Chapter 144

Advance

Baron Ripe felt as though his heart was about to burst.

The blizzard had stopped, but the sky remained dark.

At this very moment.

He wished that he himself would simply disappear.

His vision was blurred, and his entire body was drenched in cold sweat.

It wasn't because of the fierce wind or the cold, nor was he suffering from any illness.

"What are you doing? Give the order to advance."

Waller, a knight serving Viscount Botmer, said.

"Just... just give me a little more time, Sir Waller."

"Now is the perfect opportunity. Otherwise, even more soldiers will be sacrificed. We must move before the enemy climbs onto the walls and establishes a defensive formation."

"Just a moment, only a moment. Hoo... hoo..."

Baron Ripe took several deep breaths.

Waller merely watched him with cold eyes as the baron appeared on the verge of collapse at any moment.

"If you miss this chance, then there was no point in betraying them in the first place."

Betrayal.

That word stabbed into Baron Ripe's ears like a needle.

He was hesitating.

Though he had joined Botmer's side, he had never directly attacked Goethe.

But the moment he gave the order to attack, he would truly become a traitor.

Advance.

The moment he spoke that word aloud.

He would stain the loyalty his ancestors had built over more than a century of service with a mark that could never be erased.

"You've already crossed a river you can never return from. The Count will never forgive you. You'll be dragged to Execution Rock and beheaded by Valerich. Then your head will be displayed in Bern City's square."

At Waller's words, Baron Ripe tightly shut his eyes.

"Goethe is your enemy now, Baron. You must accept that fact if you want your family to survive. My father—no, His Excellency—told me to convey those words. A family head must be capable of cutting away even pointless guilt for the sake of the family."

"...That... is true."

Baron Ripe opened his eyes.

Father, forgive me. With my abilities, there was no other path.

The previous head of House Ripe had been a loyal retainer.

He knew how important Goethe was to the kingdom and had been a true vassal who wished to protect him to the very end.

He was a father who loved the land entrusted to him, his household, and his family.

While Baron Ripe respected his father, he had always believed he was unfit to be the head of the family.

He was timid, indecisive, full of regrets, and prone to overthinking.

He lacked talent in magic, swordsmanship, governance, politics, diplomacy, and even business.

There was only one thing he had ever truly accomplished in his life.

Raising his eldest son, Carlos.

The boy, who had only recently come of age, was unlike his incompetent father. By the time he reached fourteen, he had already formed a Ring.

He possessed the talent befitting the vassal of a great magical house.

For that child.

For the future that child would inherit.

Baron Ripe was willing to become fertilizer if necessary.

Because Carlos, his son, was his treasure and everything he had.

"Haaah—"

Baron Ripe drew in a deep breath.

His bloodshot eyes looked ready to burst from their sockets.

If only he had been a little stronger.

If only he had been a little more capable.

If Carlos had never been born.

If Carlos had shown no talent for magic.

Then he would never have made this decision.

He would never have betrayed Goethe.

"Advance!"

Baron Ripe shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice nearly tearing apart.

"Advance! Advance!"

Following their lord's cry, his knights shouted as well.

The horns signaling an advance echoed from every direction.

"WAAAAAAAH!!!"

The infantry roared as they charged toward the walls.

Siege ladders, battering rams, mobile shields, and ballistae were pushed forward by mercenaries and soldiers.

Hundreds of troops advanced toward the fortress walls.

The soldiers of Winterband, who had spent two straight days enduring catapults, cannons, and maddening smoke, could not react immediately.

Only after Botmer's forces set up siege ladders against the inner walls and infantry began climbing did a mana-amplified voice finally thunder out.

"Hold the walls!"

Berkheim shouted.

Fires still burned in various places within the inner fortress. Some soldiers remained under the influence of battle frenzy, swinging spears and swords wildly, while magical beasts that had breached the outer defenses still rampaged throughout the city.

Piiiiiik!

Piiiiiik!

Emergency whistles echoed throughout the fortress.

Even soldiers who had been snatching brief moments of sleep in temporary shelters rushed out to respond.

"Pour everything on them! Arrows, oil, stones, torches—anything!"

"Don't let them climb up!"

The barely awakened soldiers of Winterband rubbed their eyes as they rushed onto the walls.

They cut down Baron Ripe's infantry and removed the siege ladders.

Whether it was a longbow, a shortbow, a crossbow, or fragments of wall shattered by catapults, they fired and threw whatever they could get their hands on.

The numerical difference was overwhelming.

There were only dozens of defenders here, while hundreds of enemy soldiers kept climbing up.

Arrows and bolts alone were not enough.

