Chapter 121

Retreat

Beyond the desolate plains of Vinfelt, a massive army surged forward.
Dust rose into the air, and iron armor and spearheads gleamed in the light.
The sight of soldiers lined up in formation was as overwhelming as a blaze sweeping across a winter field.
Each step of the warhorses sent dull vibrations rippling through the ground, strong enough to be felt even from afar.

Carlson watched Botmer’s advance from atop the watchtower.
They had set up camp close enough to be seen clearly from the Vinfelt camp’s towers.
As if preparing for a siege, the soldiers pitched tents and lit countless campfires.
With thousands of troops raising barracks and fires everywhere, everything within sight from the tower looked like enemy territory.

“So that’s the main force. They said two thousand… looks more like ten thousand.”

Besimer muttered.

His face held a mix of awe and excitement.
It was the first time in his life seeing such a massive army.

“Think they’re in there too? Those monster-like bastards?”

“They probably are.”

Carlson replied as he looked at the fires burning across the hills.
There was only one thing on his mind.
Had Viscount Botmer come in person?
Would he be given a chance to kill him?

Unfortunately, the viscount himself had not come.

Those who arrived at the camp were a monk and two knights.
All wore black cloaks embroidered with a swan emblem.

“The Baron of Vinfelt is a murderer who violated the code of duels and cowardly assassinated Sir Rutger Joachim von Botmer, the second son of House Botmer.”

Angry murmurs spread among the Vinfelt soldiers, but the monk continued without concern.

“However, Sir Karl Siegfried von Botmer, the rightful heir of House Botmer and commander of this army, does not wish for innocent bloodshed. He is a benevolent lord who believes the people should not bear responsibility for their ruler’s foolishness. Therefore, if the Baron of Vinfelt agrees to the following three demands, unnecessary sacrifice will be avoided.”

Like a royal envoy delivering a decree, the monk unfolded a parchment and read out the demands in a somewhat arrogant tone.

“Talkative bastard.”

Besimer scoffed.

His gaze, however, was fixed not on the monk but on the knights behind him.
Were they as strong as the Chevaliers?
Would they transform like them?
If they fought again, could he win?

That was all he could think about.

“Hold back for now. You’ll clash eventually.”

Carlson stopped Besimer, sensing his rising battle intent.

The demands were all absurd.

First, immediate surrender and unconditional release of noble prisoners.
Second, the Baron of Vinfelt must personally visit Viscount Botmer, beg forgiveness, and offer Vinfelt as Botmer’s direct territory.
Third, the baron must confess all his crimes before the royal court.

“Should we just kill them all?”

Veins bulged on Besimer’s bald head.

“Savage. Don’t let anger mortgage your life. Emotions are expensive—and you don’t have what it takes to pay that debt.”

A red-haired knight escorting the monk mocked him.

“…Hmph.”

“Right now, he’s not wrong.”

Carlson held Besimer back as he stepped forward.

“And you, bastard Kyle. So you really were alive. How does it feel, meeting your brother again after so long?”

“I grew up an orphan, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re done, leave.”

Carlson stared coldly at Botmer’s envoys.

“That is all we have to deliver. You have three days.”

The monk folded the parchment and left the camp calmly with the knights.

“You sons of bitches! The day you tuck your tails and run, I’ll dance shaking my ass for you!”

Unable to contain himself, Besimer shouted after them.

“From now on, we move fast.”

As soon as Botmer’s ultimatum arrived, Carlson began reorganizing the camp.
Before they could be fully surrounded, he ordered essential supplies packed and evacuated the women, children, and elderly who could not move easily.
The remaining men were armed, and trenches were dug.

Additional defensive walls were erected.
Wooden stakes and traps were set throughout the area.
Oil and hay were spread along the slopes, along with barrels of liquor.
The forge fires never went out, and the surroundings of the camp were filled with half-dug pits, mounds, and crude traps.

“…Damn it. This isn’t a war—it’s a massacre.”

Bill grabbed Besimer and Carlson, voicing his frustration at the absurdity of it all.
Less than forty men against two thousand.

They would die.
Without question.

Back when they fought Rutger, they had somehow managed victory through the Hellhounds’ exploits and surprise tactics.
But now, there wasn’t even a chance to try something like that.
If the enemy rushed in, they’d simply be crushed.

That would be the end.

“Why risk our lives defending land without a lord, huh? You call this forty men—half of them are wounded, old, or barely-grown tribal kids!”

“I’m sure the boss has a plan.”

“The hell kind of plan is that?!”

“If you’ve got time to whine, dig one more hole. If you want to run, then run alone.”

Besimer focused solely on digging, day and night.

“As the logistics officer, focus on your duty. Desertion will be punished by immediate execution.”

Carlson gave nothing but rigid responses.

Bill wanted to run.
He really did.

But he couldn’t.

“Then run, coward.”

Even Ingeris—the woman he had feelings for—chose to stay and fight.
More importantly, even if he survived by deserting, Isaac would surely kill him later.

He had made a magical contract with him.

Sometimes he wondered if such a contract was truly binding, but the magic Isaac had shown was undeniably real.

