The Hammer Splits the Center
Did they finally give the order to advance?
No more knights emerged from the enemy line. Instead, the soldiers began moving forward.
If they sent out more knights, morale would collapse entirely — but standing idle would be no better. What could the common soldiers possibly be thinking after watching what had just happened? The shock of the duel had to be washed away with the heat of battle.
With the enemy coming at him like this, Johan had no reason to keep waiting. He taunted them all the way back to his own lines, and a roar of cheers erupted for the honorable knight who had won the duel.
"Gorgale Mercenary Company, forward!"
The pride of the Gorgale company was its signature crossbowmen. Sprinting out with shields slung over their backs, they took up position and loosed a hail of bolts.
Enemy soldiers who couldn't get their armor on — or who had strapped it on so badly it might as well have been off — went screaming and tumbling to the ground. Already, several sections of the enemy's front line were coming apart.
The enemy counterattacked, but the crossbowmen didn't so much as waver. Their skill was on a different level from the hastily conscripted levies they faced.
"■■■! ■■■■!"
"■■■■!"
Perhaps they realized nothing they did could match this, because the enemy knights began grinding their teeth and urging the soldiers onward. Banners whipped and snapped across the field as movement quickened everywhere.
Collision was coming soon.
"Track the positions of the enemy knights."
"Yes, sir. Already watching them."
Johan observed the enemy's movements carefully from the central camp. If it really came down to a straight clash of strength, he could see no way they lost.
But the other side had brains too. They would try something. The textbook answer was to commit the elite reserves to wherever their line was buckling.
The enemy knights were relatively lightly armored, but they were still mounted cavalry. If they charged in a mass at one point, the whole complexion of that sector would flip in an instant.
"Damn, those elves fight filthy well."
"In the name of Saint Kaila!"
"Crush their heads!"
The elves swung sword and shield, cutting the enemy down in swathes. It wasn't only the elves, either. All across the field, the mercenaries were overwhelming their opponents.
The center hadn't even made contact yet, and already the mercenaries were pressing the enemy's left and right wings hard. The retreat was visible — banners fluttering as they withdrew backward.
With superior numbers, more experience, and better equipment, it would have been strange for them to be losing.
"It's not a trap, is it?"
"If a bunch of conscripts like those could pull off a feigned retreat and bait the enemy into a trap, that would be a miracle from God himself, wouldn't it?"
Ahir asked with an expression of sheer incredulity.
A false retreat wasn't something just anyone could pull off. Without high morale and genuine loyalty, troops pretending to fall back had a way of turning a feint into a real rout.
Johan refusing to underestimate Count Zhiklild was one thing — but the way he seemed to wildly overestimate the man was frankly beyond understanding.
What exactly has that bumbling fool ever done to earn it...?
Ahir's men, agreeing with the sentiment wholeheartedly, nodded along.
"...Fair point, that."
"What are they doing?! Send word — they are not to fall back! Any commander who retreats will answer for it personally!"
"Understood, my lord."
The messenger galloped off, but the nobles nearby wore sour expressions. Zhiklild shouting himself hoarse changed nothing about the situation.
After all, messengers kept arriving from the front, begging for support.
The men were fighting — barely, by the skin of their teeth — but the line could have collapsed at any moment and no one would have been surprised.
For the first time, Count Zhiklild felt the cold weight of unease settle over him.
Could the enemy actually be genuine elites?
What if this wasn't some landless nobody who'd indulged his own ambition by scraping together an army of green recruits — what if the true master of the South had come properly prepared, in full force?
"We've placed our finest knights and most seasoned mercenaries in the center. If we break through the enemy's middle, we can turn the whole battle around."
"Y... yes. Good."
The count nodded along to his vassal's words and looked ahead. Just then the enemy center wavered, and their banners began shifting outward to both flanks. At a glance, it looked like the movement of a force on the verge of collapse.
"The enemy is breaking!"
"?!"
Already?