"Those cheating bastards..."

Among Botmer's troops stood Akanlaufer's magical mercenaries.

They mainly used basic fire magic to secure sections of wall where siege ladders had been placed, while others employed magical tools to cast wind spells.

The wind magic could not stop every projectile, but it was more than sufficient to deflect the trajectories of light missiles such as arrows and bolts.

Meanwhile, arrows fired by Botmer's crossbowmen relentlessly rained down upon Winterband's defenders.

In the end, only close combat remained for the soldiers of Winterband.

And that was precisely their specialty.

These were people who had survived with little supply support and no special equipment against magical beasts, relying on nothing but their bodies and blades.

To warriors accustomed to the movements and strength of monsters, fighting ordinary infantry was easier than harvesting ripe wheat.

The infantry who climbed the walls were swept away in a single wave by Berkheim and the other veterans.

After that, every soldier who climbed up was immediately dealt with by Winterband's defenders.

Infantry who reached the top through siege ladders became corpses that tumbled back down below.

Ballista bolts occasionally struck and shattered sections of the battlements, but the effect was minimal.

Winterband's inner wall was not especially tall, but it was absurdly thick, and the defenders were not frightened or thrown into panic by such attacks.

"Whoa, damn!"

"That's our Baron!"

In fact, the last two massive bolts only excited the defenders even more after Berkheim split them apart with his axe before they could hit.

They seemed about to be pushed back, yet they held.

They seemed about to die, yet they survived.

One Winterband soldier, struck by three arrows in the chest and side, still cut down five of Baron Ripe's infantrymen in succession and remained standing atop the wall.

He looked as though he would collapse at any moment, yet he continued swinging his sword.

To Botmer's commanders, it was a maddening sight.

The battering ram had not even reached the gate.

The area around the gate had become a sea of flames after the defenders poured out every drop of oil and every torch they possessed.

At this rate, only their own morale would suffer.

"...Tsk. Their resistance is fiercer than expected."

Waller clicked his tongue.

"I-Is this really alright?"

"There is nothing to worry about. I'll handle it personally."

Waller answered the anxious Baron Ripe.

His gaze was fixed on Berkheim, who was rampaging across the walls as though dancing through the battlefield.

He was the enemy commander who had to be eliminated first.

"Then I..."

"Baron, you've fulfilled your role. You may rest now. Leave the rest to me."

"Ah... hoo."

Baron Ripe let out a sigh.

Judging by his appearance alone, he looked like a man who had already cut down dozens of Winterband soldiers.

He seemed utterly exhausted.

But his relief came a little too soon.

"...!"

Baron Ripe's eye widened.

More precisely, only one eye widened.

An arrow had pierced the other eye and driven all the way through the back of his skull.

He could not even scream.

Waller's gauntleted hand was clamped over his mouth.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Infusing his strike with aura, Waller had pierced through the baron's eye and skull as though launching an arrow himself.

"The fewer people there are to share the spoils of war, the better. One final message from His Excellency. A traitor is bound to betray again. Hmm? Already dead?"

Glancing at the fallen Baron Ripe, Waller charged toward the walls and shouted,

"Baron Ripe has been struck by an arrow! Soldiers of House Ripe! Avenge your lord with your own hands!"

Baron Ripe was not completely dead yet.

With his brain pierced through by the arrow, all his memories and thoughts had become hopelessly tangled.

He could understand nothing.

His broken mind could only cling to a single phrase.

"Forgive... forgive me..."

And only one image lingered in his fading consciousness.

Carlos, smiling brightly on the day he had ignited a magical flame for the first time in his life.

"I... am... sorry..."

Amidst the chaos and turmoil filling the surroundings, Baron Ripe sank into eternal darkness and silence.

***

A gloomy sky.

A snowfield swept by bitter winds.

More than a thousand soldiers and several hundred mercenaries stood or sat in formation.

Dozens of horses scraped and snorted at the frozen ground.

Mounted atop them were cavalrymen, all staring toward a single point.

"Monsters..."

Someone muttered.

It was the impression voiced by one of the soldiers under Karl, the eldest son of Viscount Botmer.

The same sentiment emerged from the opposing camp as well.

"Hagen, can you fight like that?"

Bruno of the Vinfelt army asked one of his knights.

"...Even if we use the same Aura, I'm still a human. Those two are monsters."

Hagen clicked his tongue.

There was a distance of roughly one hundred and fifty paces between Vinfelt's army and Botmer's forces.

At the midpoint between them, the sound of clashing steel rang out continuously.

Two swords colliding while showering sparks.

Two Auras crashing into each other and echoing across the battlefield.

