Chapter 371
Chapter 371
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 371
Chapter Title: King's Gate Battle (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
*Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!*
The war drums echoed as the enemy began their advance. Eric scanned the soldiers, their faces drained of color at the sight of the approaching foe. This was bad. Morale had plummeted upon realizing that the freshly massacred were Dane's own citizens.
The enemy's brutality in hurling living people from catapults stirred unprecedented terror before any spark of rage. These were foes who flung the living for sport. Defeat in this battle would spell obvious doom not just for them, but for the civilians behind.
In other words, they were fighting a war unlike any they'd experienced or even heard of. No such conflict had arisen since humans seized hegemony in the material world after the Celestial War.
Wars between humans resembled clashes between nobles and soldiers. Civilians caught in the aftermath meant starvation on ravaged lands or depletion as war refugees—not slaughter by soldiers postwar.
Yet in the Celestial War era, interspecies conflicts took no prisoners or slaves. Back when racial differences bred hatred, conquerors drew no distinction between enemy soldiers and civilians.
Thus, the soldiers now saw their opponents not as humans, but as inscrutable aliens. A terror greater than any survival instinct crushed them—the fear of the unknown.
"Get a grip!"
Eric bellowed, gripping his sword hilt upright. Hot breath swirled beneath his helm. He roared at the terrified troops.
"Get it together! They're coming! Archers! Loose! Don't stop!"
"Y-Your Highness!"
"Damn it, you planning to all kill yourselves together?!"
Was he not afraid himself? The enemy's vanguard, a mere scouting charge, already outnumbered their own. By simple arithmetic, the enemy forces dwarfed theirs dozens-fold.
That meant this ragtag militia had to inflict dozens-to-one casualties against the enemy's elite legions for victory.
A gap defying even talk of possibility or impossibility. Commanders' eyes were colder than the soldiers'; the despair gripping Eric and the officers ran deeper.
[No battle has been more dire than this.]
Abel spoke from above them. Her voice burned with fury still, yet feigned calm. This ancient being's rage alone could infect those around her with emotion.
Trembling soldiers at her wrath lifted their gazes to her.
[Yet I stand with you still. Your fathers, their fathers, ancestors long forgotten—they endured such battles and lived. And now you stand here.]
Abel gazed at the advancing enemy and their laughing commanders beyond. Her mighty form yearned to soar at them this instant.
But she couldn't. If she left, how long could these wall-top children hold? Thirty minutes? An hour? Without her presence, how much time could they buy?
Her breath was not infinite. Reigniting the flames in a dragon's exhalation demanded considerable time. And even a greatwyrm's breath, mighty as it was, couldn't fell more than a few hundred in one go.
Those few hundred would need repeating hundreds of times to rout the foe. Long ago, when dragons lived and breathed, they too wore down quickly in species wars. Individual might had limits in warfare.
As King Gaimern said, slaying one dragon took three thousand elven elites. A one-to-three-thousand exchange screamed overwhelming power—yet proved dragons weren't immortal invincibles.
And as an ancient dragon who'd soared countless battlefields, Abel knew how to leash her fury. Here, she must be their hope.
[Your very existence proves your ancestors' survival. Just as they crossed brutal wars and eras to reach you, you shall not perish here. Humanity's survival means triumph in every war thus far.]
With mere dozens of guardsmen, fewer than ten magi, and a few hundred militia holding against thirty thousand, even hope crushed left no chance to fight.
At last, enemy arrows rained down. The dragon raised vast wings, shielding the soldiers' heads as she glared at the foe.
[Fight, then. As your ancestors did. As your descendants will. Your history's trials prove your survival. So that your distant heirs may proudly declare you endured to reach them!]
History was survival incarnate. Abel's words resonated deep in the soldiers' hearts. Yes—their forebears weathered harsher times than this, yielding them here now.
Terror began ebbing from their hearts. Not solely from the dragon bodily intercepting arrows overhead.
Rage filled the void, naturally. Endless fury at the brazen, savage, ruthless enemy. Invaders trampling their sovereign soil, toying with prisoners, vowing total extermination.
The living's wrath, humanity's wrath surged. Soldiers nocked arrows, drew bowstrings, poured boiling water and oil over the walls, bellowing their fury.
Thus dawned the first day of the King's Gate Battle—the finale of the Dane-Fairn War.
* * *
"See? What did I tell you!"
Sigismund cackled at the dragon's refusal to take flight. Without total magical victory, no blocking her soar and flames. With no griffon knights even, how stop a sky-roaming dragon?
Yet the dragon wouldn't easily abandon the walls. Rational, wise—but futile thrashing in Sigismund's eyes. Merely delaying the fall until his mages clinched the magic war.