Several of the nobles stared at the center in confusion. Unless the enemy had staffed their middle exclusively with cripples, there was no way it could collapse this soon. It had barely been contact for a couple of hours at most...
The nobles' instincts were right. That wasn't a line disintegrating — it was an opening being carved, clearing space for cavalry to charge through.
The path opened, and Johan and his escort burst out. The enemy soldiers fighting at the front shrieked in outright terror. Johan's appearance was already burned deep into their minds.
"A... a... it's the demon! The demon! The demon has come!"
Who exactly are they calling a demon?
By now Johan understood enough of the Eastern tongue that the soldiers' screams came through clearly at his ears.
"Charge!"
With a roar, Johan swung Giant Slayer from high to low, then from left to right. Every sweep carved out a wide swathe of empty ground. So ferocious was his momentum that the enemy fell back without even managing to point a weapon at him.
The enemy center did have its share of veteran soldiers gathered there. But in this situation, experience meant nothing. As if they'd run into some feral monster, they went pale with terror and began to flee, shoving and trampling their own comrades.
"Anyone who retreats will be cut down! Stand and fight!"
The knights and centurions shouted themselves desperate, but the soldiers didn't listen. Johan snatched up a spear and hurled it. The neck of the shouting centurion was skewered clean through, and he dropped where he stood.
"Kill every last one of them still standing!"
Cardirian roared, wild with the fever of battle, and tried to crush enemies beneath his hooves and lap up their blood — Johan wrenched the reins to hold him in check.
With Johan shattering the front line at their head, the following horsemen fanned out in all directions, striking wherever they pleased. The enemy center was split apart, scattered, and torn to shreds.
"You cursed demon! I'll be your oppone—"
Thud!
Johan cut down the nobles carrying their banners in a single stroke. On a chaotic battlefield, finesse could not beat raw force. The enemy had watched the duel and meant to be careful — but there had never been room for caution in the first place.
"You there — follow me!"
Johan split his cavalry into three, sending one wing left and one right to hammer the flanks. The remainder he would lead himself, straight at the enemy's rear.
Hot air and choking dust filled the air, but the goddess's blessing shielded his veins and his eyes, letting him see the surroundings with perfect clarity. Far in the distance, the count's banner was visible.
"Take him! Today we end this war!"
The center — the very thing the count had pinned his hopes on — was smashed to pieces, and the shock that struck the count and his vassals behind it was beyond imagining.
"I... impossible. Impossible. How does that make any sense? No man could do that with human strength!"
Winning and losing battles happened; that was the nature of war. But scattering a body of trained elite troops in a single charge and butchering the nobles among them outright...
"Lord Emir! You must retreat!"
The vassals shouted desperately at the count, who still couldn't let go of his pride. With things as they were, retreat was no longer a choice — it was an order of survival.
But Count Zhiklild could not bring himself to withdraw. It was a matter of pride and honor. After all his grand proclamations, how would the world look at him if he ran away now, of all times?
"My lord!"
"......"
The vassals were beside themselves. As it stood, it seemed they might all die together with him.
Surrender had to be negotiated calmly, when both sides' tempers had cooled — do it in the middle of a bloodbath like this, and if luck turned against you, your head might come off with it.
Fortunately, Johan lent a hand with their persuasion.
"!"
The moment the count saw Johan charging through the wreckage of his own center, he instinctively wheeled his horse around. Then he whipped the animal mercilessly and fled for his life.
"My lord! My lord!"
The vassals around him wore expressions of open disbelief. If he wanted to retreat, why not simply give the order? What in the world was that supposed to be?
"Full retreat! Fall back and get out!"
It was an overwhelming victory.
Once the count fled, what remained of the enemy collapsed even faster. Their commander's banner had vanished from the field — of course it fell apart.
"That son of a bitch can move fast when he wants to."
Johan smacked his lips in disappointment. It turned out Count Zhiklild's hidden card had simply been running away. The moment he made up his mind to flee, the man could genuinely move.
