Chapter 369
Chapter 369
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 369
Chapter Title: Honor and Dishonor (3)
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Altbert was situated in the heart of a basin encircled by towering mountain ranges. The reason this odd city—devoid of trade routes or any geographical advantages—had been made the capital lay far in the distant past: the founding king Dane had personally slain the giant of the mountains and built a village atop its corpse.
As such, Altbert was no meticulously planned metropolis, nor did it boast a superior location capable of sustaining a vast population. Yet its strengths were clear: the geography forced any approach through narrow passes, making defense straightforward—and it stood as a symbol. This city embodied the great dynasty itself, the dwelling of a king who cherished and sheltered his people, an impregnable fortress that had never fallen, even in its darkest hours.
Thus, even in this moment of utter despair, the people refused to abandon hope. They felt something akin to religious fervor.
-Ku-gu-gu-gu-gung!!
With each beat of the dragon's wings, the tents of the makeshift camp fluttered wildly.
That overwhelming presence, that ancient and mighty being gazing down upon them. The mother of the resplendent Knight King from ancient myths cradled them beneath her wings.
At the site where palisades were being erected, a platinum-haired boy dashed about, his locks whipping in the wind. He steadfastly hefted a greatsword larger than himself, urging on the weary, exhausted civilians and soldiers through three days and nights without rest.
"Your Highness! Leave this section to us—please, just get some rest for a moment!"
"How could I? When Father is away, he entrusted me with this duty."
The prince flashed a cheerful grin and brushed off the knight's words. He snatched the canteen from the knight's hand, tore off the cap with his teeth, and gulped it down. His words lacked any royal decorum, but everyone knew it was deliberate.
It was an excessive burden for a young boy. Even as a prince of a nation, he was merely a child of barely thirteen. The reverence of the people would weigh on him like a mountain, and the brink of national ruin might fill him with despair.
Even a sturdy adult man would collapse from exhaustion after three sleepless days, surviving on hardtack and dry bread while scrambling between walls. But he could not show weakness.
Before being a boy, he was a prince—and in the king's absence, he knew he was the most symbolic beacon of hope they could look to. Eric clenched his faintly trembling eyelids and instead let out a hearty laugh.
"With the knights' and soldiers' morale soaring like this, and the Grand Matriarch watching over us, who could deny that my first campaign will end in historic victory?"
"Indeed, Your Highness."
The knight lowered his visor and nodded. In the prince's words and actions, he sensed a natural grace surpassing mere royal poise. He quietly shed tears and turned away. Even the scribes and mages felt the same.
We must ensure this boy does not die in this war. It might sound absurd to say one person embodies a nation's hope, but in this moment, all believed the kingdom's fate hinged on the prince's survival. As long as this prince lived, the kingdom could be rebuilt, even if it fell.
-Kwa-rung!
With a thunderclap, the shadow blotting out the noonday sun vanished. The dragon had descended beside the prince, now in human form.
"Well done."
"Grand Matriarch."
"Truly... you resemble that child so much. I'd heard tales of you before, but the rumors couldn't keep pace with the reality."
Abel smiled proudly as she gently stroked the boy's hair. She bent at the waist to meet the prince's eyes directly.
"All these people strive to keep you alive. Never forget this moment—live every day from here on as you do today."
"Isn't it the opposite? I would stake my life to save them."
"If only Daine could see you. Born with the qualities of a true king, Eric."
Abel smiled softly and ruffled Eric's hair. She took the greatsword from his hands and said,
"But as you say, to save them on the battlefield, you must first preserve your own health. Go inside and rest. I'll hold your post."
"Grand Matriarch, I'm fine!"
"Must I knock you out to make you obey?"
Eric grumbled and retreated at Abel's stern tone. His pout was so boyish it made Abel chuckle despite herself.
'If I bore Fernandez's son, would it feel like this?'
Lately, she and Freya had been conducting various experiments to see if dragon-human hybrids were possible. No cases in Asir or Vanir records, though the Jotun lines—riddled with hybrids—had a few.
The Jotun were descendants of Ymir, after all, and dwarves had branched from Ymir's bloodline. So humans and Jotun might be distant kin? Abel and Freya cautiously hypothesized as much.
The remaining issue involved soul totals and equivalency between the origin world and this one—a puzzle even Abel couldn't solve no matter how she racked her brains.
