The Steel Wave (2)
The steel wave, gleaming under the sunlight, surged forward like a tidal swell. The horses snorted roughly, their breath steaming in the air with every toss of their heads, as the densely packed knight order advanced slowly. The knights' squires and the more lightly armed cavalry split off to the flanks like escorts, while the main body of knights formed a single massive block. Together with the cavalry positioned alongside, they trudged steadily over the snowdrifts piled just high enough to slow them.
Facing this overwhelming steel phalanx of man and mount, which could crush even a glance of intimidation, were the three thousand orcs that Gromkul had driven into this suicidal charge, ordering them to their deaths.
Krrruk.Krwoooogh. Having consumed a drug brewed from special herbs, the orcs had lost their reason and moved on pure instinct. Tirelessly, they strode forward in great steps, emerging from the thick, dense conifer forest—only to confront a colossal wave of steel.
Normally, these orcs would have charged toward the Great Wall driven solely by murderous intent toward humans. But now, those humans had emerged from the safety of the wall to await them in advance.
Krwooooo! The moment they spotted the knights and cavalry, the orcs let out hideous roars and charged bare-bodied toward the steel wave. The dark green masses writhed, kicking up snow as if to overwhelm through sheer numbers. It wasn't tactical judgment—just the instinct that humans were there, so kill them.
"Prepare to charge!"
As the orcs burst into view and began charging in disorganized waves, Wolfgang bellowed immediately. His shout was the signal, and a resonant horn blast echoed across the battlefield. The massive steel wave accelerated slightly, man and horse merging into one enormous mass.
"Disperse!"
Meanwhile, the cavalry scattered, each rider nocking arrows to their bows. These were men who, though not yet formally knighted, had undergone years of rigorous squire training without respite.
"Fire at will!"
At the firing order, hundreds of arrows took to the sky in unison. Arcing high, they rained down on the charging orcs. The poorly armored foes were helplessly exposed to shafts from longbows.
Kraaaah!Kwaaaak! Orc screams erupted everywhere. A volley powerful enough to pierce their tough, sinewy hides. The unlucky ones took arrows to the head or eyes and toppled instantly.
"Charge!"
While the arrows blunted the orcs' momentum, Wolfgang, commanding the actual assault, gauged the distance and shouted. Another charge horn blared, and the knights raised their speed in collision formation. Through every visor slit gleamed fierce eyes alone.
Knighted in the couched lance technique, they braced for impact, the most veteran at the fore staring unyieldingly at the orcs. As the gap closed to mere paces, Wolfgang roared again.
"Impale them!"
With that cry, two hundred knights surged as one with their mounts, charging without hesitation at orcs outnumbering them tenfold or more. The drug-crazed orcs, stripped of reason and fueled by instinct alone, met the charge bravely, hurtling toward the far larger human-horse combinations.
The result was carnage.
Pukwaak! Sickening sounds of flesh rending filled the air. Kuhhh.Kkeuugh. Orcs pierced through chest, lung, and heart couldn't even scream—just faint wheezes and gurgles escaped. Unarmored, they stood no chance against the combined weight and charging momentum of horse and rider.
Lances wreathed in bluish aura speared three or four orcs at a time—a common sight.
"Keep pushing!"
"Press on!"
"Hold formation! Just keep those lances up and they'll break!"
Orcs charging bare against the steel wave were impaled, spraying blood across the snowscape in pandemonium. And amid that hell, the empire's strongest knight began to rampage in earnest.
"Hoo…."
Estiang Berg. Grand Duke ruling Berg, the youngest ever to grasp sword intent and claim the title of Sword Master—the empire's premier knight. A vivid aura cloaked his entire form. The lance in his grip, wrapped in starlike brilliance, doubled in length.
Perfectly refined aura shredded orcs on contact, clearing a path. As it pierced seven or eight, Estiang discarded the lance without retrieving it. Instead, his sword flashed from its sheath like a beam of light.
As the packed knights tore orcs apart like paper with sheer mass and shock, Estiang at the vanguard wove starlight in elegant arcs through the air.
"Hoo."
