Chapter 150
Blue Blood (4)
One of Granak’s Great Warriors.
Hwiserk’s attacks were absurdly simple.
He closed the distance, swung, and crashed into his enemies.
That was all.
Yet every enemy soldier standing in his path was split apart without exception.
Almost always in the same sequence.
The enemy soldiers were overwhelmed by his presence, yet still dared to stand against him.
Was this what it felt like when a bear discovered in the forest came charging at you?
Every time he ran, it felt as though the ground itself trembled.
The enemy soldiers knew it was already too late to retreat.
So they raised their shields and swords exactly as they had been trained to do their entire lives.
Crunch!
And then the edge of the axe split not only the shield but their bodies as well.
By the time they recognized their own deaths, Hwiserk was already charging toward other enemies.
He did not look like a warrior fighting on a battlefield.
Compared to his enormous frame, he seemed more like a swift lumberjack.
As though chopping firewood piled on a chopping block.
One after another, with practiced motions, he simply repeated the act of splitting apart his enemies.
“Yaaawn—”
Wiping blood from his face, Hwiserk let out a yawn.
This battlefield had begun to bore him.
Clang—
When he blocked a flying sword strike, Hwiserk’s eyebrow twitched.
A knight wearing green-tinted plate armor stood before him.
The visor concealed the knight’s face.
But the savage light shining from within was unmistakable.
The corner of Hwiserk’s mouth curled upward.
Clack—
Clang!
Bang!
Boom!
Crash!
Hwiserk swung his axe just as he had against the other soldiers.
The knight casually deflected the blow.
Hwiserk was slightly surprised.
He swung harder.
Instead of blocking directly, the knight angled his sword and redirected the attack.
Hwiserk’s lips twitched.
He swung harder still.
The knight barely managed to block and staggered backward.
Hwiserk’s grin deepened.
At least it eased his boredom somewhat.
BOOM! BOOM! CRASH!
Though it was clearly only axe and blade colliding, explosive blasts erupted with every clash.
Aura was colliding with aura.
The knight’s armor, forged from Dimezitrium, protected him from most aura damage.
Hwiserk, however, accumulated more and more cuts across his body every time their auras collided.
Yet the more wounds he received, the more delighted he looked.
One of Botmer’s knights.
Volte felt a chill run down his spine.
Having passed his father’s trial, Volte loved cutting and tearing things apart.
He loved the expressions of terrified enemies.
He believed in no religion.
He worshipped only violence.
Overwhelming violence turned him into a god.
The expressions of enemies who sensed their deaths approaching.
Shock, fear, hearts growing endlessly weaker.
Those things were no different from worship.
In other words, the moment he overwhelmed an enemy with violence and killed them, he became a god.
That sensation was so intoxicating it could make him forget everything else.
That was why he loved slaughter.
The stronger the enemy—
The more numerous they were—
The more excited he became, like a glutton seated before a lavish feast.
The barbarian warriors he had cut down on this battlefield had been the same.
The tastiest food was always the most troublesome to eat.
Yet while he was reveling in that godlike feast, he encountered a meal he could not digest.
This meal did not even look appetizing.
The opponent who should have shown fear, shock, and weakness only seemed happier the more injured he became.
That had no flavor.
The moment their weapons collided for the first time, Volte’s instincts had already told him.
This was not something he could swallow.
It was not prey.
The prey...
Was himself.
BOOM—
Another thunderous crash rang out.
“Ah?”
Volte stared at his sword flying away.
The impact had been too overwhelming.
He had lost his grip on it.
“Hmmm.”
The predator grabbed Volte by the head and lifted him into the air.
“L-let, let go—!”
Craaack
The sturdy helmet crumpled beneath that monstrous grip.
“Gaaaah!”
Dangling helplessly in the air with his head trapped in Hwiserk’s hand, Volte flailed his limbs wildly.
He punched Hwiserk’s arm.
He kicked it.
Nothing happened.
Whoosh.
Volte felt as if his body were flying through the air.
The sensation was surprisingly accurate.
“GAAAAAHHH—!”
Still gripping Volte by the head, Hwiserk swung him toward the enemy soldiers.
“Gah!”
“Urk—!”
Using a knight in black armor as a blunt weapon was an amusing game for Hwiserk.
A toy that made sounds every time he swung it.
And it was durable too.
An ordinary soldier would have died long ago, but this knight in strange armor kept making noises and writhing around.
That made it fun.
“M-monster!”
The enemy formation collapsed and wavered in an instant.
The soldiers who knew how strong Volte was—and how cruel he could be—found Hwiserk’s little game all the more terrifying.
Bwooo— Bwooo— Bwooooo!
Bwooo— Bwooo— Bwooooo!
“Retreat!”
At last, the order to withdraw was given.
