The Advance
Ripe Baron felt his heart pounding as if it might burst. The blizzard had stopped, but the sky remained dark. In this moment, he wished he could just vanish. His vision blurred, and his body was soaked in cold sweat. It wasn't from the fierce wind or the cold, nor was he suffering from any illness.
"What are you doing? Give the order to advance," said Walter, a knight of Boatmer Viscount.
"Just a little longer, Sir Walter. Just a bit more time."
"Now is the perfect moment. Otherwise, more soldiers will die. We have to move before the enemy climbs the walls and sets up defenses."
"Just a moment, that's all. Hoo, hoo—"
Ripe Baron took deep breaths over and over. Walter watched his precarious state—as if he might collapse at any second—with a cold gaze.
"If we miss this chance, betraying them will have been for nothing."
Betrayal. The word pierced Ripe Baron's eardrums like a needle. He was hesitating. He had sided with Boatmer, but he had never directly attacked Goethe. The instant he gave the order to attack, he would truly become a traitor. The moment he uttered the word "advance," he would stain the loyalty built by his ancestors over a hundred years of vassalage with an indelible blemish.
"You've already crossed the river of no return. The Count won't forgive you. You'll be dragged to the execution rock and beheaded by Valerich, then your head displayed in Bernsi's square."
"……"
Ripe Baron squeezed his eyes shut at Walter's words.
"Goethe is your enemy now, my lord. Accept that, and your house will survive. His Excellency—your father—said to tell you this: The head of the house must cut away pointless guilt for the sake of the family."
"……You're……right."
Ripe Baron opened his eyes. 'Forgive me, Father. This was the only path I had the strength for.'
The previous lord of House Ripe had been a loyal vassal. He knew how vital Goethe was to the kingdom and had defended them to the end—a true liege man. He was a father who loved the land he was granted, his retainers, and his family.
Ripe Baron had respected his father while believing himself unfit for the role of lord. He was timid, indecisive, full of regrets and overthinking. He had no talent for magic, swordsmanship, governance, politics, diplomacy, or commerce. The only accomplishment in his life was raising his eldest son, Karloss.
Now just come of age, that boy—unlike his incompetent father—had formed his first circle at fourteen. A child born with talent befitting a vassal of a magical house. For that boy, for the future he would face, Ripe Baron was willing to become fertilizer.
Karloss, his son, was his treasure—everything he had.
"Sssup—"
Ripe Baron drew in a deep breath. His eyes bulged, bloodshot. If only he had been a little stronger, a little more capable—if Karloss hadn't been born, or hadn't shown talent for magic—he wouldn't have made this choice. He wouldn't have betrayed Goethe.
"Advance!"
Ripe Baron shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice tearing.
"Advance! Advance!"
His knights echoed the cry. Horns signaling the assault blared from all directions.
Waaaaah—!!!
The infantry charged toward the walls, roaring. Siege ladders, battering rams, mobile shields, and ballistae were pushed forward by mercenaries and soldiers. Hundreds of troops approached the walls.
Winterband's soldiers, tormented for two days by catapults, cannons, and maddening smoke, couldn't react immediately. Only after Boatmer's forces set ladders against the inner walls and infantry began climbing did mana-infused voices erupt belatedly.
"Defend the walls!"
Bergheim bellowed.
Fires still burned in places within the inner keep, maddened men swung blades wildly, and monsters that had breached the outer walls still rampaged inside. Whistles signaling emergency echoed everywhere like ripples.
Even soldiers dozing in makeshift quarters rushed out to respond.
"Arrows, oil, rocks, torches—pour everything down!"
"Don't let them climb up!"
Winterband's freshly awakened soldiers rubbed their eyes as they climbed the walls. They dealt with Ripe's infantry and knocked away ladders. They fired or hurled whatever they could grab—longbows, shortbows, crossbows, debris from shattered walls.
They were outnumbered. Dozens on their side, hundreds crawling up relentlessly. Arrows and bolts barely fazed the enemy.
"Fucking sneaky bastards."
Among Boatmer's troops were Akranlaufer's magic mercenaries. They used basic fire magic to secure sections of wall where ladders were placed or wind magic via magitech to deflect projectiles. The wind couldn't block everything, but it was enough to veer off light arrows and bolts.
Meanwhile, Boatmer's crossbowmen rained bolts straight at Winterband's soldiers. In the end, close combat was all that remained for Winterband's men—and that was their specialty.
They had endured without proper supplies or anti-monster gear, armed only with their bodies and blades. To them, accustomed to monsters' speed and strength, fighting regular infantry was easier than harvesting ripe wheat.
Ripe Baron's infantry that reached the walls were swept away by veterans like Bergheim. The rest were cut down as they climbed. Those scaling ladders fell as corpses.
Ballista bolts smashed battlements, but the effect was minimal. Winterband's inner walls weren't tall but were excessively thick, and the defenders didn't panic.
"Whoa, insane!"
"As expected of the Baron!"
Instead, the last two massive bolts were split by Bergheim's axe mid-flight, elating Winterband's soldiers.
They seemed on the verge of breaking but held. They teetered on death but endured. One Winterband soldier, pierced by three arrows in chest and side, still slew five of Ripe's men and stood on the wall, swinging his sword feebly though his breath was failing.
Boatmer's watching officers could only gape in disbelief.
The battering ram couldn't even reach the gate. Oil and torches had turned the area into a sea of fire. At this rate, their own morale would crumble.