Sometimes the sound resembled cannon fire.

Sometimes thunder.

Sometimes a scream.

The symphony of iron that shook the winter plains continued for an entire day and then another half day without interruption.

Even the spectators grew tired enough to sit down or stretch.

Yet not a single person yawned or fell asleep.

Each time the two swords collided, an explosion of Aura erupted, scattering fragments of willpower in every direction.

Aura was a second body created through imagination and will.

That body was being torn apart and shattered every second.

The fragments spread far and wide, reaching everyone who watched.

The sharpness contained within them.

The killing intent.

The pain-laced exhilaration.

All of it sent chills down the spines of soldiers and mercenaries alike.

Bodies and minds remained stretched taut with tension.

Meanwhile, the two swords continued moving too quickly for ordinary eyes to follow.

Evervine, the red-haired knight.

And Carlson, the black-haired swordsman.

At least, the Vinfelt side seemed to call him Carlson.

His real name was Kyle.

The son of the legendary mercenary Kayen.

"Who's winning?"

Karl, eldest son of Viscount Botmer and commander of the assembled army, asked.

"They're evenly matched."

Knight Falkenwald replied.

In truth, he was primarily an archer.

What distinguished him from other knights was his ability to infuse Aura into bow and arrow.

Among the Viscount's knights, his Aura and swordsmanship ranked near the bottom.

But when it came to eyesight and perception, none could rival him.

"Weren't you saying Evervine had the advantage earlier?"

"In pure combat strength, Evervine is superior. But in fundamentals and endurance, his opponent has the edge. It appears Evervine's stamina is fading first."

"This won't do."

"Shall we end it?"

At Falkenwald's question, Karl slowly nodded.

There had never been any real need to fight this way in the first place.

If they launched a full-scale battle right now, victory was all but guaranteed.

Karl's army held the advantage in both quantity and quality.

This duel existed only because of Evervine's stubbornness.

His argument had been simple:

Kill Kyle, the enemy commander and strongest warrior, and enemy morale would collapse while friendly casualties would be reduced.

But that wasn't his true motive.

Ever since he had entered the Viscount's service, he had been called a genius of the sword.

Evervine hated the nicknames attached to him.

And the one he despised most was:

The Second Kyle.

It stirred his competitive spirit.

Evervine wanted to defeat Kyle before both armies and become himself rather than someone's successor.

Karl understood that feeling perfectly.

If Kyle had never left Viscount Botmer—

If he had never abandoned Karl's father—

Kyle would have been the Viscount's favorite after Karl, perhaps even equal to him.

Even Karl, the man's actual son, had spent his childhood hearing that he should strive to become even half the man Kyle was.

That was why, as commander, Karl had permitted this duel.

Karl and Evervine alike.

Both wanted Kyle dead.

Only their methods differed.

Falkenwald accepted a longbow and arrow from his squire.

He nocked the arrow.

A faint blue Aura flowed from his hand into the bow, string, and shaft.

His Aura was neither as dense nor as powerful as that of the other knights.

But the range over which he could maintain it was on an entirely different level.

Within one or two hundred paces, he could manipulate an arrow's trajectory at will.

Even an ordinary arrow could achieve destructive power comparable to a ballista.

Kyle, focused entirely on fighting Evervine, would eventually reveal an opening.

Falkenwald intended to seize that moment.

And that moment was now.

Just as he was about to release the string—

His index and middle fingers abruptly tightened around the arrow's nock again.

Fwoooosh—

Something flying toward Karl entered Falkenwald's vision.

A javelin.

The throwing spear commonly used by barbarians.

With his keen senses, Falkenwald immediately realized the Aura infused within it was anything but ordinary.

Without hesitation, he changed targets and loosed his arrow toward its path.

Everything happened in an instant.

The arrow struck the javelin.

The javelin slammed into the ground at Karl's feet.

"...!"

Even after being knocked off course by the arrow, it had still nearly reached him.

"Who was that?"

Startled, Karl pulled the javelin from the ground.

Falkenwald could not answer immediately.

Beyond the Vinfelt army in front of them, he saw no other enemies.

Even with his vision, he could not locate the thrower.

He could not even comprehend how far away it must have been launched from.

Yet it carried this much power.

More than ten minutes passed after the javelin's arrival.

Then a boy riding an enormous wolf appeared atop a hill.

"I told him not to fight Evervine."

The ash-gray-haired boy grumbled.

Behind him, massive warriors began appearing one after another.

Someone carried a banner.

It was an ash-gray-haired woman riding another giant wolf.

A flag bearing the emblem of a shield fluttered atop the pole she held.

It was Goethe's banner.