Leonhard, who had watched from start to finish, had a glint in his eye. Hovering aloft via flight magic for contingencies, his gaze locked on Estiang.
"Indeed, now I see why they call him the empire's strongest knight."
Leonhard's lips parted slightly, unable to hide his surprise. Estiang's display was such that even haughty mages had to acknowledge it.
Mages were born with mana-affine bodies—a rare gift. Piercing that slim chance, they pursued primordial wisdom to unravel worldly truths. Thus, mages harbored an elitist consciousness. Comparing knights, who honed physical might through acquired aura, to mages who bent laws via root mana, mages inwardly deemed themselves superior.
Yet even archmages at magic's pinnacle had to concede Estiang's terrestrial divinity.
"What a mana-blessedless human, honing aura to its limit as substitute, can achieve…."
The perfect answer walked the earth.
"Only at that level can one claim the pinnacle of all knights."
Even now, Estiang's pure-aura blade whipped at speeds beyond Leonhard's eyes. Each swing sent orc limbs and heads flying chaotically. No longer mere blood fountains—from the moment Estiang began swinging, dozens of orcs were diced, their blood misting the air around him like fog.
The architect of that horror shouted encouragement.
"I'll clear the path!"
In the blink of an eye, he'd butchered dozens more. Raising his bloodied sword high, Estiang called out.
"Knights, fulfill your duty! Charge—forward!"
The knights roared back, veins bulging in their necks.
"Charge—forward!"
"Show them the mettle of the Iron Fang Knights!"
"They're just numbers! Bury them all! Make sure they never eye Berg again!"
Responding to Estiang's lead, the knights held firm and dense, using their colossal mass as a weapon to slaughter the onrushing orcs. Impaled on lances, slashed by swords, or grazed by aura and sent tumbling in sprays of blood. Any that fell injured were trampled to pulp by dozens of warhorses.
"Charge—forward!"
Today, no mere command oversight or firefighting—Estiang would etch the terror of a rampaging Sword Master into their souls.
With that intent, he swung again—and again.
Shwaaaak! Aura compressed to extremity formed a slashing wave. It rent the air with a sonic boom, bisecting dozens of orcs in gory sprays across the snow.
Kuh… krwoooh….Kruuuh….
They should have been utterly bereft of reason by the drug, acting on instinct alone. Ignoring slain kin, driven by kill-lust. Yet now, no orc dared block Estiang's path. Meeting his icy gaze through the visor reawakened their buried survival drive.
Irresistible, incomprehensible dread. As orcs faltered and retreated, panic spread like wildfire. Their already formless horde shattered completely.
Battle turned to extermination, then to mere hunt—in seconds.
Wolfgang seized the moment.
"They've lost the will to fight! It's melee now! Leave none alive! Slaughter every bastard who dared invade Berg!"
No mercy needed. Kill every orc in sight.
Maximilian amplified the chance.
"Hear this! His Grace the Grand Duke has decreed: the only good orc is a dead orc! Heed His Grace's teaching faithfully!"
"The only good orc!"
"Is a dead orc!"
"Kill them all!"
Centuries of deep-rooted northern enmity toward orcs. The steel wave that had crushed foes in formation now gleamed with childlike zeal at "melee"—superhumans wielding aura.
In the end, as always, not one of the three thousand orcs survived. A few attempted flight at the last, but knights and cavalry on horseback duly punished them.
It took just over an hour to annihilate three thousand orcs without a single escape.
"Whew, Your Grace. From the air, it was spectacular."
Leonhard, who had observed it all, chuckled as he descended toward Estiang.
"Illusion magic or not, from when you cleaved my spell, I knew you were no ordinary. Leading from the front like that."
"It's my job."
Battle over, Estiang removed his helmet briefly to reply. Steam rose from the heat. Covered head to toe in gore, he faced Leonhard's casual remark.
"That must be over a hundred solo kills, right? You went all out."
"Two hundred seventy-four."
"Hm?"
"Counting from the start. Aimed for three hundred, but fell short."
"…You were tallying them mid-fight? How?"
Leonhard gaped at the nonchalant answer. Estiang shrugged, as if to say, What's hard about that?