"……Tch, their resistance is fiercer than expected."
Walter clicked his tongue.
"I-is this okay?"
"No need to worry. I'll handle it myself," Walter told the anxious Ripe Baron.
Walter's gaze fixed on Bergheim, dancing across the wall like a whirlwind. The priority target once atop the walls.
"Then I'll……"
"You've done your part, my lord. Rest now. Leave the rest to me."
"Ah……hoo."
Ripe Baron sighed in relief. His face already showed he'd cut down dozens of Winterband soldiers—utterly exhausted.
But his relief was premature.
"……!"
Ripe Baron's eyes widened. One eye, precisely—the other had an arrow buried in it, piercing through to the back of his skull. He made no sound. Walter's gauntlet clamped his mouth.
It happened in a blink. Walter infused his aura and shot an arrow-like thrust through Ripe Baron's eye into his brain.
"Fewer heads claiming spoils is better. His Excellency's final words: Traitors betray again. Hm? Already dead?"
Walter glanced at the fallen baron and charged the walls, shouting.
"Baron Ripe has been shot! Soldiers of Ripe! Avenge your lord with your own hands!"
Ripe Baron wasn't fully dead yet. His brain, pierced by the arrow, tangled all memories and thoughts. Nothing made sense. His broken mind fixated on one phrase.
"Forgive……forgive……"
And one image flickered: Karloss, smiling brightly, kindling his first magical flame.
"Sorry……"
Amid the chaos and turmoil, Ripe Baron sank into eternal darkness and silence.
A cloudy sky. A snowy field whipped by biting winds. Over a thousand soldiers and hundreds of mercenaries standing or sitting in formation. Dozens of horses pawing the ground or snorting. Cavalry atop them, eyes fixed on one spot.
"Monsters……"
Someone muttered. It came from among the troops led by Karl, Boatmer Viscount's eldest son.
The words echoed from the opposing lines too.
"Hagen, could you fight like that?"
Bruno of Binvelt asked his knight.
"……Even using the same aura, I'm human. They're monsters."
Hagen stuck out his tongue.
Between Binvelt's and Boatmer's forces lay about 150 paces. At the midpoint, ceaseless clashes of steel rang out. Two swords sparking as they met, two auras colliding in echoes. Sometimes like cannon fire, thunder, or screams.
The iron symphony across the winter plain had lasted a full day and half more. Spectators slumped in exhaustion or stretched, but none dozed or yawned.
Each sword clash exploded with aura, fragments of will scattering like aftershocks. Aura was a second body forged from imagery and intent. It tore and shattered moment by moment, shards reaching the onlookers, pricking with sharpness, murderous intent, agonized pleasure. Soldiers and mercenaries shivered, bodies and minds taut.
Meanwhile, the eye-blurring swordplay continued. The red-haired knight Everbin versus the black-haired Carlson. Binvelt called him Carlson, but his real name was Kyle—son of the legendary mercenary king Cayenne.
"Who's winning?"
Karl, Boatmer's eldest and current army commander, asked.
"Even."
Knight Falkenvald replied. He was actually an archer. His edge over other knights: infusing aura into bow and arrows. Lowest in raw aura and swordsmanship among the viscount's knights, but unmatched in eyesight.
"Weren't you saying Everbin had the edge earlier?"
"Pure power favors Everbin, but basics and stamina go to his opponent. Everbin's tiring first."
"This won't do."
"End it?"
Karl nodded slowly to Falkenvald's question. No reason to indulge this. They could win a full assault outright—superior in numbers and quality. The duel existed only due to Everbin's stubbornness: Kill the enemy commander Kyle first to break morale and save lives.
But his true intent? Called a genius in swordsmanship since catching the viscount's eye, he hated nicknames—especially "Second Kyle," stirring rivalry.
Everbin wanted to defeat Kyle before both armies, becoming what he aspired to be.
Karl understood fully. If Kyle hadn't left Boatmer—his father—he'd have vied for the viscount's favor with Karl, or even surpassed him. Karl himself had been told as a child to be half the man Kyle was.
Thus, as commander, he'd allowed the duel. Both Karl and Everbin wanted Kyle dead—methods differed.
Falkenvald took a longbow and arrows from his squire. Nocked an arrow. Faint blue aura flowed from his hand through bow, string, and shaft.
His aura wasn't dense or potent, but its duration was unmatched. At 100 or 200 paces, he could guide arrows by will. Even plain arrows rivaled ballistae.
Kyle, focused on Everbin, would show an opening. Falkenvald wouldn't miss.
Now.
As he loosed, his index and middle fingers urgently gripped the nock again.
Squeee—
Falkenvald spotted a projectile flying at Karl. A javelin—a barbarian favorite.
His keen senses detected unusual aura in it. He pivoted, firing at its path.
It happened in an instant. Arrow struck javelin.
Thuk—
The javelin embedded near Karl's feet.
"……!"
Even deflected by arrow, it nearly hit. Karl yanked it free, flinching.
"Who?"
Falkenvald couldn't answer immediately. No enemies beyond Binvelt's lines in sight. Even his vision couldn't find the source. How far? Unfathomable—and this power.
Ten minutes passed since the javelin flew. On a hill, a gray-haired boy astride a massive wolf appeared.
"Told you not to fight Everbin."
The boy grumbled. Behind him, hulking warriors emerged one by one. Someone held a flag. A gray-haired woman on another wolf bore it—a banner with a shield emblem fluttering atop the pole.
Goethe's flag.