Preparations (2)
“Will do.”
Bessimer declared. The soldiers’ eyes locked onto the bloodthirsty aura radiating from him.
“Then you know what to do?”
“I know.”
Bessimer nodded at the lowered voice.
“Proceed.”
The moment Isaac finished speaking—
Whoosh—
Bessimer swung his axe in a massive arc.
Clang!
To anyone watching, the axe was aimed straight at Isaac. It had enough momentum to cleave Carlson, the obstacle in its path, right in two.
“What the hell are you doing!?”
Carlson roared, drawing his sword to block Bessimer’s strike. The play Isaac had ordered was underway.
It was the tale of a failed Baitur warrior’s revenge.
“Revenge for my slain kin.”
Bessimer swung his axe again, his face expressionless. Clang—scraaaape!
The clash of blade and axe was too fast to follow, even for Isaac and the soldiers. Sparks flew, and metal screamed in agony.
The actors’ performance was flawless. Bessimer unleashed a barrage of blows, while Carlson defended with steady precision.
The movements flowed organically—from toes to calves, thighs, waist, shoulders, and arms. Despite his massive build, Bessimer moved with surprising flexibility.
He twisted his body from the core, generating maximum rotational power in each strike. Normally, one would reset their stance after an attack to brace for a counter or prepare the next.
But Bessimer’s assaults had no such pause; the end of one strike flowed seamlessly into the start of the next. From his toes to the axe in his grip, he moved like a single whip.
Every attack connected as naturally as water flowing. This was nothing like the emotional, reckless onslaught from his duel with Isaac.
It was an assault optimized for killing—efficient, not just relying on his size and strength. It was the polished technique of a warrior who knew exactly how to wield his body.
Yet the soldiers couldn’t gauge the true ferocity of Bessimer’s attacks.
Because Carlson blocked them all with effortless ease.
The terrifying rip of air from the axe blade, the thunderous crashes of metal on metal—despite it all, Carlson’s face showed no flicker of strain, no fear, no tension.
Minimal movements. Unshakable poise. Anyone would think they’d trained together for years.
He took each deathly blow as if it were nothing. Like a rock standing firm against a storm.
A fight that shouldn’t have happened was unfolding, yet not a single soldier moved to intervene.
They were overwhelmed by the clash of two monsters, where the slightest mistake could split them in half.
Each time a blade sliced the air with its chilling whistle, the soldiers felt chills crawl up their necks.
The battle didn’t last long. Bessimer, committing his entire body to every attack, failed to breach Carlson’s defense and began to falter in his breathing.
Gaps appeared in what had seemed like an endless barrage.
Carlson seized the moment, kicking out at Bessimer’s ankle.
“Kuh.”
With his strength drained, Bessimer’s balance crumbled. He dropped to one knee, and Carlson’s blade hovered at his throat.
“Enough!” Isaac shouted.
“What kind of revenge do you seek against me, Bessimer of the Baitur?”
“You askin’ ‘cause you don’t know? Or pretendin’ you don’t? After massacrin’ my kin like that, you think the young master’s neck stays intact?”
“You know this is treason, soldier.”
Isaac’s expression hardened at Bessimer’s retort.
“Quit yer bullshit! This ain’t treason—it’s revenge for my friend, his brother, his family.”
Bessimer glared wildly at Isaac.
“Carlson.”
“Yes.”
“By military order: four days. Then execute Bessimer. Tie him to a post and give him not a drop of water.”
“Understood.”
“Oh, and... beat him half to death so he can’t try anything stupid.”
“Yes.”
Carlson flipped his sword, gripping the hilt like a club, and brought it down on Bessimer.
A dull thud echoed as Bessimer collapsed. The beating continued.
“Out of the way.”
Pushing through the stunned soldiers, Isaac headed to his tent. For a twelve-year-old boy, his face was chillingly cold.
But no one dared object.
Two days passed, and darkness fell as expected.
“Fuckin’ hell, seriously. That kid’s a demon.”
The two soldiers on watchtower duty spat curses one after another.
“What happens if the boss really gets killed like this?”
“We gotta do somethin’ before then.”
“You crazy? Mutiny? No matter what anyone says, Bessimer did try to kill the kid.”
“Fuck, if the boss gets executed, what’s to stop us from bein’ next? They’re tryin’ to wipe out all us tribe folk, ain’t they?”
“Quiet for ten years, then suddenly this? Why?”
“Nobles’ true colors are obvious. They’re cullin’ anyone who might touch their rice bowls ahead of time. Bastards. To that demon brat, we’re less than flies...”
“Shut it. Look down there.”
One soldier clamped a hand over the other’s mouth.
A man and a boy carrying torches were patrolling near the barricade.
Carlson, now company commander. And Isaac, the pint-sized lord and supreme commander.
“Hey, lemme ask somethin’.”
Carlson said.
“Y-yes, sir. What is it?”
The soldier replied with sudden deference, as if he’d never badmouthed them.
“How tall’s this barricade?”
“Uh, well... I’d say about four meters?”
“Yeah? Thanks.”
Carlson relayed the answer to Isaac, and the commander and company leader continued along the barricade.
“Why the fuck are those two creepin’ around the walls all day?”
“Whew, fuck, thought my heart was gonna drop out.”
The two on the watchtower let out sighs of relief.
“The soldiers are getting restless. Bessimer’s been our mental pillar through a decade of life and death.”
“I know.”
“It could spark a mutiny if we’re not careful.”
“That too.”
