Chapter 375
Chapter 375
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 375
Chapter Title: Kingsgate Battle (6)
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Though they had been struck hard from the rear and the flanks, that did not mean they were encircled. Encirclement was fundamentally something a larger force imposed on a smaller one, and Fairn still belonged to the larger force.
Moreover, the troops holding each front line followed entirely separate chains of command. Elaborate encirclement nets or annihilation operations were out of the question, so the battle naturally devolved into a war of attrition between scattered forces.
As the Pilgrim Knight Order from the rear and the northerners from the flank pressed Fairn's main body with successful ambushes—
"Ah, damn it. Sir Albert. My apologies."
"Pull yourself together. It's not over yet."
The enemy's main body naturally surged even more fiercely toward the ruined gate at the base of Kingsgate, hemmed in by narrow passes.
Fernandez deflected incoming swords and shields as he glanced to the side. Vicente had lost one arm, blood streaming from beneath his half-shattered helmet.
-Clang!
No matter how exceptional an individual's skill, the valor of a common foot soldier rarely shone on the battlefield. Even the most rigorously trained warrior could not have flesh harder than steel.
Thus, one slash after another. Each time a weapon slipped through an armor gap, wounds multiplied. The king's plate deflected nearly every incoming blow, but the enemy numbers were overwhelming.
-Clang! Scraaaape!
"These... monsters!!"
Yet the soldiers' faces grew haggard by contrast. Whenever a warhammer or spear struck home, the greatswords of the two knights invariably thrust up from the midst. The ground around them was already piled with corpses into small mounds.
Not even a hawk among crows or a wolf amid sheep could match this. The soldiers' morale plummeted further. Against foes whose blades did not pierce—and if they did, struck back without fail.
-Crack!
A slate-gray greatsword sliced across an approaching soldier's head, while a swift infiltrator beside him took a heavy gauntlet to the skull. Amid the gruesome crunch of crushing steel, a sharp scream pierced the air.
"Gaaaargh!!"
The sound of a man being pulverized alive was more shocking than any greatsword or hammer blow. Fernandez exhaled hot breath beneath his helm, deliberately sowing chaos as he swung his arm.
'Not much longer now.'
Unblockable strikes he took on the body. For those exploiting gaps in his greatsword, he swung a fist; for those too close, a kick sufficed. Human bodies crumpled like dry reeds under such blows. Over a hundred like that.
For one man to hold a legion at bay and slay over a hundred was already the realm of legend. He glanced at Vicente. Unlike himself, Vicente was forging the same legend with mere human flesh.
One-armed, eyes glazing over, staggering intermittently yet reacting to every approach—it was chilling to behold. But still, not much longer.
"Your Highness, are you still with us?"
"Speak."
"I beg your forgiveness."
"The moment you staked your life, that was forgiveness enough. Enough."
The two heaved ragged breaths, swinging their blades relentlessly. Tracking foes with their eyes, wielding weapons through full-body instinct, these two warriors slowly conversed.
As if there would be no chance afterward.
"That's not it, Your Highness. I'm seeking forgiveness in advance for the somewhat unreasonable request I'm about to make."
"An unreasonable request? More than this situation?"
"Yes."
Fernandez deftly ducked a spear thrust, head bowed, and spoke. The spearman split into two halves the instant his strike missed. Blood sprayed, and through it, Fernandez's gauntlet seized the next soldier's head.
-Crunck!
As bone crumbled with a spine-chilling crack, the soldiers hesitated back. Fernandez exhaled raggedly and looked aside. Even one-armed, the king faced twice as many foes as he.
"Speak."
Thus, the king's calm tone now could be called mythic bravado. Excessive blood loss, wounds across his body, grueling march followed by life-or-death combat. Beyond all that, the king still cried out defiance with his entire being.
"I need ten minutes. I won't withdraw from the fight, but my focus may waver, burdening Your Highness."
"You want me to cover you?"
"...Bluntly put, yes."
"What a request. If it were flight, I'd refuse."
-Whoooosh!!
The king's arm slashed fiercely forward. Platinum hair spilled through his helm's visor like a flowing mane, ablaze; his blood-soaked cloak rose anew. Mana seeped once more into the protective spells the mages had embedded in his armor's joints.
-Boom!!
A shockwave erupted along Vicente's sword path. A feat so uncanny—even seeing it—you couldn't grasp how. Soldiers before Vicente scattered as chunks of flesh.
Some soldiers meeting Vicente's blazing eyes threw down weapons and fled. More swallowed hard and approached cautiously. Still, the enemy tide was endless.
Yet Vicente stood tall, tilting his head slightly as he spoke.
"Protecting vassals is a king's duty. Stand behind me. As long as breath holds, I'll guard you."
