Never War Again! (2)
Border region, the Foggy Plains.
The plain, shrouded in thick, damp mist, was as quiet as ever.
The soldiers scanned their surroundings with tense expressions.
An open plain—perfect terrain for cavalry charging on horseback, a death sentence for infantry.
"L-Lord. Are we really fighting here?"
Boris asked with uneasy eyes.
"A cavalry charge on flat ground like this means total annihilation. We should fall back to those hills behind us and form a phalanx..."
"No."
He dismounted gracefully and tested the damp soil with his military boot.
"No phalanx needed. We're going to make something way more efficient."
He shouted to the baffled soldiers.
"We're digging trenches starting now! Chest-deep, wide enough for two men to pass. Get to it!"
"Pardon? D-Dig trenches?"
Everyone wore looks of 'We came to fight, not shovel dirt?'
"Yeah. Right now!"
Confused, the soldiers picked up their shovels and started digging.
Griping was inevitable.
"Weren't we supposed to fight knights? Why are we playing mole..." "Isn't this too cowardly? Against knightly honor..."
Whispers reached his ears.
In this world, war meant honorable clashes under raised banners—that was common sense.
Hiding was for cowards.
"Listen up! You're not hiding."
His voice echoed across the plain.
"Knights swing swords and lances from horseback. Their attack zone is your torso. But what if you're in the ground?"
The soldiers exchanged glances.
"Their lances will slice empty air, and your gun barrels will target their horses."
As a demonstration, he dropped into the trench and crouched low.
His body vanished completely, only his gun barrel and eyes peeking above ground.
"This is your shield—and their grave. Remember: we came to war to win, not to pose."
Only then did Boris's eyes light up.
"And dig one more up ahead."
"Pardon? Double trenches?"
"No. That's not for people."
"Wh-What's it for, then?"
"Horses are skittish beasts by instinct—they stop or try to jump obstacles in their path."
He stretched his hand toward the plain where the enemy would charge, clenching at empty air.
"But at full gallop through fog, slamming into a sudden three-meter pit?"
He smashed his fist into his opposite palm.
"They plunge right in."
Hundreds of kilos of armored knight and horse tumbling into the pit.
Following horses piling up in a bloody heap.
Boris swallowed dryly, surveying the plain.
"B-But Lord, this is open ground. What if they spot the pit and flank us from the side or rear?"
A sharp, soldierly question.
Trench lines couldn't stretch forever; they'd just go around the ends.
But he adjusted his cap leisurely and replied.
"Won't happen."
"Pardon? Why not? That's textbook tactics."
"They're a knight order. Self-proclaimed invincible elites—scared off a pit dug by heretic peasants, so they detour?"
He smirked, slapping Boris's shoulder.
"Their lofty pride won't allow it. They'll charge straight at us to trample us openly."
"...Arrogance is their weakness."
"Spot on. And if by some miracle they wise up and turn to flank..."
He beckoned them closer, then snapped his hand sideways, showing his knuckles.
"That's when their flanks are most exposed."
Turning exposes the side—prime target for shooting.
"Flank, and we punch holes in their sides. Straight on, they eat dirt."
He locked eyes with Boris, instilling certainty.
"Heh... unbelievable..."
Boris shook his head in awe.
"Lucky for us you're on our side."
Boris saluted and dashed off to rally the men.
The shoveling grew more vigorous.
Then Grody arrived, towing the machine gun cart, grumbling.
"Hey, lordling. Gotta bury this beauty in the mud too?"
"Obviously. Plant the machine gun dead center."
"Out in the open?"
"Yeah. Their arrogance will send them straight for me, their command target."
He stroked the machine gun barrel, eyeing Grody.
"Think about it. Racing for the glory of the enemy commander's head, crowding the center. What happens then?"
"...?"
"The bravest—and dumbest—will cluster right in front of the muzzle."
Grody's jaw dropped at the explanation, staring like the lord had a demon under his skin.
"Fucking psycho..."
He shuddered, rubbing his arms as he backed away.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Grody shook his head but took position and started digging like the rest.
The initially grumbling soldiers now felt an odd security as the pits deepened enough to hide in.
Soon, a massive worm-like trench line snaked securely across the plain.
Mud-caked soldiers and yawning black trenches.
The knights' nightmare was ready.
That night, soldiers chewed dry bread in the trenches, sleeping in shifts.
The fog thickened, visibility near zero.
Eerie silence at the front lines.
He patrolled the trenches, clapping shoulders.
"Lord."
A young soldier asked in a trembling voice, clutching a worn wooden cross.
"Can we... really win? Against a knight order..."
A veteran nearby swallowed hard.
"They're God's proxies... Pointing guns at them... Won't we face divine wrath?"
All eyes turned to him.
Gunpowder gave them power, but their souls were still chained to medieval faith.
Priests and knights were untouchable heavens to them.
His gaze lifted to the night sky. Pitch black, no stars piercing the clouds.
Clouds hid every star in pitch-black darkness.
"I have words for you."
Breaking the silence, he spoke softly.
"In my homeland, a famous philosopher lived. After a lifetime of torment, he left these words."
He met each soldier's wavering eyes, driving it home like a wedge.
"God is dead."
"...!"
Soldiers gasped.
Blasphemy—summary execution material.
"L-Lord...!"
"No need to panic. It doesn't mean there is no God."
He drew a round from his belt, caressing the bullet. Cold metal.
"It means the old shackles are gone. The delusion that prayer alone saves. Their authority crushing the weak in God's name... That rotten era is dead."
He peered into the darkness where the knights waited.
"They cling to a dead God's corpse, deluded they're chosen. Believing prayer shields them."
Then back to the soldiers.
"But unlike a dead God, we're alive."
His voice gained strength.
"We didn't pray to an unseen God—we forged steel with callused hands, stockpiled hot gunpowder over vague blessings. We filled God's empty throne with human will."
His confident voice pierced their hearts—more real than faith, hotter than prayer.
"Fear not. Protecting you isn't a God in heaven, but your comrades beside you and the guns in your hands."
The vague terror of God faded from their eyes.
Click.
He cocked the revolver hammer. The dry, clear metallic snap echoed like church bells.
A heavy silence fell.
But trembling hands steadied. Fingers fumbling crosses now gripped stocks fiercely. Blind faith gone, replaced by hot human resolve to forge their fate.
Soon, soldiers returned to posts. Silence returned to the trenches.
Alone, he muttered skyward, unheard.
"So why didn't you leave me even a scrap of mana?"
The sky stayed silent as ever.
"Thanks to you, I trust lead over magic."
Dawn was breaking.
Bluish light filtered through the mist.
From the distant fog, faint hoofbeats echoed.
Thud thud thud...
Guests had arrived.
Earth-shaking hooves, and a golden cross banner emerged from the fog.
Awesome presence, breathtaking.
Hundreds of knights in white cloaks, heads held arrogantly high.
Their full plate armor gleamed in the morning sun.
Above, holy barriers blessed by priests shimmered like heat haze.
Like an army from heaven, they looked down on the men like bugs.
Grody gripped the machine gun handle, sweating coldly, glancing over.
"Hey, lord. God really dead? Those glowing bastards look pretty lively."
Grody swallowed, half-joking.
Overwhelmed by the visuals.
"Who knows."
The inquisitor at their fore drew a ornate sword.
"One thing's sure."
He slowly raised his right hand.
"They ain't wearing body armor."