'I'll just keep trying until it works.'
Abel turned toward where Fernandez likely was, a enigmatic smile playing on her lips. If she wasn't sure whether she could bear children, she'd just keep at it until one appeared.
'First, though, I need to wrap up this mess.'
Whether she bore children or not, attempted it or gave up, it could only happen in an era of peace. Abel slung the sword over her shoulder and climbed atop the newly completed wall foundation.
"So many of them."
Before Kingsgate—the sole pass to Altbert without crossing the mountains—Fairn's encampment stretched to the horizon.
* * *
"We have no time to wait for them to finish their defenses, Your Highness! Please order the advance!"
"How do we catch the dragon?"
"No matter how fierce the dragon, how much can one creature sway the battle? It seeks to protect the people—so once we breach the pass, we hold their lives hostage and negotiate."
"What if the dragon guards the pass?"
Sigismund chewed his lip, fidgeting impatiently. Up the narrow road to Altbert, soldiers were reinforcing crumbling walls.
Once those walls were complete, siege would be twice as hard. Circling the mountains? Exhausted troops descending the slopes would be cut down helplessly.
A flanking maneuver through the mountains wasn't viable for surprise. Magic forces on both sides, plus a dragon—plus it wouldn't fool their eyes. If spotted mid-flank, it'd just feed troops piecemeal into the jaws of death.
Indeed, Dane's Altbert. City of steel. Impregnable fortress. Sigismund stroked his chin thoughtfully.
'I never imagined the dragon would show.'
Of course, he'd heard rumors of the founding king's guardian dragon.
Precisely, reports from the Infermer crisis through Vicente's abdication mentioned it aiding Vicente.
But after years dormant and never appearing during the invasion, he'd dismissed it.
'We did prepare... somewhat.'
Sigismund sipped wine to rinse his bitter mouth. He hadn't recruited Ludwig on a whim, risking danger. Corrupting the stubborn warrior demanded a heavy price.
Yet Ludwig and his Griffin Knights were essential. If a dragon truly appeared, they needed forces to tie up its feet from the air.
Fairn's elite knights—rivaling the Round Table—had sent no word for days. By march speed, they should've arrived first, awaiting the king.
Sigismund's fingers drummed the table anxiously. Last resort. Last resort...
"Have all the generals assembled?"
"Three legions haven't arrived, but our forces exceed twenty thousand, while theirs are mostly militia and refugees—no cause for defeat."
Sigismund's lips twisted. Of carefully selected thirty thousand, ten thousand shaved off. Three legions missing meant four thousand lost en route. A grievous toll.
Yet viewed another way, absurd. Incoming forces: six thousand. Current camp: twenty thousand. En route losses: four thousand? High attrition, but enemy totals barely scraped that even generously.
From Vicente's full mobilization, Dane had no mere militia who'd barely held a sword.
There: elders, women, children clutching rusty weapons, trembling in fear.
"If only we could handle the dragon—this war would be easy."
Couldn't wait forever for absent Griffin Knights. Nor politely for defenses to finish.
"What are those old Hunting School fools doing?"
"Debating if wyvern tactics apply to dragons."
"Sure, similar enough—ignoring twenty times the size and fire-breath. Idiots. Never mind. Tell them to stick to their tasks."
Sigismund sipped wine, drumming fingers. He needed that power.
'Carlo Mano, where are you?'
* * *
"Griffins taste like chicken!"
"Look at 'em—practically chickens."
"Four legs still count as chicken?"
The northerners gossiped while roasting meat over campfires. Hardly the look of warriors who'd staked their lives half a day prior. Dodging death filled them with joy—no trauma from the fierce battle—as they ate, drank, and sang.
Fernandez sat in the shadows, lost in thought, watching them. Then a wooden bowl appeared before him.
"Eat while you think, milord!"
"Ah, thank you."
Kirhas handed over the meat stew with a grin. She stretched languidly, then plopped onto Fernandez's lap, purring.
"Quite the battle, wasn't it?"
"Good knights, but bad matchup."
Ludwig would've laughed in disbelief, but it was true. Griffins flew poorly at night; maintaining formation for a night glide in unfamiliar skies was near impossible.
In the first clash, half the barely-mounted knights crashed tangled in each other's wings. The rest hit ground after the initial charge.
Northerners were born hunters. Their harsh lands bred fiercer, more numerous beasts than the continent's; they'd hunted them to sustain clans.
