Retreat
Beyond Binvelt's barren fields, a massive army came surging forward. Dust clouds billowed up, and iron armor and spear tips glinted in the light. The soldiers, arrayed in perfect ranks, were as intimidating as flames sweeping across a winter plain. The dull vibrations from their warhorses pounding the earth reverberated even from afar.
From atop the watchtower, Carlson gazed at the Boatmer forces advancing. They had pitched camp close enough to be visible from Binvelt's military outpost, preparing for a siege. Soldiers erected tents and lit countless campfires. With thousands of men scattered about, every inch of the horizon visible from the tower looked like enemy territory.
"Is that the main force? They said two thousand, but it looks like ten thousand at least."
Bessimer spoke, his face a mix of awe and excitement. It was the first time in his life he'd seen such a host.
"Are those monster freaks among them?"
"Probably."
Carlson replied, eyeing the fires dotting the hills. His mind was fixed on one thing: had Viscount Boatmer come in person? Would there be a chance to kill him?
Unfortunately, no. The delegation that arrived at the camp consisted of a monk and two knights, all cloaked in black with swan emblems embroidered on them.
"Baron Binvelt is a murderer who violated the code of single combat and slew Sir Rutger Joachim von Boatmer, second son of Boatmer, through cowardly trickery."
Angry murmurs rippled through the Binvelt soldiers, but the monk pressed on unperturbed.
"However, Sir Wolfram Siegfried von Boatmer, rightful heir and commander of the main army, does not wish to shed innocent blood. He is a noble soul who believes the people should not bear the burden of their lord's folly. Thus, if Baron Binvelt accedes to these three demands, there will be no needless sacrifice."
Like a herald delivering a royal edict, the monk unfurled a parchment and read the demands in a somewhat arrogant tone.
"What a long-winded prick."
Bessimer sneered. His eyes weren't on the monk, though, but the knights standing behind him. Were they as strong as the chevaliers? Would they mutate like the chevaliers? If they fought again, could he win? That was all that filled his head.
"Hold it in for now. You'll get your chance to clash eventually."
Carlson reined in Bessimer's bloodlust, sensing it.
The demands were absurd, every one of them. First: immediate surrender and the unconditional release of noble prisoners. Second: Baron Binvelt must personally visit Viscount Boatmer to beg forgiveness and cede Binvelt to Boatmer's direct domain. Third: Baron Binvelt must confess his crimes in full before the royal court.
"Should I just kill 'em all?"
Veins bulged on Bessimer's bald scalp.
"Savage, don't pawn your life to rage. Emotions cost dear, and you're not man enough to pay that debt."
The red-haired knight guarding the monk mocked him.
"What the—"
"He's right for once. Stand down."
Carlson stopped Bessimer as he took a step forward.
"And Kyle, the bastard. You're really alive. How's it feel, reuniting with your brother after all this time?"
"I grew up an orphan, so I wouldn't know. Say your piece and get lost."
Carlson stared down the Boatmer envoys with cold eyes.
"That's all we have to deliver. You have three days."
The monk folded the parchment, and the knights departed leisurely for their camp.
"You fucking cowards! The day you tuck tail and run, I'll shake my ass in a victory dance!"
Bessimer bellowed at the retreating Boatmer delegation, unable to contain his fury.
"We move fast from here on out."
The moment Boatmer's ultimatum arrived, Carlson set the camp in motion. Before a full encirclement, they packed essentials, evacuated women, children, and the infirm elderly. The rest were armed, trenches dug. More barricades went up, wooden stakes and traps planted everywhere. Oil and dry hay covered the slopes, barrels of liquor rolled out. Forges blazed without cease, and the camp perimeter filled with pits, mounds, and crude traps.
"Fuck... this ain't war, it's a massacre."
Bill grabbed Bessimer and Carlson, ranting about the insane odds. Fewer than forty soldiers against two thousand. Death. Certain death. Against Rutger, they'd won through hellwolves and surprise tactics, scraping by. But now? No chance for tricks. They'd just swarm and trample them flat. End of story.
"Why risk our necks for a lordless scrap of dirt? We're talking forty, but half are wounded, geezers, or tribal kids just hitting manhood."
"The young master's got a plan."
"Shit, what plan? Tell me!"
"Quit yapping and dig another ditch. If you're running, run alone."
Bessimer focused on digging pits day and night.
"Stick to logistics duty. Desertion means summary execution."
