Chapter 363
Chapter 363
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 363
Chapter Title: Whirlpool (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Rest was brief. This was no time for rest. Fabiano made his way to the grand cathedral, supported by the survivors. Their abbot had not yet perished. He was enduring death, gasping for breath with great difficulty.
“Abbot. We… we were too late.”
“You were plenty fast.”
Beorn replied coldly, as always. He tried to rise unsteadily, but after coughing harshly, he collapsed.
“Help me up.”
“Yes, Abbot.”
Beorn’s body felt light. With half-closed eyes, he groped for Fabiano’s arm and gripped it tightly.
“I was foolish. I was arrogant. Brother Fabiano. My brothers. All these brothers are dying because of my foolishness.”
“That’s not true.”
“No, I’m right. I was arrogant. Lately… cough! Lately. We had too much success. Few brothers died, nearly every operation succeeded… and the great demons were falling.”
It was a feat unprecedented in the material world. The death of a great demon was such a thing. A great achievement, uprooting the very source of evil.
Perhaps that was why even this old heretica’s eyes had darkened. Arrogance. Wasn’t it the vice inquisitors had to guard against most?
“Even though it wasn’t my doing, I grew arrogant. I became a disgrace in the Lord’s name. Don’t… don’t forgive me.”
“Abbot.”
“I am no longer abbot. Abbot… cough. Fabiano. That’s… that’s just a seat. Anyone can take it, and someone must.”
His feverish eyes, clouded by injury and heat, blinked faintly. Fabiano, seeing Beorn like this for the first time, stammered uncertainly.
“I never wanted to sit safely in the rear, counting dead brothers. But someone had to. Someone had to coordinate every operation to keep more brothers from dying. It didn’t have to be me, nor was I the best fit. It was just something someone had to do.”
“Abbot. That’s not true. You did your very best.”
“Search the Fairn royal family. The second prince. The first is a follower of Beitasser, the second of Maclaren. There’s his army camped under this forest… cough!”
As Beorn coughed violently, blood mixed with organ tissue soaked Fabiano’s shoulder.
“Abbot…!”
“Listen to me! To the end! The second prince is plotting rebellion. He’ll burn the monastery and pin the blame on the Church. War… war is coming. The greatest war demon worshippers can wage… Gather the brothers. Prepare for war. Purge them…”
The light in Beorn’s eyes began to fade.
“In the Lord’s name, the peace of the world… They ransacked my office. I checked later… the saint brother’s report was gone… the report on the great demon’s seal… Find it, it must be found. Find the saint brother… Brother Zephys. Brother Zephys…”
Beorn’s voice grew quieter after his final words. Fabiano pressed his ear close to the old man’s lips. A faint whisper came.
“Lord… Lord. I miss the winter mountains.”
No more logic connected his words. Beorn’s wounds were beyond saving. Even this man, who had led inquisitors his entire life, was wearing away before death.
Fabiano listened silently to the old man’s mutterings. This was a kind of confession. And hearing confession was a priest’s duty.
“The winter mountains… the village. I miss my hometown. My hometown before it burned. The mountains before they were cursed. Lord, why. Why did you abandon them?”
“Brother Beorn Shieldbane.”
“Ah… yes. Beorn… Shieldbane… My brother. Why did you leave so soon? Why in my place… I… I’ll carry your name. Brother. So you can live on forever.”
Beorn groped at the empty air.
“The day the village burned. The day the wizard… burned the village… Lord, why.”
The Lord does not answer.
“Mother… Mother. I… don’t resent you…”
“Abbot. Abbot! Brother!”
Now, Beorn no longer answered.
Fabiano gazed at his face for a long while, then closed his eyes. Quietly making the sign of the cross, he spoke.
“Pectus, in cendensum (Courage and sacrifice). First-grade Religiosa Heretica, 23rd Abbot of St. Bartholomew Monastery, Beorn Shieldbane, has passed into eternity.”
“Lord, your lamb now heads to the throne. In your mercy, embrace this weary soul.”
“Macto.”
* * *
“We couldn’t recover the bodies. But to prevent the demons from desecrating them, we burned the brothers’ remains along with the remaining foundation of the headquarters.”
“Well done.”
“The hell gate was destroyed. I opened a path to escape the area. As the abbot said, Fairn’s forces were stationed at the mountain’s base, so we had to break through to avoid them.”
“…Well done.”
Marco tapped his eyepatch as he spoke.
“As the price, I left my eye on that mountain.”
“Well done.”
Zephys merely repeated the words. The conversation stopped. The report was over. Yet Zephys stared into his teacup in silence for a long time.
“He was a man worthy of respect.”
“Yes, Brother.”
“I still vividly remember the days I was deployed on operations with him.”
“Yes.”
“The Lord needed him, so how can we presume to know His will?”
“…Yes, Brother.”
Zephys slowly raised his head. Contrary to expectation, his eyes held the same steadfast resolve as before.
“So, human affairs must be handled by humans. We must not presume to guess the Lord’s will—”
“Seek only the Lord’s justice and His kingdom.”
“Indeed. Now, let the operation begin. The Inquisition is not merely a building, brothers. Each one of you is the Inquisition. As long as a single one stands firm at the end, that will be our headquarters.”
Zephys rose as he spoke. When Marco stood to follow, Zephys addressed Fabiano, whose bandages were still wrapped.
“How soon will your injuries heal?”
“Two days will suffice.”
“What operation do you wish to join, Brother?”
