Declaration of War
“You— you fucking monster—”
Falkenvald crushed the arm of a fallen Winterband soldier under his boot. It was just a stomp, but the soldier’s arm was mangled beyond use.
“Arghhh—!”
The soldier’s agonized scream made even the infantry of Viscount Ripe flinch.
“You— fucking, shit, monster— your parents must be— obvious even without seeing—”
The soldier tried to spit curses in rage, but Falkenvald gave him no chance.
“I was an orphan.”
Crunch. Without emotion, he brought the iron heel of his boot down on the soldier’s face. Like a crushed fruit. The soldier’s features caved in, bone fragments jutted out, and his face distorted into unrecognizable mush. He lost his voice. All he could manage was a gurgling rasp mixed with bloody phlegm.
Falkenvald stared down at him impassively until the man’s breath stopped.
“And now, I’m not an orphan anymore. I have a father. One you don’t dare speak of. He’s dead.”
Falkenvald nudged the corpse with his boot. No response.
“Damn, haah, shit.”
Only then did Bergheim finish off the Botmer infantry clinging to him. Too late. The squad that had rushed to support him had all been slaughtered by Falkenvald. It bought him a moment to breathe, but that was fleeting. Infantry and mercenaries kept swarming up the walls without end.
Soon, Bergheim was alone on the ramparts again. Fortunately, Winterband soldiers inside the gate were holding firm, preventing it from opening fully. But at this rate, the fortress would fall—it was only a matter of time.
I have to take out that monster first.
Bergheim thought as he eyed the corpses at Falkenvald’s feet. They were horrifically mangled. Limbs severed or crushed one by one, faces last. Unrecognizable, but from the blood-matted hair color and protruding eyeballs, he could make out names.
Mull. I’ll avenge you. If I can.
Bergheim steadied his ragged breath.
“Haah.”
He gripped his axe tighter and charged Falkenvald. It was pure brawl. Bergheim threw everything at him, no holds barred. Strength, agility, balance, stamina, reflexes, spatial awareness, prediction, technique, composure, tactical thinking... He considered every element of combat to find an opening.
At least one advantage over Falkenvald. Exploit it for the win.
Unpredictable axe arcs, grabbing his breastplate when he tried to pull back, tripping his legs, kicking his side with greaves, erratic steps to flank, diving into blind spots where sword swings faltered. He tried it all.
A tiny gap. That’s all he needed.
“Hahk, hahk, hahk.”
Bergheim tired first, too exhausted even to curse. Every attack was blocked, his grab for the breastplate caught by Falkenvald’s gauntlet instead. Trip attempts ignored by nimble footwork, side kick grabbed and nearly sending him to the afterlife, flanking turned against him, blind spot met with a pommel strike.
How the hell do you beat this thing?
Bergheim wiped blood blurring his vision as they separated. He’d dodged every blade, yet his body was a shredded mess.
“Why won’t you just die?”
Falkenvald tilted his head. The man before him refused to drop. Blocking or evading strikes that should’ve been impossible. Falkenvald had long surpassed human limits. Power even seasoned aura users couldn’t withstand.
Boom—
He closed the gap in an instant, swinging. The parapet crumbled like bread. Bergheim barely dodged. No time for relief. Falkenvald’s blade hit like catapult shot or cannon fire, yet swung at rapier speed. Luckily, Bergheim could match the speed. That’s how he’d survived so far. But accumulating wounds tightened around his throat.
No spot on his limbs free of burning or numbness. Survival instinct dulled the pain to extremes, but post-battle agony would be unbearable. Blood loss blurred his sight. He felt his mind and body slowing.
How many more dodges?
Bergheim glanced at the outer walls. Vibrations from the count’s spells continued—magic beasts remained. Horn signals still sounded sporadically.
Need to hold longer.
“Just die already!”
“Stand down, soldier.”
“Raaah! Revenge!”
A Ripe viscount infantryman charged. He’d watched from afar, seizing the lull. Ignoring Falkenvald’s warning, he thrust his spear at blood-soaked Bergheim.
Like Bergheim’s squad butchered by Falkenvald, Ripe infantry littered the ground from Bergheim’s handiwork. Maybe a friend among them.
No one cared. Least of all Falkenvald.
“Huh?”
The soldier staggered, collapsing. He looked down at his foot with a hollow sensation.
“U, uwaaak! My foot, my foooot!”
His booted ankle was severed. Not clean—torn and shredded, like a dull axe blow pulverizing bone and flesh.
“I told you to stop.”
“He’s on your side— isn’t that too much?”
Bergheim panted.
“I’ll offer your head to Father myself.”
“That damn daddy talk—”
Curses leaked from Bergheim’s heaving mouth.