"No need to chase him, my lord. A defeat this total means they won't have the strength to resist."
"Good work. Pay out rewards to those who earned them, and gather the prisoners in one place."
The count could run — that was the count's business. Right now was the time to take stock of the spoils. The nobles who hadn't escaped in time would be paying a handsome ransom.
They had fought so viciously, yet the moment the battle ended, it became newly apparent that war was a business — especially in the way everyone immediately went digging around for ways to recover their investment.
Even now, the mercenaries were combing the battlefield for anything of value.
"...Isn't the number a bit low?"
Johan blinked at the captured nobles. He hadn't precisely counted each family's banner before the battle, but this was far too few.
"W... well, you see..."
Gurerik spoke cautiously, wearing the look of a man who had no idea how to say what needed saying.
"?"
"You, my lord... killed most of them..."
"......"
So that was it.
The enemy center had been packed with their elites — which meant it was precisely where the count's sworn knights and vassal nobles had been stationed.
And Johan had charged straight into that packed formation, killing everything in his path and turning it inside out. The nobles had simply been caught up in the blast and obliterated along with everyone else.
So that's why they were all staring at me like that.
Even in a lost battle, nobles didn't usually die in such numbers.
The ones who died first were the common soldiers, who had no ransom to offer; the nobles could flee or surrender the moment things looked bad. What's more, they were typically so well armored that blows which should have been fatal they could shrug off as flesh wounds.
...But Johan's charge matched none of those conditions.
He had gone in with nothing but win first, count the cost later in his head, smashing and killing everything within reach. And his blows were simply too heavy. Even a noble in full plate went down for good from a single hit.
The captured nobles, laid eyes on Johan, and trembled, whispering among themselves in terror. Something about demons, monsters — the usual.
He hadn't even properly wiped the blood off himself, and he'd left his armor behind entirely, yet they were still carrying on like this. His charge had clearly left an impression that ran very deep indeed.
"I was hoping to collect some ransom. What a shame — I never dreamed they'd all die."
"...Are you translating that, my lord?"
"Have I lost my mind? Tell them I extend my condolences for the deaths of such honorable nobles."
Flushed with victory and laden with plunder, Johan's army advanced on Castle Zhiklild with grins plastered across their faces.
Befitting a fortress that bore the count's family name, the castle was solid and sturdy. Johan first sent envoys once more to the captured families.
The meaning was different this time from when he'd demanded ransoms from across the sea. Everyone knew it after this battle.
— Kneel and grovel when I give you the chance, or I will kill every last one of you!
The vassals of the White Duchy, who had doubted Johan's strength, now understood with total certainty: he was more than capable of making good on that promise.
From here, the situation would resolve itself into a game of reading one another's faces.
Would they keep faith with the count to the end? Or would they jump ship?
...Political calculations aside, Johan quietly focused on the task at hand.
Specifically: taking the castle.
"I believe in you all."
"Thank you... thank you, my lord!"
The dwarf mercenaries wept hot tears over Johan's reward. Of all battles, the Battle of the Plain had been another one where they'd never gotten to shine.
Elites among elites, they'd been held back as the reserve — and then Johan's cavalry had simply gone and ended the war by themselves. The dwarves wept tears of blood over it.
Still, Johan had shared the rewards with them too. Few things moved soldiers like an employer who showed this kind of consideration — and in fact, the dwarves were moved to actual tears.
"The weapons we make will never fail you, my lord. Never."
"Good. Pace yourselves, though. Don't overdo it."
The dwarves' eyes were slightly sunken, and their gazes seemed to glint with something bordering on madness — it worried Johan. They hadn't done anything wrong, and watching them work themselves into this state over it was genuinely a little heartbreaking.
Even after Johan left, the dwarves buried themselves in their work. They were possessed by a single resolve: they would smash through those castle walls.
"But what happens if they surrender before we finish it?"
"...Shut your mouth."