Chapter 146

Outbreak of War

"Y-You monster bast—"

Crunch.

Waller stomped on the arm of a fallen Winterband soldier.

He had merely stepped on it, yet the soldier's arm was crushed beyond any possibility of use.

"AAAAAGH!"

Even Baron Ripe's infantry flinched at the soldier's agonized scream.

"You... filthy... monster... bastard... Your parents must've been—"

The soldier tried to curse through clenched teeth.

Waller gave him no chance.

"I was an orphan."

Crunch.

Without emotion, he brought the iron heel of his boot down onto the soldier's face.

Like crushing an overripe fruit.

The man's face caved inward.

Bone fragments burst outward.

His eyes, nose, and mouth were separated into a grotesque mess.

The soldier lost the ability to speak.

Only wet, gurgling breaths mixed with blood escaped him.

Waller simply watched until the man's breathing stopped.

"And now, I am not an orphan. I have a father. A man whose name you are not worthy of speaking."

He paused.

"Dead already."

Waller nudged the corpse with his boot.

There was no response.

"Damn it... ah, hell."

Only then did Berkheim finish dealing with the Botmer infantry surrounding him.

He was too late.

The squads that had rushed over to support him had all been slaughtered by Waller.

It gave him a brief chance to catch his breath, but only briefly.

Infantry and mercenaries continued climbing onto the walls without end.

Before he knew it, Berkheim was alone atop the wall once more.

Fortunately, Winterband soldiers were still desperately holding the inner side of the gatehouse, preventing the gates from being opened.

But at this rate, the fortress falling was only a matter of time.

There's no answer unless that monster is dealt with.

Berkheim looked at the corpses scattered around Waller's feet.

The soldiers had died horribly.

Limbs severed.

Bones crushed.

Faces destroyed last of all.

Most were unrecognizable, but from blood-soaked hair colors and protruding eyeballs, he could still identify some of them.

Water... I'll avenge you.

If I can.

Berkheim steadied his ragged breathing.

"Haa..."

Regripping his axe, he charged Waller.

It was a true brawl.

Berkheim used every trick he knew to try to corner him.

Strength.

Agility.

Balance.

Endurance.

Reflexes.

Spatial awareness.

Prediction.

Technique.

Composure.

Tactical thinking.

Every aspect of combat he knew.

Surely there had to be one thing he surpassed Waller in.

If he could exploit even a single advantage, victory might still be possible.

He swung his axe along unpredictable trajectories.

Grabbed Waller's breastplate whenever the knight tried to create distance.

Hooked his legs.

Kicked at his ribs with his greaves.

Used irregular footwork to get behind him.

Pressed into blind spots where a sword was difficult to wield.

He tried everything.

Just one opening.

One tiny opening.

That was all he needed.

Yet...

"Huff... huff... huff..."

Berkheim tired first.

Too exhausted even to curse.

No matter what angle he attacked from, Waller blocked it.

Whenever he tried grabbing Waller's armor, his own wrist ended up caught in Waller's gauntlet.

Leg sweeps were ignored by Waller's effortless movements.

One kick nearly got him killed when Waller seized his leg.

Attempts to get behind him only resulted in Waller getting behind him instead.

And whenever he entered a sword's blind spot—

A pommel came flying toward his face.

How the hell am I supposed to beat that?

Berkheim widened the distance and wiped away blood that kept obscuring his vision.

He had avoided every direct strike from Waller's blade.

Yet his body had been reduced to a battered wreck.

"Why won't you die?"

Waller tilted his head.

The Berkheim before him looked ready to die.

Yet somehow never did.

Again and again, he blocked or avoided attacks that should have been impossible.

Waller had long since surpassed the limits of humanity.

His destructive power was beyond what ordinary Aura users could withstand.

Rumble.

Closing the distance instantly, Waller swung his sword.

The battlements shattered like crumbs of bread.

Berkheim barely avoided the attack.

There was no time to feel relieved.

Waller's strikes carried the force of catapult stones and cannon fire.

Yet they were delivered with nearly the same speed as a rapier thrust.

Fortunately, speed was the one thing Berkheim could still keep up with.

That alone was why he remained alive.

But his accumulated injuries were slowly tightening around his throat.

There wasn't a single limb that didn't ache, throb, or burn.

His survival instincts had reached such extremes that they dulled the pain.

Once the battle ended, however, the agony would likely be unbearable.

Blood loss blurred his vision.

He could feel his body and mind growing slower.

How many more exchanges can I survive?

Berkheim glanced toward the outer wall.

The vibrations from the Count's magic continued.