In the end, Bill neither fled nor steeled himself to fight.
He simply sank into resignation.

“Ah… we’re all going to die. Every last one of us. I’m screwed, stuck here with these idiots.”

He barely slept, crushed under relentless logistical work.
Whether foolish or brave, the Vinfelt soldiers showed no real change beyond preparing for war instead of training.

They prepared until late at night, then, as usual, wrestled for bets, gambled, drank heavily, and traded crude jokes.

Not a single soldier deserted, even with certain defeat ahead.

They simply carried on as usual.

‘They’re insane. Every last one of them.’

They were not hired mercenaries—they were people whose home and roots were in Vinfelt.
Even if they left this place, they had nowhere to go. At best, they would end up as bandits or drifting vagrants.

They held onto a faint belief.
Just as they had driven back Rutger in an overwhelmingly disadvantageous situation.
Just as they had reduced a knight transformed into a monster to ashes in an instant.
Their young lord, the great warrior of the Baitur tribe, and the company commander from Winterband would somehow accomplish something again.

Trusting that impossibly faint possibility, they calmly awaited the coming war.
Bill knew he would never understand them—not even until the day he died.

And then, the day of death arrived.

It was a morning under gray clouds.
A spectacle, if one could call it that.
Thousands of soldiers formed ranks and encircled the Vinfelt camp.
Spears and shields stood in perfect alignment, and the warhorses pawed at the ground, kicking up dust.

The soldiers of Vinfelt stood on the wooden walkway of the palisade, holding their breath as they sensed the coming battle—death itself.

The signs of battle had already appeared.

“Loose arrows!”

Botmer’s officers shouted, relaying the commander’s orders. Archers stepped forward through the infantry and nocked their arrows.

Around Commander Karl, clad in plate armor, stood mages in black robes, each holding a staff embedded with mana stones.
They drew a formation on the ground and took their positions, beginning to form a massive fireball.
The faintly flickering red sphere above the magic circle grew brighter and more distinct, glowing a vivid crimson.

“Take aim!”

Hundreds of archers drew their bowstrings.
Even from afar, the heat of the mages’ fireball could be felt, burning fiercely.
Soon, a rain of arrows would fall, and blazing projectiles would crash down to burn the camp.

“It’s over.”

Bill muttered in resignation.
It was too late to run now.

Then—

“Stop!”

A thunderous voice rang out across the battlefield.

Dozens of mounted paladins cut straight through the center of the field.
On their white surcoats was emblazoned the red cross of the Papal authority.
The leading paladin rode directly toward Botmer’s commander and shouted again, his voice amplified with mana.

“I deliver the command of His Holiness the Pope! Cease all hostilities immediately! From this moment on, anyone who raises a weapon will be considered an enemy of the Holy See!”

The mages extinguished their flames, and the bewildered archers slowly lowered their bows.
For a while, heated arguments erupted between the paladin commander and Karl.
The exact words did not reach the soldiers in Vinfelt.

Then, at some point—

“Huh?”
“What’s going on?”

The formation of thousands began to break apart.
Infantry holding spears and shields started withdrawing to the rear.
Flags were lowered one by one.

Even the cavalry, which had maintained its grand formation, quietly turned and began to ride away at a slow pace.
The soldiers of Vinfelt stared blankly at the barren field.

“Are they… really leaving?”

Someone muttered.

No one could believe it.
And just as everyone stood there in stunned silence—

Someone suddenly flung open the palisade gate and ran outside the camp.

“…Captain?”

Drawing confused stares, Besimer sprinted forward with all his strength, then abruptly pulled down his worn, tattered trousers to his knees.

He began shaking his bare backside at the retreating Botmer army.

“Thanks for coming, you bastards! This is the last ass you’ll ever see here!”

Unfortunately, the one most damaged by his antics was not the enemy.

“…Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

Bill muttered under his breath.

***

Isaac and Vincenzio sat facing each other at a stone table in a chamber.
On the table were warm herbal tea, freshly baked black bread, and figs glazed with honey.

“I received your letter today. Thank you.”

“There’s nothing for you to thank me for. Botmer committed religious crimes—he attempted to assassinate a bishop, bribed a scribe, and even tried to kill a special inquisitor. He must pay the proper price.”

Vincenzio took a sip of tea and smiled.
From deep within the monastery, the chanting of monks echoed.

“Will the viscount respond to the tribunal’s summons?”

“He will.”

The cardinal did not elaborate, but his answer was firm.

Isaac looked down at his teacup for a moment before speaking again.

“I heard there was an incident of spontaneous combustion in the Farnese family.”

“I’ve heard. A regrettable matter.”

The cardinal spoke with a tone and expression that seemed genuinely sympathetic.

“They say it was purple flames again.”

“That flame is certainly persistent in testing one’s faith.”

“I also heard that Inquisitor Raphael has begun investigating once more.”

“I see.”

“However, I’ve heard that the inquisitor was told something rather strange by Bishop Alquin.”

“Something strange?”

“They say the bishop testified that my personal mage ignited the purple flames. So I ask—what kind of person is Inquisitor Raphael?”

Isaac asked.