Chapter 13

Sir Dian August endured the agony of the abhorrent truth serum through a will as unyielding as steel.

That was how Isabel chose to remember it.

What mattered wasn't that Sir August had screamed at the top of his lungs while hurling every curse imaginable at her, or that he had grabbed Ivan's arm and nearly spilled the Knight Order's accounting records.

Of course, unable to bear watching such a spectacle, Isabel had immediately punched Sir August square in the face.

Only after Ivan finished lecturing her on how dangerous it was to strike someone who had just been coughing up blood did Sir August finally regain enough composure to speak coherently.

"Mommy?"

"Mm."

After examining the neatly reattached wound, Ivan gave a clear diagnosis.

"The shock has caused mental regression. Isabel, that's because you hit him. Reflect on your actions."

"I don't think Sir August would see it that way. Can he go back to normal?"

"Don't worry. It's a common symptom. He'll come to his senses once enough time passes."

Ivan glanced outside for a moment before speaking again.

"But he screamed far too much and drew attention. The ones lying in ambush up on the mountain should be coming down soon. We need to prepare."

"What about Sir August?"

"We'll carry him."

Ivan quietly looked at Isabel.

Isabel looked back at Ivan.

Silence lingered between them until Isabel finally understood the meaning behind his gaze. She stared at him in disbelief.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to fight."

"I can fight too!"

Looking down at Isabel, Ivan shook his head.

Her talent was undeniably extraordinary—far beyond anyone her age.

But her mentality wasn't.

A mere incident like this had already drained the color from her face, and the hand gripping her sword wouldn't stop trembling.

"I'm sure you can."

"Your words and your actions don't match at all...?"

"An accurate observation."

Chuckling softly, Ivan turned his back.

Left alone in the train compartment, Isabel let out a long sigh before hoisting Dian onto her back.

Heavy.

It wasn't that she had become too weak to bear the weight of an adult man.

The training weights she used were heavier than Dian.

Yet somehow, the weight of this wounded and weakened man pressed heavily upon her shoulders.

After adjusting Dian more securely on her back and stepping outside, she found Ivan standing with the moon behind him. He suddenly turned toward her.

"You've got decent potential."

"That's actually pretty insulting. Mister, do you know me or something? When did we ever meet for you to start speaking so casually?"

"So you inherited your personality from your mother."

"Wow, you're seriously making me want to draw my sword. Then what about your awful attitude? Did you inherit that from your mother's side or your father's?!"

"Who knows? I can't even remember either of their faces anymore."

"Th-... Th... I see...?"

His youthful eyes and smooth skin had seemed oddly out of place, but Isabel squeezed her eyes shut as she looked at the thick beard covering Ivan's entire jaw.

The war had ended only four years ago.

And that war had lasted nearly twenty years.

Someone of his age having lost both parents during it wouldn't have been strange at all.

For some reason, guilt welled up inside her.

No, wait—just because someone has no parents doesn't mean you can bring them up so casually! Mentioning someone's parents like that is incredibly rude! Was Krasilov different? Was that just a normal greeting there?

(Asking after someone's parents in that manner is considered a friendly greeting in Droan, but not in Krasilov.)

She grumbled to herself for quite a while before suddenly realizing what Ivan had actually meant.

Her eyes widened.

"You know my father?"

"Who knows?"

Watching the ever-changing expressions on the little girl's face, Ivan smiled faintly to himself.

Who, after all, could truly claim to know Maximilien?

Shrugging, he said,

"Gather the survivors. Start a fire, tear the seats out of the train, and use them as blankets. Winter nights in these lands are harsher than you think."

"If we light a fire, what about the attackers?"

"That's not something you need to worry about."

"You're going out there alone? Without even knowing who they are?"

"That isn't something you need to worry about either."

This was Ivan's first time meeting Maximilien's daughter, yet he found himself feeling something unexpected.

She looks exactly like her father, and she inherited his talent as well... but her personality couldn't be more different.

Maximilien had always boasted, every night, about the sweetheart he had left back in his hometown—a kind, gentle, and thoughtful woman.

She must have taken after her mother.

Love was dangerous like that.

It blinded people to the flaws and weaknesses of those they cherished.

With a quiet chuckle, Ivan walked away.

The true meaning behind that saying was this:

Assume the worst.

In other words, the enemy will always attack in the most difficult way possible.

Act with your best.

Which means—

If your enemy is the worst possible opponent for you, then you must become the worst possible opponent for them as well.

Among the tactical doctrines Ivan had learned was a saying:

Assume the worst. Act with your best.

Back then, Ivan had scoffed at it.

It sounded so obvious that he couldn't help but laugh.

That was, at least, until real combat forced him to relearn the meaning of those words.

Therefore—

Imitate your enemy's tactics.

Because the worst attack you can imagine is often the finest offensive you can unleash upon your opponent.

If that was the case, then what Ivan had to do now was perfectly clear.

First, he had to assume the worst possible scenario.

The worst case would be getting ambushed while fleeing after surviving the crash. It would become even worse if we were forced into a delaying action.

Intermittent assaults in the dead of night would steadily compound their exhaustion. Ivan might be able to endure it, but for the wounded and a young girl, it would be fatal.

Therefore, if he assumed the worst, he had to conclude that the enemy would expect Ivan and his group to flee and act accordingly.

After all, common sense dictated that when a train was overturned by an attack, the survivors should leave the scene and seek reinforcements.