“Darian’s judgment is not yet complete. I will claim the punishment I declared for him with my own hands, Brother.”
“So be it. Brother Marco.”
“Yes, Brother.”
“Start by gathering the brothers scattered across the eastern front. Fairn… their judgment will come after.”
“Yes, Brother. But toward the Empire…”
“I’ll handle that.”
Zephys nodded curtly and left the room.
* * *
There was another suffering from the eastern turmoil. Guir’s countess and great elector, Everize.
Guir was now devoting all efforts to loading vast quantities of food supplies from the North Sea ports onto massive ships. The enormous harvest from the Empire’s breadbasket, timed with the autumn reaping, was paralyzing Guir’s harbors just with the loading.
Trade ports had halted, causing massive losses. Everize bit her lip, glaring at the perforated ledger even now.
“Your Grace! A courier has arrived! Urgent dispatch from the Church!”
“The Church?! Bring it quickly!”
In those days, a Church courier arrived. In her mind, the Church was Zephys’s workplace. Thinking of it merely as a workplace was fitting for an elector’s boldness.
Her heart raced as she broke the wax seal and slowly unfolded the letter. A hastily scrawled missive in familiar handwriting appeared.
It was their first exchange of letters. She pondered long how to reply to convey her feelings fully, but as she read, her expression grew colder.
“Find the inquisitors scattered across the Empire…?”
No, what?
Am I… no, is Iron Side some kind of detective agency?
“Why is everyone coming to me lately, really!!”
Everize, who had shrieked that out, saw Zephys’s signature at the end and her lips began to curl up again. Zephys, Zephys, Zephys Shiradast.
Hmm… fine. Just this once. Count it as a wedding gift.
But the name will be Zephys de Tremulay.
Lost in fantasy for a moment, she soon shook her head and stood.
“We must dispatch a courier to His Imperial Majesty. I need Iron Side command clearance.”
“Yes, Your Grace. We’ll prepare it!”
“As fast as possible!”
* * *
Kirhas Hearttaker’s days were highly regimented. She stayed by Fernandez’s side, ate with him, stayed by his side again, then ate with him again. Repeat for days, and her daily routine was fully described.
She wanted to help, but she didn’t know exactly what Fernandez and Freya were doing. She’d watched his work for days, yet nothing changed.
“I need to brief Sector B-21. Issue retreat orders, and the same for Sector E-17.”
“The goddess dies.”
“And the same for G-01.”
“Kill the goddess.”
Freya grumbled but remained seated in lotus position. A massive flower graveyard bloomed over the table. Kirhas knew this sight well.
Freya’s representation of the eastern coastline. Flowers bloomed and wilted in unison, positions shifting moment by moment, as Fernandez gazed at the map and issued occasional orders.
“Um… Silver Duke?”
“Yes?”
“Are those red dots the enemy?”
“Correct.”
“Then these dots coming from the sea now?”
“That’s right.”
“So enemies are landing on the coastline right now?”
“Yes.”
Fernandez answered curtly, eyes fixed on the map. Even as he replied to Kirhas, his directives flowed ceaselessly to Freya.
Kirhas looked at the scattered red petals on the map and said,
“Then why not ambush the landing enemies? Landings are when they’re most vulnerable, so picking them off one by one would make the battle easier, right?”
“That’s a valid point.”
“Yes…? Then why…”
“We lack the forces.”
Fernandez finally straightened, looking at her. After holding the position so long, stretching produced a crackling of joints.
“There are thirty-two raiding parties on the front now. Each with over two hundred men, so our forces total around six thousand four hundred at best. Probably just over six thousand in reality. The enemy?”
“Yes?”
“Fairn’s main army numbers? Each landing fleet has at least a thousand men, Kirhas. Transports loaded with archers, cavalry, infantry, siege weapons. Our units are infantry-only.”
Northerners were exceptional warriors individually, but war’s foundation was ultimately numbers.
“In a line-against-line clash, we can’t beat Fairn’s main force. To win, we need point-against-point engagements, and to overcome organizational differences, commit three times the numbers—that’s standard.”
“Yes…?”
“Remember that. Say we commit three thousand to stop one fleet. Our forces split in two?”
Fernandez pointed at the map.
“No matter how brief or successful the clash, movement ties us up for over a day. With the sea ahead, a day’s delay lets the enemy main force envelop us. One battle, and our army’s done.”
“But… avoiding all fights isn’t the answer. Eventually, there’ll be a pitched battle…”
“We need point-against-point. Slice the enemy even finer.”
War’s basis is numbers. But conversely, no matter the enemy’s total, adjust only the numbers in each clash on one front.
Not a decisive battle for overall victory, but scattered skirmishes across the nation.
It was exceedingly difficult. Battlefield intel wasn’t real-time, so timing retreats, advances, and routes precisely was near impossible. Even if successful, variables on the field were unpredictable.
“But Silver Duke, Freya’s communication method is just…”
“Status quo, prepare retreat, retreat. Only those three. Correct.”
“Then even if retreat directions are pre-set, you can’t relay detailed engagement info, right? How can you be sure only small skirmishes happen everywhere?”
“Watch.”
Fernandez chuckled softly and refocused on the map. As buds bloomed moment by moment, intricate gears turned in his mind.
Orders were just three: hold, prepare retreat, retreat. Each retreat followed pre-assigned directions, raiding parties moving differently.
Across the battlefield, points traced lines like meshing gears, evading enemy clashes.
Like a whirlpool, like an updraft drawing enemies in. The tide of battle shifted ceaselessly.