Chapter 377
Chapter 377
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 377
Chapter Title: Absolving Your Sins (1)
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When gazing upon some incomprehensible existence, humans often forget even to gasp or exclaim in awe. The command staff of Fairn's main force was no different.
As the stalemate dragged on and their front lines, which had seemed to gain the upper hand, began to give way without end, the Fairn command kept silent.
Once communications with the troops cut off, the soldiers fell into chaos. Couriers raced back and forth from the front lines, but no orders came down.
"Your Highness... Count Bertolf has fallen. We request dispatch of a field commander for the 2nd Legion."
"Your Highness! Report from Marquis Paul von Bock! Our forces are being massacred!"
"From the 3rd Cavalry: report to main force! Prepare for a rear strike from the Pilgrim Knights. Cavalry Commander Sir Eberwergen has fallen!"
As reports poured in from all sides, only one word echoed in Sigismund's mind. Defeat. With trembling hands, he wiped his gaunt face and muttered.
"What in the world is happening...?"
It was an empty question, uttered for the umpteenth time. It made no sense. This was no battlefield they could lose on. There had been a few anomalies, sure—but how could an elite army of thirty thousand, handpicked from the very best, crumble so utterly?
And after just a single defeat?
Hearing Sigismund's whisper, the generals in the command tent let out deep sighs. Be they diehard loyalists who had rolled up their sleeves for the royal restoration, opportunistic survivors who latched onto the prince's rebellion, or even the depraved minions who reveled in slaughter under hellish influence.
The scale of the disaster was too vast to blame on personal incompetence.
"How...? Why is no one dying? Why?"
To be precise, it wasn't that no one was dying. The battlefield was still greedily devouring the flesh and blood of the living. The problem was singular: it hungered only for their own soldiers' deaths.
When man clashes against man with swords in hand, one side may fall. It could be their own. But in this moment, with tens of thousands wielding blades, for only their allies to perish was blatantly unnatural.
"Judgment... it's judgment..."
One general muttered in a cracked voice. Sigismund glared at him with bloodshot eyes and snarled.
"Judgment?! By whom? Who dares speak of judgment upon my authority!"
"The gods above the high heavens... the wrath of the Pantheon descended! Upon the throne built from the massacre of the people and the draining of their noble blood!"
"You scum!!"
Sigismund shot to his feet and bellowed. The general who spoke met his gaze with startling calm.
"What are you waiting for! Rip out that traitor's tongue and strike off his head at once!"
"......"
Not a soul dared step forward at Sigismund's command. Rats always sense a sinking ship faster than anyone, and most of the generals gathered here were precisely that.
Rats scheming to grab a share by siding with the rebel prince, and betrayers who abandoned oaths and convictions under the excuse of national fortune. Defiance and treason were everyday matters to them. Sigismund gnashed his teeth, glaring at the silent generals.
The atmosphere in the tent grew ever more menacing. Armed men fingered their sword hilts as if ready to draw at any moment, while noble officers rolled their eyes, plotting escape.
Sigismund tightened his grip on his bronze goblet. With a wooden crack, it shattered.
"So that's what you all think, is it?"
No sooner had his words ended than the armed men rose, hands on their sword hilts. They stared Sigismund straight in the face and assumed combat stances.
"Our purpose was one: the restoration of the homeland. But look at us now. Even if the mana corruption of the land was an accident, you've starved the people, conscripted soldiers, dragged them to this distant hell—and now we're all facing annihilation!"
"......"
"So now, our only duty left is to save these soldiers and send them home. The war is over! You will go down in history as a mad tyrant, an eternal cautionary tale for future royals. We will heed your words no longer!"
As the generals drew their swords, the faces of nobles uninvolved in the rebellion drained pale in an instant. No one knew how long the mutiny had been brewing, but now that it had erupted, their own lives hung by a thread.
"Oh? So you'll take my head and beg mercy from Dein's stableboys?"
"If we must."
"Amusing. For the people? For the homeland's glory? Is that truly what you believed?"
Sigismund hurled the crumpled goblet to the floor and rose. Crimson mana rippled beneath his eyes.
"You, who tortured and slaughtered women and children, who burned the defiant? You, who left the overflowing corpses in the streets without even burial space, dumping them like trash in the wilds? You dare claim it was for the people? Disgusting. Utterly revolting!"
"It was all on your orders...!"
"Oh, orders! Mere tools, were we? Fine excuse! Then why didn't you defy the late king's commands during the last coup? Hahaha! You! Ernst! When you swore loyalty to me, you were just a lowly officer! Were you not a tool then?"
Tendons writhed like serpents in Sigismund's fists. He fixed blazing eyes on each mutineer and roared.
"Heinrich, Wald, Artur! And all of you! When you, stuck in dead-end posts with no connections, swore fealty to me for higher ranks and murdered central nobles— was that for the people too? Was it truly?"
"Shut your mouth, you bastard!"
"Try it! Silence me with that sword of yours! What, afraid of the infamy as betrayers of two kings? You pathetic curs...! Spite of ambition and talent, wagging tails and gilding greed as 'ambition'!"
"Kill this madman!!"
-Boom!
The armed men shuddered with rage, drew blades, and charged. The synchronized strikes of veteran knights filled the tent with flashing steel, raining down on Sigismund.
