palace... but the path I see isn't far."
"So the palace isn't our goal. Does that mean Labirata's leading the charge herself?"
"Not certain. But the path... it's close."
"Right. Let's go."
Fernandez twirled his sword onto his shoulder. The two pressed close, slowly advancing through the sand.
* * *
A hand burst from the dunes. After groping the ground alone for ages, tendons suddenly bulged. A massive man erupted from the sand, spat, and gasped.
It was Bora. He'd been scaling the walls to secure a foothold when he got sucked under the debris. He'd lost all his gear in the process, and this was a deathtrap crawling with undead. But none of that filled his head.
"Your Grace!! Your Graceeee!! Where are you? Your Grace!!"
Bora bellowed at the top of his lungs, flinging sand everywhere. Inevitably, yanking something hard revealed a soldier crushed to death by the weight and impact.
"Your Graceeee!!"
Blood welled from his wounded left eye, buried in the dirt. He dug through the piles like a madman, screaming. Then something hurtled toward his shoulder.
"Gr... urk!"
An arrow lodged deep. Pain shot through him like lightning. Bora bit his lip and snapped the shaft. Glaring in its direction, he saw a faint glow through the sand.
"Damn... it!"
No weapons, vision blocked. Unlike humans, specters didn't rely on sight to spot foes. This city was no hindrance to them at all. Bora ducked hastily.
At this moment, with the Duke's position unknown—perhaps right underfoot—he couldn't flee. He had to hold this spot, secure safety, and recover any subordinates who rose later.
"Come... at me!!"
His sand-choked throat rasped out the words. Somehow, the thing out there seemed to mock him. Though specters had no emotions. Bora scanned for weapons, eyes darting warily.
—Whiiir! Thud!
Something flew and stabbed near his feet. A half-broken regulation longsword. Slowly, he looked toward its origin. A gust parted the sand briefly, revealing surroundings.
"...!!"
A knight lay fallen. There, and nearby. The knight who'd thrown the weapon leaned against a sand pit, gasping, his lower body crushed.
They littered the area. Specters and skeletons crept silently toward them. And hulking stone figures of unknown origin.
"Damn it..."
He hadn't surfaced first just to get attacked. Rather, others had held this position with their lives, letting him emerge. Thanks to the knights who'd cleared the dirt before him and fallen.
"What's your name?"
"You asking that now, Captain?"
The crushed knight coughed blood. Bora wanted to open his helmet and see his face. But the knight waved weakly.
"Your Grace's position is still unknown. Countless soldiers struggle alive under this sand, and enemies are close. Captain Bora. Do a knight's duty."
"Remaining forces...?"
"Before I fell, a dozen knights were hereabouts. Now it's just you."
"No. Two. Including you."
Bora raised the broken sword, facing forward. The specters stood dazed, lunging only at movement or noise before halting again.
Even amid the wall-top battle, they hadn't been that active. This behavior was blatantly off.
"Hey, you."
Turning to ask, Bora closed his eyes and bowed his head. The knight who'd given him the sword breathed no more.
—Fsssh...!
The sand twitched, a hand popping out. A living human's hand.
"S-save... mercy... please save me."
Not the Duke's voice. Likely another soldier from the field. An unfamiliar plea. But a living human's cry. A cry from Libye's, his people's desperation.
And toward it, specter heads turned. One nocked an arrow, drawing long.
‘My knights.’
In that instant, Duke Erb's final words before battle flashed in his mind.
‘Fear not death.’
"Only fear your own cowardice in watching the weak die."
Bora murmured the Duke's words low, gripping the hilt. Wounded body, blocked sight, senses still off from shock. Every condition was worst-case, enemies' positions and numbers unknown—isolation absolute.
Yet living soldiers lay behind him. Libye's people twitching for life beneath this sand.
"I am Bora of Libye!!"
—Piiing!
An arrow whistled in. Bora twisted the hilt frantically to bat it away and roared. Just as the other knights who'd broken through before him must have.
"I am Bora of Libye!!"
Batting an arrow blind was near-miraculous. No second chance. But he needed to buy time for other soldiers—one more survivor to retreat.
—Piiing!
Death rushed in. Bora swung half in resignation.
—Ching!
No sensation of arrow on blade. Nor did an enemy shaft pierce him. Bora stared blankly at the shield that had burst from beside him.
"Think they can hear you yelling like that?"
A knight shook sand from his helmet, chuckling. Soon after.
"Who'd perk up just 'cause our captain yells loud? They know the drill."
"What, you still kicking?"
"Not till they nail my coffin shut."
"Hah. All talk."
Other knights gathered one by one at his side. Shields assembled. Cavalry greatshields lined up beside him like a wall. Bora hesitated, eyeing them.
Not one lacked wounds great or small. Strictly speaking, all were casualties fit for rear evacuation. Bora wiped his torn left eye and spoke.
"They react to noise."
"Then let's make some racket."
Few knights had broken through—ten or so, maybe fewer. Bora laughed shortly. What did numbers matter?
"I am Bora of Libye!"
"I am Palento of Libye!"
"I am Carmel of Libye!"
The knights bellowed their names. To draw every specter eye. To secure one more survivor.
They charged at the horde, shields raised.
"Glory to Archduke! For Libye!!"
Since childhood, before these knights took their first steps. From their fathers' war-torn days. Duke Erb had been their liege, their commander.
Children born in the 50 Years' War lost fathers to it, inherited titles and swords, grew into men, and plunged back in—toward the fields that slew their sires.
Even then, Duke Erb was liege, commander, guardian, mentor. The field commander always at the fore, the great elector overseeing the entire 50 Years' War.
His direct retainers. The greatsword nobles who'd ridden with him viewed him thus: father, guardian, patron, liege, commander... The lord who'd preserved their houses across generations.
Such a man lay behind them, somewhere under the sand. His final order: ‘Protect the people.’
So it would be.