No griffins in the north, so first encounter for them too. Yet seeing knights rain from the sky, they bellowed boldly.
'Bear-headed chickens falling from heaven!'
'Chicken stew for breakfast tomorrow!'
Bluster, but it came true. Griffin Knights realized too late ground fighting suited them better—by then, the battle was set.
"They fought well, though..."
"What chance does one hand have against four?"
Unwinnable from the start—hence pitting northerners in open battle.
Fernandez gulped stew and replied. Troop disparity, surprise assault, favorable terrain, fatigued foes. All confirmed before striking.
Casualty ratio almost regrettable. Fernandez smiled bitterly at northerners honoring the dead.
'Aeren's gonna flip.'
Fewer of them meant harsher winters. Each was a clan's future. But war claimed lives.
"Heading back to the flagship now? Better if you command directly, milord."
"That'd be proper, but not right."
"Right?"
"Scheming to topple a nation and slay its hero—watching his final breath is only humane, no?"
Vicente returned to die. Tactical discomforts aside, ignoring his death was unthinkable.
Vicente's death was his responsibility. Fernandez truly believed it. Faster action, riskier strategies—plenty ways to save him. But.
'But this is most rational.'
Minimal losses for maximal gains required Vicente's death. Planning strategy signed his death warrant. Thus, witnessing his end was duty.
"But milord, didn't you save this country? Just rout the enemy and end the war..."
"Nonsense, Kirhas. What forces do we have to annihilate them?"
"...Pardon?"
"Enemy totals thirty thousand elite, well-organized. Even with Abel, Altbert has hundreds of militia; northerners here barely over five thousand. Six-to-one—how do we win?"
Morale, quality, fatigue—all starkly against. With Sigismund wielding demonic power, even crude blessings per soldier made pitched battle untenable.
Kirhas's face twisted oddly at his words.
"Uh... then...?"
"Dane and Fairn both perish in this war."
Fairn had lost reconstruction impetus; Dane would fall here. Surviving troops scattered sans state.
Sigismund, devil's minion, would open hellgates or rouse petty kingdoms for sacrifices. Altbert the likely site.
Fernandez stated it flatly; Kirhas blinked, pondering. Then why this ordeal...?
"But milord, Vicente disbanded Round Table knights to the petty kingdoms..."
"By the time those disbanded knights convince royalty, form expeditionary forces, and muster allied legions to return—can Altbert hold? Naturally, Vicente didn't think so. He and I saw farther ahead."
"Farther...?"
"A future rebuilding ruined kingdoms and scattered peoples, rising as hope's symbol from scorched earth. Rallying petty kingdoms—not as eastern alliance, but Dane Union."
Postwar, imperial aid turns east into puppet; food, rebuild costs bind it. Needed sole dynasty to wield iron power, crushing dissent without politics or ideology.
Dane claims east fully; Dane Union as imperial province. Imperial sway across central to east vastness under his grasp.
For that alone, minimal losses for maximal profit—Fernandez mobilized upon hearing of Dane-Fairn war.
"So... plundering petty kingdoms was...?"
"Part to deny Fairn support, part to stoke panic of foreign invasion, easing unity calls."
"Imperial food aid..."
"East loses self-sufficiency for decade-plus. Empire binds via grain, rebuild funds. For that."
"...Ruthless."
"Should I be kind?"
Fernandez eyed Kirhas. Her turquoise eyes met his steadily, silent for a moment.
Soon, Kirhas reached out, caressing his cheek.
"Even when you must kill yourself, milord, you seek maximal gain. Is this plan truly your idea of minimal loss?"
"...Yes."
Hypocrisy worse than naked vice. Cloaking evil in greater good fouler still. Fernandez offered no excuses. Instead, accepted mass slaughter, postwar poverty, chaos's civilian tolls gladly.
But Kirhas knew: if lesser losses yielded same profit at cost of his life, he'd pay without hesitation.
Man weighing himself identically to others. That's how Kirhas saw Fernandez. The worn man suppressing lost feelings—she'd bear them.
Thus she murmured, drawing his face close.
Her lips tasted of salt.
"Then I'll cry in your stead."
-Poor thing, now who'll cry in teacher's place?
Her words conjured a cherished voice like an auditory hallucination. Fernandez closed his eyes, lips pressed to hers.