Chapter 101

Vinfelt Road

There were thirteen men standing in a line across the middle of the road.

Had one encountered them at night, one might have mistaken them for ghosts—or at least been shocked to that extent.

Scars gouged into cheeks, the backs of hands, and around the eyes were commonplace. Some had half their faces burned away, leaving even their hair missing; others had empty eye sockets, or only dull white sclera with no pupils. There were men without noses, without ears.

Their armor varied—from lamellar stitched together out of rusted iron fragments, to layered cotton gambesons, to full plate cuirasses—but they all shared one thing: none of it had been maintained.
Dented, blackened by fire, riddled with holes, or half-destroyed and barely hanging onto their bodies, bound together with cloth.

Even their weapons were mismatched.
Broken longswords, chipped war axes, spears, maces, and iron shields with crushed edges.

In truth, their eerie presence did not come from their appearance alone.
They did not exchange a single word, merely standing there with their gazes fixed on the carriage.

It was like looking at corpses standing upright.

The faint morning fog only added to the scene.

“Mo—move aside!”

The coachman shouted, squeezing out what little courage he had.
But the men remained motionless, like still-life objects.

“M—move! Th-this carriage carries Baron Vinfelt!”

Somehow, the coachman managed to raise his voice without fleeing.
Perhaps in response, the man standing at the center began to move.

He wore a deeply dented plate cuirass, his head closely shaved.

Thud. Thud.

With slow steps, he approached the carriage.
The others did not move at all.

“S-sorry!”

Having exhausted even the last scrap of his courage, the coachman fled.

The man in the plate cuirass stopped in front of the carriage door.

Frightened, Enette pressed herself tightly to the opposite side, while Hans placed a hand on the hilt of the sword he had brought.

“Baron Vinfelt?”

The man spoke.
His voice sounded as though it scraped against his vocal cords.

“Did you walk all the way here?”
“Supplies are lacking.”

The man slowly nodded.

“Do you know him?”

At Isaac’s calm demeanor, Enette asked.

“No. But I do know they came here from Winterband.”
“Huh?”
“My name is Sigbrand. It is an honor to serve you.”

Sigbrand placed his fist to his chest and bowed.
Despite the word “honor,” his tone was cold and subdued.

“It seems the coachman fled because of me. I will drive the carriage.”
“Sorry for the trouble.”
“I merely follow the commander’s orders.”

Sigbrand sat in the driver’s seat, and the carriage began moving again.
The men who had been standing on the road began to walk, one by one, surrounding the carriage.

“So these people are soldiers from Winterband?”
“Probably.”

“‘Probably’?”

Hans glanced sideways at the men around the carriage.
The only soldiers he knew were Bernsi’s men, the mansion guards, and the soldiers of Vinfelt. Compared to them, these men looked… like defeated remnants.
Or perhaps a band of thieves who had ambushed such remnants and taken their spoils.

Some scratched their foreheads or chins—missing several fingers, or even having iron spikes in place of hands.
Whether they hadn’t washed or not, the stench drifting in through the carriage window was foul.

“Excuse me… are you from Winterband?”

Hans cautiously asked a man walking close beside the carriage.
But the man didn’t even glance at him.

He simply stared ahead with empty eyes and kept walking.

“If you have questions, ask me.”

Sigbrand said, lightly brushing the horse’s flank with the whip.

“You really are from Winterband?”

Hans hesitated, then leaned out the window to ask.
His hand remained on his sword hilt.
Even just being near them sent chills down his spine.

“That is correct.”
“This isn’t all of you, right? More are coming?”
“We are all.”
“What? Th-then do we even stand a chance? Even if we combine Vinfelt’s forces with yours, we’d barely reach seventy.”
“We will not participate in the battle. The only order we received from the commander is to ensure the Baron’s survival.”

Sigbrand spoke casually from the driver’s seat.
Hans did not immediately understand.

“What do you mean? If you’re not participating, then why—”
“It’s exactly as he said. Goethe’s soldiers must not take part in my war.”

Isaac answered instead.

If Goethe joined the war, everything Isaac had set in motion would collapse.
His goal was to take all of Botmer’s justifications for war and fight in Goethe’s place.

“Then… what happens to us?”
“What else? I’ve provoked Botmer. Now war will begin.”
“Don’t talk like it’s someone else’s problem!”

Hans’s expression darkened rapidly.
Enette, sitting beside him, said nothing, but looked on the verge of tears.

“Well, don’t worry too much. We’re not going there to die.”
“You do have a plan, right? There’s no way you caused all this without thinking.”

“Young master?”

Isaac opened the book he had brought without answering.

“Young master!”
“Ah, you’ll burst my eardrums. I’m not deaf.”

Isaac frowned at Hans’s desperate shout.

“Then at least give us an answer.”
“War depends on the kind of war. This one won’t be that grand. Hans, this war depends on you.”

Isaac patted Hans on the shoulder.

“Me?”
“You just need to fight well.”

Seeing Hans’s bewildered face, Isaac smiled.

Sigbrand drove the carriage, staring ahead with dry eyes.
Each time the cold wind scraped across his face, he heard the gasping and groans of the dead.

A hallucination.