-Clang!
But the blades halted at his skin, unable to pierce further. They scraped across his flesh, screeching like metal on metal. Sigismund gazed at the blades raking his body and curled his lips.
"What is this...!"
"The game's over. It was premature, but the time for playing along has passed."
Human flesh can never be harder than steel. Yet the blades failed to cut Sigismund's skin. Shadows slowly crept over the shocked officers' faces.
With the shatter of glass, the mana lamps in the tent burst one by one. Mana swirled, howling like wind. And then—
-Fwoosh!
"Arrrghhh!!"
Flames snaked up the hand of a sword-bearing officer, devouring it. The sizzle of searing flesh mingled with the stench of burning meat, filling the tent.
Rusty iron and sulfur reek spread faster than the spreading horror. Even in this heavily guarded royal command tent, it wasn't fully sealed—but now, midday sun yielded to descending darkness.
The sole light was the sickly yellow glow of flames spreading from Sigismund. Amid the blaze, he hissed on.
[Your foolishness and incompetence grate on me. This should have waited until the East was fully subdued... Well, early or late, it matters little now.]
"A demon wore the prince's skin!"
[Didn't we all wear someone's skin to live?]
-Crush!
A crimson hand emerged from the flames, seized a nearby officer's head, and pulverized it. The headless corpse burned swiftly, leaving blackened bone shards that clattered noisily across the floor.
A thick, pillar-like leg stomped forth, crushing the bone pile. The nobles stared in horror.
Where Sigismund had stood moments ago loomed a massive, muscle-bound figure with red skin and great horns, piercing the darkness. It rolled brass-flaming eyes over them.
[Hear this, and take comfort? You were all doomed to die once spent.]
The demon laughed like grinding iron, raising its fist. Screams lagged half a beat behind its motion.
* * *
"Oh."
Supported by Vicente, Fernandez paused mid-step and let out a short exclamation. Vicente turned, tilting his head.
"What's the matter?"
"The enemy played a bolder card than expected."
"Because of your magic? Makes sense. The tide has turned."
Vicente remained amid enemy ranks, but fewer soldiers rushed him now. Partly because he'd piled corpses to pave his path, but more due to the enemy's chaos.
Fairn's army was in disarray. Even he, thrust into the front as a mere knight rather than overlooking as a commander, could feel it. Battlefields have flows. Moods and tides expressed in such ways.
Instinct told Vicente the flow was shifting. Reason confirmed it: the enemy's command chain was crippled. Junior officers meant to rally and lead troops were vanishing one by one.
"But a bold card? What better option do they have besides rout or annihilation?"
"One more. Borrowing power from a more transcendent being."
"A transcendent being...? Surely not the Pantheon's gods. Haha, you mean hell's fiends appeared?"
"Who else could aid them?"
With that, Fernandez snorted. He straightened and resumed walking.
"Even they can't save Fairn's king."
"Isn't it ridiculous? Teaching descendants of the Giantslayer and Inquisitors the folly of summoning demons."
"Hm, a correction's needed."
At Fernandez's words, Vicente chuckled and shook his head.
"Not Giantslayer descendants or Inquisitors. Say: before two Round Table knights. With two voters of the Blade Council present, these demon rabble think they can reverse the battle now?"
As he spoke, Vicente swung his sword. A pale, trembling soldier thrusting a spear desperately took a flat to the face and tumbled.
"You're sparing them now?"
"Hearing you, these seem mere puppets of the king. What intent or malice do rank-and-file soldiers hold in a great war? The malice of the battlefield is synonymous with the sovereign's. They merit repulsion, not hatred."
"But advancing while neutralizing each one wastes stamina."
Fernandez grinned playfully.
"I'm a Round Table member, but beneath worldly titles, an ordained priest. Your Highness."
"Converting them with sermons?"
"A surer, more peaceful way exists. My monastery uses it now and then."
Pausing briefly, Fernandez's face hardened as he bellowed sternly.
"Stand aside, sheep of the Pantheon!! Your war is over; only judgment under the Lord's justice remains! Lay down arms and repent, and your transgressions will be forgiven—for your sin's price falls to the king!! Clear the way and withdraw!! I am the Inquisitor, Albert Cerned!!"
His shout boomed. Faint-hearted soldiers scattered in panic; those holding ground faltered and retreated.
The path to command opened. Vicente stared blankly a moment, then burst into laughter.
"You should've become a priest, not a knight!"
"My brothers call it the North Wind and Sun tactic, Your Highness."
"Naturally, I'm the sun?"
"As a priest, I'd say this heaven's light shines solely from the Pantheon?"
Demonica excel not at interrogation or persuasion. They prefer swift, sure methods—and operate openly, needing no hidden identities. Covert heresy hunts are Heretica's domain; Demonica deploy only to slay devils.
Thus, when Demonica order civilian dispersal, they invoke Church authority and shout. Sergio dubbed this the 'North Wind and Sun tactic.'
A brutally simplistic, childish name. Yet Fernandez, half-assimilated to their mindset, used it casually—then despised himself anew.
"Then show them the north wind."
Vicente, quite taken with the name, snickered repeatedly as he strode the open path with head high.