“Picked up from some shithole gutter like a stray mutt.”
Kwaaa—
A shockwave like a sledgehammer on air rocked the wall. Dark blue aura poured from Falkenvald’s blade like a waterfall. Black veins bulged across his body and burst; blood streamed from his eyes.
“Shut your mouth.”
Falkenvald’s voice was no longer human. Like a massive beast or magic creature speaking.
Chills erupted over Bergheim. He’d provoked to unsettle, but it backfired.
Fuck.
He lost sight of Falkenvald. For a split second. An eternity to Bergheim. Senses dulled, opponent inhumanly faster. Where from? Front? Back? Side? Above? Experience screamed: Can’t block. Even at full health, doubtful.
Cold reason decided: Take it.
Your Grace, I did my best. Don’t call me weak for losing.
Sensing death, he looked skyward.
Ah, wanted to at least die in sunlight.
Clang! Sparks flew. Bergheim’s final spasm. Survival instinct overriding resigned mind, swinging the axe.
Futile. Haft snapped. Hands shredded like torn tendons. Axe delayed the blade slightly, but not enough to save his heart-targeted chest.
On death’s edge. Vision halved by sword-light cleaving air.
This is it.
Final blaze: senses peaked. No Winterband survivors inside gate. Outside, Botmer soldiers heaved ropes, panting. Pulleys groaned, ropes taut like bowstrings. Iron-banded oak gate rammed by massive weight.
Kwang—
“……?”
Thunder not just at gate. Right before Bergheim—Falkenvald’s half-slicing chest blade roared too, deafening.
Not a horn—tinnitus filled his ears.
“……sir.”
Someone stood close.
“……young master. Viscount!”
Bergheim shook his head, vision clearing. Sturdy build, gentle face—looks deceiving, many thugs regretted underestimating.
“You’re late, Lucas.”
Bergheim said hollowly. Face lit with rare joy.
“Didn’t expect the lady herself.”
Viscount Hausen stroked his drooping mustache.
“It concerns my house’s survival.”
Adel smiled.
In the tent for parley, five sat. Karl—Boatmer viscount’s eldest— with Viscounts Hausen and Mark on one side. Opposite: Isaac and Adel.
“You’ve grown, young lord. Amid wild rumors. Glad you’re thriving.”
Mark viscount, prominent cheekbones, chimed in.
Isaac ignored.
“What do you want, Viscount Binvelt?”
Karl spoke, watching silently. Chin raised arrogantly, eyes scanning Isaac and Adel. His gaze on her lingered stickily.
“Begging for life? Wise. Father wants you alive. Your mother too—for a price, unharmed.”
“Oh, really?”
Isaac grinned.
“Just hand over that black-haired knight who fought Everbin. Think. Why die for forsaken Goethe? You’re unrelated. No vassal, no cadet. Independent Binvelt. Pragmatism.”
Karl said smoothly.
“Yes, young lord.”
“Quit ‘young lord’ crap, viscount. I’m a viscount. Traitor fuck.”
“Ahem.”
Mark coughed under Isaac’s glare.
“Fine. Suppose I surrender. What’s in it for me? Unlike Rutger’s raid, I’ve over seven hundred now. Less than yours, but not hopeless.”
“Forgot five thousand behind me? You don’t grasp the big picture. Stakes for many. No time to explain.”
Karl steepled fingers.
“Bluntly: Goethe falls, Binvelt independent guaranteed. Want royal ledgers, papal tradition? Done.”
“Tempting.”
Isaac scratched cheek.
“But negotiating with a pig sours it.”
“……What?”
“Wasting time on a clueless meat lump.”
“Aware of your words?”
Karl’s eyes bulged.
“Wait. Shut up, pig. Hausen, Mark—traitors. This is your last chance. Join me, drive out Boatmers. Save your families. Lands and troops confiscated, naturally. Pay for deeds.”
“Wh-what nonsense?”
“Young lord, you’ve lost it……”
Mark and Hausen gaped.
Meanwhile, away from tent: Botmer forces faced Binvelt’s. Everbin and Falkenvald leading knights and infantry. Opposite: Carlson, Bessimer, Whiserk heading soldiers and warriors.
“Yaaawn—”
Whiserk yawned hugely.
“Cough, cough.”
Everbin spat blood-flecked phlegm, overexerted.
“You’ll die like that.”
Carlson said flatly.
“……”
Everbin glared silently. Carlson shut up. Tense standoff dragged.
Suddenly, all drew weapons.
Blood sprayed from tent. Two heads rolled: Hausen and Mark’s.
Karl’s mouth gaped as a sword pierced throat to nape. Isaac’s thrust.
“Your tongue’s the problem.”
War began.