"It won't take long, Your Highness."
"Mine won't either, so hurry your task—but don't rush into regrets."
Fernandez couldn't help bursting into laughter at Vicente's bluffing assurance. Back-to-back, they glared at the enemies now fully encircling them.
* * *
"They're coming!! Kingsgate is breac—breached!"
"Ah, does that mean Father has passed? Release this! Sir!"
"Your Highness!! Your Highness! Compose yourself! If Your Highness leaves this post, who will guarantee the people's safety from those fiends' grasp?!"
"Father, Father!!"
Eric stood atop Altbert's gallery, shouting down at the enemy troops marching past the canyon below Kingsgate. The last sight he'd glimpsed was his father's back, standing alone before tens of thousands at the fallen fortress base.
No one here could deny the king's death. Naturally, no hope of survival there. Yet that didn't erase a boy's grief at twelve or thirteen.
The last thread holding Eric up snapped. He collapsed atop the ramparts, wailing.
No one could reproach him. He'd already done his utmost. Until Dane's main body—led by his father—returned, he'd rallied refugees, blocked dense enemy lines, held resolve.
But now was no time to wallow. Enemy numbers persisted; allies were a mere hundred-odd militia, plus unarmed refugees numbering tens of thousands: women, elders, children.
"He's not dead yet."
"Lady Abel...!"
"Don't give up. I've said it countless times today, but especially now. Those two knights standing there haven't abandoned hope, nor have I the same mind. Your king, knights, and dragon sing of hope—how can you plunge into despair so easily?"
Abel stroked Eric's hair, speaking softly. Blood-crusted bandages wrapped her body. Wounds from her dragon form still clawed her innards.
Time was needed to resummon dragon shape; in this state, breathing fire was impossible. Yet even so, she gripped her sword—and with weapon in hand, surrender was unthinkable.
Still, watching the two knights rage like storms afar, she could only sigh deeply.
'Trusting you doesn't mean I don't worry for you, Fernandez.'
Her eyes pierced the chaos, tracking their fight precisely. Reading the flow, she judged they had stamina to continue.
'But you, worry not for me—simply trust. This castle will hold until our strengths fail.'
In Kingsgate and Altbert alike, she was nearly the sole asymmetric force atop the walls. Fernandez had sent her here for one reason: endure the longest with minimal losses.
Thus, she showed her best. Abel gripped her sword, gazing at the advancing troops.
* * *
Usable spells were few. His mana circuits hadn't fully matured.
Mana was insufficient too. Already strained from overusing magic in the prior clash, his circuits frayed.
Yet different from past flesh unable to channel mana at all. Maintaining Demonica output—the pinnacle of human potential—while casting was a miraculous feat.
'Ravirata, if I return, I'll repay you. I owe you greatly.'
Not mere revival. She'd crafted the optimal body his soul remembered. His prior flesh hadn't perfectly matched his soul. Saint Anthony's Chalice Demonica baptism had been somewhat barbaric.
-Kiiiing!
Mana surged roughly through his circuits. Drawing ambient mana, filtering it, substituting mudras for arrays to shape intent. With the first seal set, Fernandez swung his sword with the other hand.
In bronze throne days, he'd fought as a 'warrior adept at magic.' Magic mere auxiliary; overwhelming physicality forced simplistic combat.
Now, circuits embedded in his true flesh. A meager, thin output—third-year novice mage or shallow Wildcast level.
But wielding mana via relics versus innate circuits? Worlds apart. Now, he was a 'mage adept at swords.'
And as king's sight differs from knight's...
Warrior's sight differs from mage's too.
-Fwoosh!
Sparks flew from rapid mudras. Circuits at half capacity; backlash limits barred grand magic—but enough. First, [Summoning].
"Rise."
Spell as terse word, mudra a syllable, mana a handful. From his brief gesture, a crow of enemy blood unfurled wings skyward.
Dizziness hit briefly. Sensory overlap with familiar. But countless times in past life. Fernandez adeptly adjusted, swinging relentlessly.
Now the crow circled high. Minimum condition met: real-time battlefield recon.
"Was that spell just now...?"
"One of my minor tricks."
"You needed time for that spell?"
"No, Your Highness."
Fernandez smiled at the weary-breathing king.
"Now I need time to cast."
Magic isn't child's play molding mana into reality. As paramount mage, Fernandez declared: magic defines the impossible in words.
Deeds impossible in Beitasser-holy flesh now feasible. Though mana shortages barred grand rites, Pilgrim Knights precluded black magic summons.
As Ensorcery lord—gathering era's black arts into grand culmination—he overlooked the field via crow's eye, pondering.
Magic isn't mere mana aggregate. It manifests concepts as reality—the sum of impossibles.
A sorely missed sensation.