No—just the wind.
Nothing but the wind.

Just what kind of expression would that naive young master wear from here on?

He didn’t know the full circumstances.

He had only received orders to preserve the life of Baron Vinfelt.
But he still had ears—and he knew well enough the situation Vinfelt was in.

From the very beginning, Botmer likely never intended to wage a serious war against Vinfelt.

Whether the naive young master intended it or not, his reckless antics had put Botmer in a slightly awkward position.

Ignoring it would stain Botmer’s honor, yet Vinfelt was not an opponent worth facing with full force.
Even if they wiped out Vinfelt’s meager troops and forced Isaac to his knees, it would only break even—
no, it would be a loss. The cost of maintaining an army far outweighed any gain.

In other words, from Viscount Botmer’s perspective, defeat was never even a consideration.
Whether they ignored it or won, both outcomes were losses—a childish scuffle with no real benefit.

And yet, if Botmer was marching toward Vinfelt, it was for a reason:
to use it as a forward base for a war against Goethe.

They would likely send the minimum force necessary—
but one that guaranteed absolute victory.

That foolish young baron would suffer a defeat he could never erase from his short life.

But there was nothing to pity.
Nothing to feel sympathy for.

It was only a matter of time, after all.

Goethe was fading.
Captain Fikel and Captain Randolph had failed to return to the fortress and died under mysterious circumstances.

They had been among the few who took care of the soldiers in Winterband.
Yet no one spoke of their deaths, and no one seemed to know the truth.

The supplies they had barely managed to secure—often by bending military orders—were now gone as well.
Those above only repeated that everything would return to normal.

There was no hope left in Goethe.
Those who would leave—whether to die or flee—had already gone.
Only cripples, fools, and ghosts like himself remained in Winterband.

The new recruits were nothing more than ignorant foreign criminals and refugees.
They would not survive the coming winter.

The wind blew—cold and dry.
Sigbrand inhaled deeply, the chill air scraping against his cracked skin.
His breath scattered in the air.

“So much for it not being anything grand…”

Hans muttered despairingly as he looked out at the scenery beyond the carriage.

As they approached the Vinfelt encampment, dozens of tents could be seen scattered across the barren hills.
Flags bearing a swan emblem fluttered high, and large bonfires burned.

Sentries stood posted throughout, while others prepared for the coming battle—tending to armor and weapons.
Coachmen tended to what looked like more than thirty warhorses.

It was Botmer’s camp.

“Sir Sigbrand, h-how many do you think that is?”

Hans asked anxiously, leaning out the window.

“About four hundred.”

Sigbrand answered after a quick glance.
Even at the sight of such numbers, he seemed utterly unmoved.

“F-four hundred!?”

Hans had never seen so many soldiers in his life.

“You’re saying we have to face that? Each of us would have to take on nearly ten men!”

Thinking of their numerical disadvantage, Hans’s face turned pale.

“Stop making a scene. You’re scaring Enette.”

Isaac tapped Hans on the shoulder.

Enette was completely frozen.
Unlike Hans, she couldn’t even show it—she just rolled her eyes anxiously, unable to grasp what was happening.

“How can I not make a scene? You said we weren’t going there to die.”
“Look closely. What’s their condition like?”

Isaac sighed and closed the book he had been reading.

“What do their expressions look like? What’s the atmosphere? Do you see anyone singing or sparring? Are many soldiers moving around? What about the infirmary tents?”

Hans blinked, clearly confused.
In the meantime, the carriage had already passed by Botmer’s camp.

“For their numbers, the camp was quiet. No one was singing or sparring. There wasn’t much movement, and people were gathered around the infirmary tents. They were burning herbs and blood-soaked bandages in the fires. From a distance, I even saw them burning corpses.”
“When did you see all that?”
“When you were busy being scared of the number four hundred.”

“When was I ever scared?”
“They’ve already fought a battle. Whether intentional or not, there were casualties—and it doesn’t look like the outcome was very pleasant. That’s good news for us.”
“Sir Sigbrand, is that true?”
“You can’t even trust your own master?”

“Sir Sigbrand!”

Ignoring Isaac’s remark, Hans leaned out the window again.

“I couldn’t hear because of the wind. What did he say?”

Sigbrand had heard Isaac—but pretended not to.
He found it unpleasant listening to ignorant youngsters babble about war.

Still, Isaac wasn’t wrong.
That, at least, was unexpected.

Even so, it wouldn’t change the outcome.

By the time the sun began to set, the carriage approached the Vinfelt camp.
It could have arrived much earlier, but it had slowed to match the walking pace of the Winterband soldiers escorting them.

“Huh? Was Vinfelt always like this…?”

Hans muttered in surprise at the sight in the distance.

Around the wooden palisades—once built to defend against hell wolves—houses constructed by tribal people had sprung up.

Nearby, blue flowers nourished by mana bloomed in abundance.
Blacksmiths bustled about constructing a forge.

They raised the wooden framework first, then leveled the ground with stone and mortar.
On one side, stones and mud were being piled up in preparation for building walls; on the other, a massive furnace was being installed.

Amid the commotion, light snow began to fall quietly.

It was far too peaceful a scene for a place on the brink of war.