The enemy soldiers who had been crowded around Hwiserk, unable to advance or retreat, fled like a receding tide.
None of them looked back.
Hwiserk stared blankly at the enemies exposing their backs and running away.
The delighted grin that had filled his face vanished.
Fighting fleeing enemies was no fun.
“GAAAAAH—!”
Even the noisy toy had become boring.
Now it was just irritating.
CRUNCH!
Volte’s helmet was completely crushed.
His mangled skull, brain, skin, and muscle bulged through the visor.
Blue blood dripped from the helmet.
Hwiserk casually tossed the convulsing Volte onto the ground.
Volte continued twitching for quite some time.
By the time the convulsions finally stopped, the battle was over, and not a single living Botmer soldier remained nearby.
And no one cared about his corpse.
“Ha, that’s insane.”
Watching the scene from afar, Besimer let out a hollow laugh.
“Fuck.”
Unfortunately, he could not overwhelm enemies like Hwiserk or use an enemy knight as a toy.
The knight he had been fighting had already fled long ago when the retreat order was given.
Besimer had no hobby of chasing down and killing fleeing soldiers either.
And he had received no orders to pursue them.
The one thing Besimer could take some comfort in was that Carlson had not fared much differently from him.
That red-haired knight.
Carlson, who had fought him evenly throughout the battle, had gradually been pushed back.
The red-haired knight only grew stronger the longer the fight continued.
Of course, black blood vessels had burst across his face, and blue blood had poured from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears—every opening imaginable.
Nevertheless, the fact remained that Carlson had steadily fallen behind in every regard.
Speed, strength, aura.
Had the enemy not sounded the retreat, Carlson’s defeat would only have become more and more certain.
“Huff... huff...”
Carlson gripped his knees and stared at the mixture of blood and sweat dripping onto the ground.
The blood was thin and red.
“Tsk, you pathetic bastard.”
Besimer clicked his tongue as he looked into Carlson’s eyes.
He knew that look well.
A gaze burning with hatred.
But the object of that hatred was not the enemy.
It was himself.
Hatred toward his own weakness, toward feeling utterly powerless before the destination he longed to reach.
Besimer had felt the same way before the Wolf King.
And before Asra Valdrun.
There was no easy answer to such feelings.
The only solution was to overcome them yourself.
“Vinfelt! Vinfelt!”
“Isaac von Vinfelt!”
In the middle of the battlefield littered with corpses.
Those still standing.
Those who had survived.
They began chanting a single name.
“Isaac! Isaac von Vinfelt!”
“Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!”
The soldiers and mercenaries of Vinfelt shouted Isaac’s name.
The lingering afterglow of battle.
The excitement and exhilaration still remaining within them burst from their throats.
“Why are those guys cheering?”
What surprised Besimer was the roar coming from Granak’s warriors.
At first glance it sounded like meaningless shouting, but it was their tribal language.
Though somewhat different from that of the Baitur Tribe, the meanings were similar enough that he could roughly understand them.
“He has brought the Fire of Prophecy!”
“It is the Fire of Prophecy!”
“The Fire of Prophecy has awakened!”
“Ulurn burns once more!”
Besimer scratched his bald head furiously.
He understood the words.
But he had no idea what they meant.
Still, since they were clearly celebrating Isaac, it was not an unpleasant sight.
“As expected of Boss. Eh, Hans?”
Unlike the other soldiers intoxicated by victory, Hans—covered in blood—was staggering somewhere.
He held a sword in one hand, but even that seemed too heavy for him as he dragged it across the ground.
“Tsk tsk. Amazing that he survived with stamina like that.”
Besimer clicked his tongue as he watched Hans, whose eyes were half-closed.
But after seeing what Hans did next, he found himself speechless.
Hans approached the corpse of the knight in green armor.
It belonged to Volte, whom Hwiserk had played with and discarded like a toy.
Clang!
A dull metallic sound rang out.
Hans had struck a corpse that was already dead.
His blade bounced helplessly off the black armor.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Hans continued swinging.
When the armor proved too tough to penetrate, he drew a dagger from his chest.
He had learned something during the duel in the war against Rutger.
You never knew what would happen in battle.
It was always good to carry at least one dagger.
Using the dagger, he stabbed at every gap and joint in the corpse’s armor.
In his mind appeared a long-haired man wearing the same green armor—
but without a helmet.
Hans had done nothing.
Not when the mercenaries of Black Eyes, who had fought beside him, were slaughtered.
Not when that long-haired man had passed right by him.
Perhaps that was why he had survived.
Yet because he had survived, the shame and misery he felt were indescribable.
He knew it himself.
Mutilating a corpse meant nothing.
It was not revenge.
Nor could it vent his anger.
But he could not endure unless he did something.
“The world’s full of pathetic idiots. Tch.”