Carlson gave rote replies.
Bill wanted to bolt, but he couldn't. Even Ingeris, the woman he fancied, had chosen to stay and fight. Worse, deserting meant Isaac would kill him later, magic contract or no. He sometimes doubted if those contracts even worked, but Isaac's magic was real enough. In the end, Bill neither fled nor steeled himself fully, just resigned to fate.
"Ah, we're all fucked. Gonna die here with these idiots."
For three days, he barely slept, buried in murderous supply work.
Fools or brave? Binvelt's soldiers showed no change beyond swapping training for war prep. Late into the night, they readied for battle, then wrestled for bets, gambled, guzzled booze, and swapped dirty jokes like always. Not one deserted before certain defeat.
They're all mad.
They weren't hired mercenaries; Binvelt was their home and root. Leaving meant banditry or beggary at best. They clung to a faint faith. Like routing Rutger against the odds. Like turning a mutating monster knight to ash in a blink. Their young lord, the Baitur champion, the Winterband captain—they'd pull it off again. Betting on that slim chance, they awaited war calmly.
Bill would never understand them, even in death.
And death's day dawned under gray clouds. A grand sight, if you could call it that. Thousands arrayed in ranks encircled Binvelt's camp. Spears and shields in perfect order, warhorses pawing the ground, kicking up dust.
Binvelt soldiers on the palisade walkways held their breath, sensing the battle, the death to come. Signs were already there.
"Nock arrows!"
Boatmer officers bellowed the commander's orders. Archers stepped forward through the infantry, nocking shafts.
Around commander Wolfram in black iron plate stood black-robed mages clutching staves embedded with mana stones. They traced arrays on the ground, forming massive fireballs. The red orbs flickering hazily atop the magic circles sharpened into vivid crimson blaze.
"Aim!"
Over a hundred archers drew. The mages' fireballs roared from afar, heat palpable. Soon, arrow storms and fireballs would rain, torching the camp.
"It's over."
Bill muttered in resignation. Too late to run now.
But then.
"Halt!"
A thunderous voice boomed across the field. Dozens of mounted holy knights charged into the battlefield's midst. Their white surcoats bore the red cross of the Papal Court.
The lead holy knight rode straight for Boatmer's commander. His mana-infused voice rang out again.
"By order of His Holiness the Pope! Cease hostilities immediately! From this moment, any who take up arms opposes the Papal Court!"
Mages snuffed their flames; baffled archers slowly eased bowstrings.
Shouts flew between the holy knight captain and Wolfram for a long stretch. Binvelt soldiers couldn't make out the words clearly.
And then.
"Huh?"
"What the...?"
The thousands' ranks broke. Infantry lowered spears and shields, filing rearward. Banners dipped one by one. The grand cavalry turned quietly, horses ambling away.
Binvelt men stared blankly at the wasteland.
"They're... really leaving?"
Someone mumbled. Expressions screamed disbelief.
As all stood stunned, someone flung open the palisade gate and sprinted out.
"...Captain?"
Ignoring puzzled stares, Bessimer charged full tilt, then yanked down his tattered pants to his knees. He shook his bare ass at the retreating Boatmer troops.
"Thanks for coming, you bastards! This is the last ass you'll see from here!"
Regrettably, his antics didn't faze the enemy.
"Ah, fuck."
Bill muttered under his breath.
Isaac and Vincenzio sat across a stone table in the stone chamber. Warm herbal tea, fresh black bread, and honey-glazed figs sat before them.
"I received your letter today. My thanks."
"No need for thanks. Boatmer committed religious crimes. He tried to assassinate a bishop, bribed a scribe, and plotted to kill a special inquisitor. He must pay the due price."
Vincenzio sipped his tea and smiled. Monastic chants echoed from deep within the abbey.
"Will the viscount heed the tribunal's summons?"
"He will."
The cardinal gave no elaboration, but his answer was firm.
Isaac gazed at his teacup a moment before speaking.
"I hear there was an arson incident in the Parnese family."
"Yes, tragic."
Vincenzio's expression and tone rang genuine regret.
"Purple flame again, they say."
"That flame tests faith relentlessly."
"Inquisitor Raphael has taken up the investigation, I hear."
"Has he?"
"But he heard something odd from Bishop Alquin."
"Odd?"
"The bishop testified that my exclusive mage kindled the purple flame. So I ask: what sort of man is Inquisitor Raphael?"
Isaac said.