Now he considered how to counter that.

Act as though we have all the time in the world, and leave the enemy’s objective in plain sight. Make it look defenseless.

That would force the unknown enemy to recall the personnel they had scattered for the pursuit. They would have to shift their tactics from tracking to encirclement.

This world was not a strategy simulation game.

Unfortunately, it was an academy story.

Simply “inputting” an order did not mean the soldiers would immediately “output” the corresponding action.

In other words, there would be a delay while the tracking parties were recalled.

From that moment onward, Ivan would begin with an advantage on the tactical level.

Moreover, an encirclement carried out by the attacking side usually came with a certain degree of psychological ease. They would think of their targets as rats trapped in a jar, prey they could devour whenever they pleased.

That meant they would choose the timing of their attack more carefully.

Once the tracking parties had returned, they would wait for the ideal moment to deliver an unavoidable blow, ensuring that their target had no chance to escape.

That was the second-best option.

The “worst attack” the enemy was likely to devise.

So Ivan would imitate it.

He would turn the enemy’s best move into the worst possible outcome for them.

He would prepare an ambush, carefully refine his offensive, and lay out an encirclement.

“Hoo…”

Deep within the forest, where the shadows of night had settled thickly, Ivan gripped the cold barrel of his gun.

He inhaled quietly, then exhaled halfway in a short breath.

Crouching beneath a tree, he held his breath and slowly raised his hand.

Carefully, he aligned his shoulder and fingertips into a straight line, suppressing the natural tremor caused by his body’s rhythm as much as possible.

Click.

Without allowing his line of aim to waver through the index finger resting inside the trigger guard, he slowly applied pressure over the momentum of three breaths.

And then—

An ambush by the Extermination Unit allowed one man to encircle an entire group.

Bang!

Pistol sniping.

It was a shooting technique developed so that operatives of the Extermination Unit, who often had to conceal their weapons inside enemy cities, could engage targets at long range even with a handgun.

Beneath the moonlight, a silhouette no larger than half a fingernail collapsed.

There was no need to hurry with the reload.

The first shot had struck its target.

An uneasy tension immediately spread through the forest.

The enemy had understood from the gunshot as well.

The ambush had begun.

And soon, they would realize something else.

It was an ambush by the Extermination Unit.

The dark night.

The deep forest.

Familiar terrain.

And the right weapon, worn comfortably into his hands.

Bang—!!

When another gunshot rang out from far within the forest, Isabel struggled to hide her trembling hands as she prepared for the enemy’s assault.

It was unmistakably the sound that announced the beginning of a battle.

Even the birds startled awake from their sleep and fled with a frantic flutter of wings.

The survivors gathered around her sat trembling before the campfire, staring at her.

“We’re all going to die now, aren’t we…?”

“I’m scared… I’m so scared…”

“M-Mom… Mommy…”

The muffled sobbing of the survivors surrounded her.

Every one of them had suffered at least a fracture.

Then a low voice came from behind her.

“The reason we call a hero a hero is not because he is the strongest, but because he is the bravest.”

“Sir August? Are you conscious?”

August, still carried on her back, continued in a strangely vacant voice.

“Therefore, we must not become heroes. Nor should we try to. For we must remain aware of our own weakness.”

“Sir August…?”

“We must stand in the place of the weak and look upon those like us through the eyes of the weak. We do not take up the sword because we are brave, because we are strong, or because we are superior to others.”

There was still no trace of reason in August’s voice.

Yet strangely, his words were clear and precise.

As though he were carving each and every syllable into her heart.

Overwhelmed by confusion, pressure, and guilt, Isabel lowered her head with difficulty.

These people had been caught up in this because of her.

The fact that only a dozen or so survivors remained from that enormous train weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

“We take up the sword because it is right. Because it is just. For the cause that must be protected. Therefore, taking up the sword is no different from giving alms to the poor on an ordinary day, or helping an injured person back to their feet. Because it is only natural. Because it is right.”

“Sir August…”

“So take up your sword. Do not seek to become a hero. Knight of Thales, you stand here not through courage, but through humility.”

At last, Isabel understood what Dian was saying.

This was an ancient and deeply traditional form of knighting ceremony.

Not a knighthood bestowed by a sovereign upon a vassal as a formal title.

It was the final lesson given by an order of wandering knights to their squire.

Dian August had come from a traditional knightly order.

Even now, with his reason lost, he was repeating the words that had left the deepest impression upon his heart.

“Raise your sword for the cause. To do good is always a small and natural thing. Raise your sword not for your strength, but for your goodwill. From this moment onward, your name is knight.”

After speaking those words, Dian did not open his mouth again.

Only his weakened breathing remained.

Isabel knew Dian’s history.

He was a seasoned knight who had served since the war against the Demon King’s army.

And now she understood why words he had probably heard only once, more than a decade ago, still remained within him so clearly, without distortion or misinterpretation.

She felt that she, too, would never forget this moment for the rest of her life.

She rose to her feet, finally lifted her head, and looked around.

Many people were watching her.

People tormented by cold, fear, pain, and hunger.

People who had been driven into this situation because of her.

The guilt still weighed upon her shoulders.

But even so—

“I shall do so.”

Slowly setting Dian down, Isabel stood straight before them.

The sword in her hand felt heavier than before.

But the hand that had been trembling only moments ago was now calm, firmly gripping the hilt.

A morning star burned within her eyes.