Besimer spat out the blood gathered in his mouth and muttered.
Then he started toward Hans.
That had to be stopped.
But before he could move, Carlson got there first.
Carlson grabbed the wrist of Hans’s dagger hand.
Hans struggled, but he could not break free from Carlson’s grip.
“...Let go.”
“Stop.”
“Let go.”
Carlson stared at him.
Smack!
Then, without warning, he slapped Hans across the face.
Carlson did not even give him time to react.
As soon as Hans’s head turned back, he struck him again.
Hans blinked blankly before spitting something out.
A broken tooth.
“Pull yourself together. This is the path you chose, squire.”
Carlson spoke in a cold voice.
Hans’s arm, which had been gripping the dagger, fell limply to his side.
Leaving Hans sitting there in a daze, Carlson turned and walked toward the soldiers gathered around Isaac.
“Hmm.”
Besimer stroked his beard.
It was a complete mess, matted with blood and sweat.
“This world really is shit.”
For some, it was a game.
For some, a festival.
For some, death.
For others, an unbearable hell.
“Well, that’s how it’s always been.”
Besimer let out a sigh.
“Isaac! Isaac!”
The soldiers, still burning with excitement, continued shouting Isaac’s name.
***
Inner Hall of Winterband Keep
“May the name of the valiant Baron Ripe be remembered by his descendants and their descendants after them.”
Three crystal goblets clinked together.
They belonged to Viscount Botmer, Baron Lübeck, and Baron Bidelstein, each having offered a toast.
“Baron Ripe. A bit timid, perhaps, but a decent man.”
“A tragic end. To have an arrow pierce his eye the moment he ordered the advance.”
Baron Lübeck and Baron Bidelstein spoke.
“Still, thanks to Sir Ripe’s sacrifice, was it not his infantry that fought most bravely? Out of over three hundred men, fewer than fifty returned alive.”
“If you truly appreciate his sacrifice, Lord Lübeck, Lord Bidelstein, then show some consideration to the Ripe family.”
Viscount Botmer spoke quietly.
“Must you even say it?”
“Of course we should. Whatever anyone says, he is the greatest contributor to this war.”
Neither noble could hide his smile.
Not a single soldier under their direct command had suffered harm while taking the fortress.
All that remained now was to harvest the sweet fruits of victory.
“By the way, I hear the First Prince still hasn’t mobilized his forces. What happens if the Royalist faction continues to sit idle?”
“What happens? It means the Royalists have abandoned Goethe. And we’ve taken Goethe. The undeveloped mines, Bern City—they’ll become ours. Ahaha. Naturally, that is after we present the finest treasures to His Highness the Second Prince, Lord of the North.”
Under Viscount Botmer’s gaze, Baron Lübeck hastily added the remark about the Second Prince.
“Don’t lower your guard yet. A carrier pigeon arrived from the First Prince yesterday.”
“What?”
“From the First Prince?”
Viscount Botmer handed the rolled letter to Baron Bidelstein.
Bidelstein wiped his greasy hands on his tunic before opening it.
“Haha. It seems His Highness the First Prince is quite upset.”
“What does it say?”
As Bidelstein laughed heartily, Lübeck took the note and read it.
The contents were simple enough.
I acknowledge your achievement in capturing Winterband.
However, remember this well.
If your private war disrupts the peace and order of the kingdom and brings harm upon the realm, that crime shall never be considered light.
You must protect Winterband from the beasts of the Arctic wastes.
Should you fail to complete the duty once carried out by Goethe, you shall face the harshest punishment.
Remember this:
Your ambitions may never surpass the interests of the kingdom.
“Tch. Looks like the Royalists didn’t move according to the First Prince’s wishes. His hands are tied, so all he can do is bark.”
“Empty bluster. The war is already as good as over.”
Lübeck sneered, and Bidelstein readily agreed.
But Viscount Botmer did not laugh.
Everything felt too easy.
Certainly, they had suffered considerable losses.
And the fact that no news had yet arrived from Kakel worried him.
Even so...
It had all been far too easy.
And his instincts were rarely wrong.
“M-My lords!”
A soldier came running desperately through the entrance of the hall.
His armor was stained with blood.
His face was pale with terror.
“T-The beasts... the beasts are attacking!”
“Then stop them. Why come here to report it?”
Bidelstein answered indifferently.
They had already stationed ample troops around the outer walls.
The defenses remained alert.
Most importantly, they had powerful knights.
“They’re... too strong.”
“No matter how strong, they’re only beasts.”
“L-Lord Clovis and Lord Aldric... have been defeated.”
That was the moment the nobles’ expressions changed.
Clovis and Aldric were knights under Viscount Botmer.
Among all the forces currently stationed at Winterband, they were considered among the strongest warriors present.