The walls would crumble the instant she left. No mere militia could hold numerical inferiority sans dragon shield.
Yet conversely, her presence barred crossing the walls. Thus Sigismund's siege opener meant pointless manpower burn for at least half a day.
"But, Your Highness. With the dragon there, we can't even breach the walls."
"True enough. Even if mages push, they'll just drive her off—not capture."
"Then halting battle for half a day to spare our troops wouldn't be wiser?"
"Hah, General. If we halt advance, what's keeping her atop the walls? Planning to personally block her furious dive on us?"
Sigismund's words silenced the generals. Only then did they grasp his strategy: baiting troops into the dragon's jaws to pin her feet.
He watched frontline soldiers perish to her rage. Troops felled by boiling oil and arrows, knights and militia swords from the walls.
Thousands ground to dust. For walls held by mere hundreds. All those deaths mere time-buying. Generals swallowed fear eyeing Sigismund.
Their king lacked human heart. Reptilian red eyes gleamed with madness and glee. Humming, he downed wine to soldiers' screams.
* * *
"Almost there."
Fernandez wryly smiled from the mountainside, watching dying troops below. King's Gate stood like a breakwater against the tide—precarious yet firm against relentless assaults.
Fairn's forces probed with spaced, seemingly wasteful strikes. Not full advance, but mere thousands per wave.
Cautiously limiting dragon-breath devastation, of course. And all this—from start to end—unfolded within predictions.
Controlling enemy advance pace, ambushing their fastest units, annihilating key personnel, forcing time-wasting chases of phantom "bandits."
Simultaneously herding Dane refugees from "bandit" raids toward Altbert, clearing prior threats along paths.
Timing Vicente's return to overlap Altbert siege and his arrival, meticulously, delicately—like a spider weaving web, luring foes deeper into fatal gaps.
Ensuring overconfidence for bolder moves.
"But, benefactor, holding half a day just exposes us to their mages, no?"
"Hah, half a day. Who said that?"
"You did, benefactor—that the magic war would last half a day..."
"Yes, Fairn's battle mages likely expect half a day given this disparity."
Fernandez overlooked the fray beyond the ridge. Kirhas tilted her head at his words.
"Kirhas. Think Vicente's field expedition sent only knights? Most Round Table magi followed too. Fairn brought full legion magic might. How could Altbert's skeleton defense hold half a day?"
Equal forces could clash half a day—no, days. Fairn and Dane were great powers with near parity. But Dane's minimal garrison versus Fairn's main force? No balance.
Three hours? No, one hour tops. Magic gaps weren't linear; double troops squared the disparity. Magic wars scaled thus.
Yet half a day implied near-equal forces dueling to decision. Even mundane armies needed that for outcome sans magic.
But Fernandez finely tuned every timeline. From war's spark: Vicente's return, Fairn main force muster, to Altbert siege.
Half a day wasn't for Dane magic defeat.
"Half a day in, magic war opens—Abel retreats, refugees flee Altbert's outer walls for final stand. Fairn main sets camp on Altbert plains, siege engines pound walls."
"...And?"
"And by then, Vicente arrives. Half a day was just time to his battlefield entry. Backed by Altbert in direst straits, he'll heroically appear and perish. All see it—then I'll carve their escape."
Fernandez swiftly knotted seals, continuing. Mana flowed his arms, joining sky-clashing magics. Subtly disrupting Fairn mana whenever Dane magi buckled.
Months since implanting mana circuits in new flesh—paltry reserves and frail circuits barred grand spells, but scant mana sufficed for counters.
Couldn't pulverize with blasts, but mutual ruin via counters? Easy. Fooling Fairn main into "half-day win" delusion? Child's play.
Vicente's dramatic exit, smooth Eric succession, miraculous refugee rescue and path-clearing. Eric then stood unassailable sovereign of newborn Dane Kingdom.
A mere youth claiming legitimacy surpassing any material lord. Even as imperial province later, no treason cries for "selling the realm."
Perfect puppet. Fernandez wryly smiled, interlacing fingers for more spells. From war's outbreak, he couldn't shake fate's web.
Humans warred on earth, mages on high.
Past life to now—ever the old black mage scheming underground, spider trapping heroes.
Eric slashing throats with Abel's aid, rallying men wildly—dazzling, majestic even. Himself? Skulking in shadows, duping armies.
Gazing on history's hero birth, Fernandez smiled self-mockingly. A smile from his old black mage days.
Fifth wave ended, next brewing. Fernandez withdrew spells, stretching.
"Vicente's arrived. Withdraw."
"Yes, benefactor."
Fireballs struck King's Gate as Fernandez mounted. First strike spell hit Dane lines since war's start.