That meant magical beasts still remained to be dealt with.

Peep.

Peeeeeep.

Emergency whistles still sounded intermittently.

Looks like I'll have to hold on longer.

"Just die already!"

"Stop, soldier!"

"AAAAAAH! REVENGE!"

One of Baron Ripe's infantrymen charged forward.

He had spent the battle watching from the sidelines, knowing this was a fight beyond his level.

When the combat briefly slowed, he finally seized what he thought was an opportunity.

Ignoring Waller's warning, he leveled his spear and rushed the blood-covered Berkheim.

Just as Waller had slaughtered Berkheim's entire squad,

Berkheim had also left countless members of Baron Ripe's infantry dead and scattered across the wall.

Perhaps among them were close friends of the soldier now charging him.

No one cared.

At least, Waller didn't.

"Huh?"

The soldier stumbled.

Lost his balance.

Collapsed.

Feeling something wrong, he looked down.

"AAAHHH! MY FOOT! MY FOOOOT!"

His ankle had been severed clean through, boot and all.

No—

Not cleanly.

"Torn off" was more accurate.

The flesh and bone looked as though they had been smashed apart by a dull axe.

"I told you to stop."

"He's on your side. Isn't that a bit much?"

Berkheim asked between heavy breaths.

"I will personally present your head to Father."

"Again with the father nonsense..."

A curse escaped Berkheim's panting mouth.

"Sounds like some mutt pedigree dragged out of a gutter."

WHOOOOOM—

A shockwave swept across the wall as though the air itself had been struck by a giant hammer.

Dark blue Aura erupted from Waller's sword like a waterfall.

At the same time, the blackened veins bulging across his body burst open.

Blood streamed from his eyes.

"Be. Silent."

Waller's voice was no longer human.

It sounded like a giant beast.

Or a magical creature trying to speak.

A chill crawled over Berkheim's entire body.

The taunt had been intended to shake his opponent's composure.

It appeared to have been a very poor decision.

I'm screwed.

He lost sight of Waller.

Only for an instant.

A fleeting moment.

Yet to Berkheim, it felt impossibly long.

His senses had dulled.

The monster before him had become impossibly fast.

Where's the blade coming from?

Front?

Behind?

Side?

Above?

No matter which direction.

Everything his hard-earned combat experience told him was the same.

I can't block this.

Even in perfect condition, he wasn't sure he could respond.

The cold, rational part of his mind reached a conclusion.

I'm getting hit.

Your Excellency, I did my best in my own way.

If you see my corpse later, don't call me weak.

At the moment he felt death approaching, he raised his eyes toward the sky.

Ah... If I have to die, I would've liked to at least die under some sunlight.

CLANG!

Sparks flew.

It was Berkheim's final struggle.

The instinct to survive.

While his rational mind had already given up, the survival instinct engraved into his body swung the axe on its own.

Of course, it was a futile act of resistance.

The axe shaft shattered.

The impact felt as though his strength were being ripped away, leaving his hands covered in blood.

The sword driving through the axe was delayed for a moment, but it could not be stopped from continuing toward his heart.

This was death's door.

A blade of light sliced through the air, seeming to split his vision in half.

This is it.

At the very brink of death, Berkheim's senses sharpened to their absolute limit, like the last flare of a dying flame.

No Winterband soldiers remained alive on the inner side of the gate.

Outside the gate, Botmer's soldiers were pulling ropes while gasping for breath.

The pulleys groaned as the ropes stretched taut like bowstrings.

A massive battering weight surged toward the oak gate reinforced with iron bands.

BOOM!

"...?"

The thunderous noise hadn't come from the gate alone.

Right before Berkheim's eyes.

From Waller's sword, which had been moments away from tearing open his chest.

A deafening sound exploded outward.

Riiiiiiing—

Not a whistle.

A ringing in his ears.

"...Lord."

Someone stood before him.

"...Baron. Baron!"

Berkheim shook his head and finally regained focus.

A sturdy build.

A gentle-looking face.

More than a few troublemakers had broken their noses after mistaking that gentle appearance for weakness.

"You're late, Lucas."

Berkheim said in a hollow voice.

Yet his expression had never looked happier.

***

Five people sat inside the temporary tent erected for negotiations.

On one side sat Karl, eldest son of Viscount Botmer, along with Baron Hauzen and Baron Mark.

On the other sat Isaac and Adele.

"I never expected the Lady herself to come. Wasn't it rather reckless to travel all the way to the battlefield?"

Baron Hauzen stroked his drooping mustache as he spoke.

The tone carried subtle mockery.