“We might not even hold out the full four days.”
“Probably not.”
Isaac responded half-heartedly to Carlson’s concerns.
“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?”
“This barricade. Could hell wolves jump it?”
“If they could, the camp would’ve fallen already.”
“Right?”
Four days. The time until Bessimer’s execution.
Isaac had granted that delay for a reason.
There’s still a blank I haven’t filled.
From records in his past life, he already knew Binvelt’s rough future.
But to defend the camp and counter the Baitur, there could be no unknowns.
Especially the part that puzzled Isaac: Binvelt’s fall.
Binvelt sent messenger birds for reinforcements the moment the hell wolves attacked. Father gathered relief forces and arrived in two days. But Binvelt had already fallen to the hell wolves.
Isaac stood still, gazing up at the barricade.
A height the hell wolves couldn’t scale. Pointed ends of massive logs encircled the entire camp.
The wooden barricade was intact, they said. Not even burned. If it’d been flimsy, the camp would’ve fallen to the Baitur long before ten years.
“Carlson, could you break this?”
“Not easily. They say it’s made from giant trees felled in the Black Forest.”
“What’s special about Black Forest trees?”
“Mana lets life exceed its limits. Same principle as knights growing stronger through aura. Trees that survive and grow in the Black Forest have transcended their natural bounds using mana.”
“Tougher than stone walls?”
“About the same.”
Isaac rapped the barricade. It rang out dully, like striking rock.
Tunnels?
Isaac shook his head. Soldiers would’ve noticed burrows big enough for those beasts.
The raid happened on a full moon night.
The biggest reason for the four-day delay: the moon would be full by then.
Binvelt fell to a night raid under a full moon.
Not certain, but if the records mentioned the moon specifically, there was a reason.
Trigger a raid under the same conditions, and we’ll learn something... The moon, huh. Related somehow?
Isaac stared blankly at the sky.
Fragments of history lingered in his memory.
The fine details of Binvelt’s history stuck because they didn’t add up. For him, trapped in a dark, musty basement all day, doubts and curiosity were precious entertainment.
Current camp strength: 118. But when Father arrived with reinforcements, he found fewer than thirty bodies. Where’d the other ninety go?
If hell wolves ate them, there should’ve been bloodstains, chunks of flesh, or at least hard-to-crunch skulls.
But the records said no trace of the missing ninety.
“Moon’s full,” Carlson said, looking up alongside Isaac.
“Yeah. Tonight or tomorrow.”
“Pardon?”
“When they’ll move.”
Isaac had already tipped off Carlson and Bessimer.
—Virpier wants you to become wolf king, right, Bessimer?
—Yeah.
—Why?
—Dunno.
—Either way, he won’t stand by while you’re executed.
—Not certain.
—It is. Trying to kill me shows hostility to Goethe—which means siding with the Baitur.
—You think Virpier’ll buy it?
—Even if he suspects a trap, he has no choice. The Baitur need you, looks like.
—Will the wolf king come?
—If he still sees you as his son, he’ll come unbidden, even without Virpier asking.
—...So, hit my savior dad in the back of the head.
Killing the wolf king would reduce the hell wolves to mere mana beasts. Without that core force, the Baitur posed no threat to Binvelt.
Now, the question was how they’d attack—and how to spot the prelude.
“Why tonight or tomorrow?” Carlson asked.
“Because of that.” Isaac pointed at the moon.
“The moon’s the reason?”
“Just a hunch.”
Carlson tilted his head.
“Young master.”
As Isaac finished his barricade inspection and headed to his tent, Gunther called cautiously.
“Hm?”
“That...”
“What?”
“You said not to miss even the smallest sign.”
“I did.”
“Can you spare a moment?”
“What’s up?”
“It’s nothin’ major, but... I figured you should know.”
Gunther scratched his head, avoiding Isaac’s gaze. He wasn’t sure if it was worth reporting.
“Lead the way.”
“Hm.”
As Isaac moved, Carlson scratched his stubbled jaw, then followed with a sigh. He’d been planning a drink and rest.
“So, what’s the issue?”
Gunther led them to the food warehouse’s serving station.
“Oh, you’re here.”
Two cooks stood there, faces uneasy.
“I saw ‘em. Puttin’ this in the oak barrels.”
Gunther handed Isaac an empty leather pouch.
“What’s this?”
“Nothin’ much. We sometimes add it to beer for flavor... but Gunther thought it was suspicious.”
“S-sorry for the worry. Must be a misunderstanding.”
The cooks’ eyes darted nervously.
“So, what is it?”
Isaac sniffed the pouch’s opening. A foul stench wrinkled his nose—rotting meat mixed with charred and spicy notes.
“It’s, uh, beast blood blended with spices. Folk remedy says it’s a tonic with booze.”
“Then why’d you jump when I showed up?”
“You were pressin’ us. Bad timing, tense atmosphere.”
The cook made a lame excuse to Gunther’s question.
“Mind if I take a whiff?”
“You can tell from smellin’?”
“Not much gets past me when it comes to blood.”
Carlson took the pouch from Isaac and sniffed. His face twisted more and more.
Isaac figured it was the stench, but no.
“This ain’t good.”
“No kidding, it reeks of rot.”
“This is hell wolf blood.”
“...?”
Confusion crossed Isaac’s face.
“Why hell wolf blood?”
“...”
The cooks paled. Their eyes flicked rapidly between Isaac and Carlson.
For an instant—
“Uwaaaah!”
One cook lunged at Isaac with a dagger.