As though asking what a woman who had wandered the continent raising her young son could possibly know.

It was something one could only say because they knew nothing about Adele.

To him, she was merely a barbarian girl sold into Goethe's household long ago.

"After all, this matter directly concerns the survival of my family."

Adele replied with a smile.

"By the way, Young Master, you've grown beyond recognition. There have been all sorts of strange rumors about you, but it's good to see you're doing well."

Baron Mark smiled awkwardly.

His protruding cheekbones seemed even more prominent than usual.

Isaac merely glanced at him indifferently and said nothing.

"What is it you wanted to discuss, Baron Vinfelt?"

Karl, who had silently observed the conversation, finally spoke.

His chin was slightly raised, and he looked down at Isaac and Adele with arrogant eyes.

His gaze lingered particularly long on Adele.

Though he had already married a southern noblewoman and fathered children, the blood of his father clearly ran strong in him.

His fondness for women had not changed.

"I didn't expect Your Ladyship to come in person. Wasn't it a bit much to come all the way to the battlefield?"

"Still, this concerns the future of my house."

Adele answered calmly.

Karl waved a hand.

"If you've come to beg for your lives, then you've made an excellent choice. Father specifically ordered that you be brought to him alive. As for your mother, she won't lose a single hair, provided an appropriate price is paid."

"Oh, really?"

Isaac smiled.

There was nothing behind the smile.

"There's one condition."

"What is it?"

"The black-haired knight who fought Evervine."

"Carlson?"

"That's what you call him. We call him Kyle. He was once Father's knight."

"And why Carlson?"

"Hand him over to me."

"That's something I'd need to think about. We may be outnumbered, but I haven't actually lost yet, have I?"

"Think carefully, Baron. Is it really worth going this far for Goethe, who abandoned you? From what I've heard, you're neither a vassal nor a cadet branch. You're an independent house—Vinfelt. Be practical."

"Hmm."

Isaac scratched his cheek.

"I'll follow your judgment. They're your soldiers."

Adele said.

"Young Master. Sir Karl is correct. A family head must be capable of cutting away even pointless guilt for the sake of the family."

"You keep calling me Young Master, but I'm a Baron, you traitorous bastard."

"Ahem."

When Isaac glared at him, Baron Mark awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Don't forget that I have five thousand troops behind me, Baron. You may not understand the full picture yet, but this war is merely one piece of a much larger stage. The interests of countless people are involved. Unfortunately, there isn't enough time to explain it all."

Karl interlocked his fingers.

"I'll be direct. Even if Goethe falls, Vinfelt's independence will be guaranteed. If you wish, I'll have your name entered into the royal registers and your legitimacy recognized through the Holy See."

"That's tempting."

"Then—"

"But I don't really like negotiating with a pig."

"...What?"

"Talking to a brat who can't even grasp his own limits feels like a waste of time."

Karl's eyes widened.

"Do you realize what you're saying?"

"Oh, wait. Hold on. Shut up for a second, pig."

Isaac cut him off.

"Hauzen. Mark. The reason I arranged this meeting was to give the two of you one final chance."

"What nonsense are you suddenly talking about?"

Baron Hauzen frowned.

"Join my side and help drive Botmer's bastards out. If you do, I'll spare your families' lives."

Isaac smiled.

"Naturally, your territories and armies will be confiscated. Actions have consequences, don't they?"

"Young Master, I don't think you understand the situation..."

Both Baron Mark and Baron Hauzen looked utterly dumbfounded.

***

At the same time, some distance away from the negotiation tent, the forces of Botmer and Vinfelt faced one another.

On one side stood Evervine, Falkenwald, and the knights and soldiers under them.

On the other stood Carlson, Besimer, Hwiserk, and their warriors.

"Yaaawn."

Hwiserk opened his mouth so wide it looked ready to tear apart.

"God damn it. How long is this going to take?"

Besimer grumbled.

"Cough. Cough."

Evervine spat blood-stained saliva onto the ground.

It seemed he had pushed himself too far.

"At that rate, you'll die."

Carlson said flatly.

"..."

Evervine merely glared at him.

He didn't reply.

Carlson said nothing further.

The standoff continued amid suffocating tension.

Then—

It happened in an instant.

Without exception, everyone drew their weapons at once.

Blood splattered across the walls of the temporary tent.

Two heads rolled across the floor.

They belonged to Baron Hauzen and Baron Mark.

And Karl's mouth hung open as a sword slid straight through it and emerged from the back of his skull.

Isaac had thrust the blade in himself.

"Your problem is your tongue."

The war had begun.