76 — 8 (6)

‘Die here, Fred. I will climb over you.’

As a borderland lord, Marquis Gangpireu had coveted the Pontina domain at the river crossing his entire life. But defeating Remitri—so overwhelmingly strong in war—head-on had never been easy. At last, the long-awaited chance had come; his lifetime hunger was about to be satisfied.

Mihoff cut down another cavalryman and finally closed in on Fred. Marquis Gangpireu shouted to him,

“Bring me Fred’s head!”

Hearing that, Mihoff glanced back at the marquis with those prim, cool eyes of his, then spun his sword and advanced. There were no cavalry left nearby, and none with the courage to protect Fred any longer.

Wracked by pain, Fred let out a low growl at Mihoff, who looked as if he had just stepped out of a playground. Fred slowly swept his gaze around and saw the ground carpeted with corpses. Half the riders who had died had fallen protecting him. The hot air pressed on him like hell itself, and the dizzying stench of blood cornered him.

‘Is this the end?’

His legs lost strength at the thought of dying alongside his men strewn around him—or perhaps it was simply the blood loss. The empty spaces were filling again as enemy infantry surged in. Even if it wasn’t Mihoff, there was no way out of this silent ring.

‘Louis… Louis… did you win or did you lose?’

Louis—locked in his own fratricidal struggle—flashed into his mind. Surely one of his two brothers now wore the same look he did. Fred had drawn his blade to settle his brothers, but he was still a son of Pontina. Handing the domain to Marquis Gangpireu would be the worst fate imaginable. How would his ancestors judge him if he died like that? What a disgrace it would be.

If it had come to this, it would be better for Louis to take everything, Fred decided. His view had changed. In the few years they had been apart, his youngest brother had become a lion. Unlike Pierre—sly and pitiful—Louis had grown into a man who could tear the enemy apart with swift, clean strikes. If Fred had no future left, then even if they shared only half their blood, he wanted the youngest to carry on in his stead.

Was this a will? Or…

Fred looked up. Three small clouds drifted in a piercingly clear sky—otherwise ordinary, peaceful, merciful. The sky was gentle. As he found himself thinking that dying now would not be so bad, Mihoff stepped within a distance where he could sever Fred’s neck in a few more strides. For a Sword Expert, that distance meant nothing; if he wished it, he could kill in an instant.

And yet Mihoff looked at Fred with the same air as before—like a child gazing at a broken toy. To Mihoff, Fred was the most fascinating opponent of his short life. Half of him did not want to kill here at all. He had no desire to obey Marquis Gangpireu’s distasteful order. But Mihoff knew if he refused, the marquis would brutally kill his helpless younger sister. He had no choice. He raised his sword.

Fred closed his eyes and spoke a single line.

“Make it quick, young swordsman.”

He had vowed in childhood that if he must die, he would die with honor, and he would not betray that stance. At that moment, three riders came at full tilt, hacking through infantry as they burst into view.

Startled by the surge of movement, Fred turned his head. The familiar mustache, the fierce eyes, the face etched with every pain the world could offer—Jodan had arrived. Of course Jodan was half-mad with anguish; he would never let Fred die here. The men with him felt the same; without a word, two riders hurled themselves straight at Mihoff.

For an instant, Mihoff considered whether to cut down all three—or to let his toy go. If he let them escape, the marquis’s wrath would descend; if he spared them, he might have more private amusement later.

‘A grave dilemma.’

Even as the two riders charged head-on, Mihoff genuinely hesitated. Time for thinking ran out. He chose to avoid the scolding.

The moment he decided, his blade whipped left and right with terrifying speed. Afterimages lingered; he sprinted and leapt—two heads thumped free of their bodies before the blood on his sword even cooled. Flooding his weapon with a surge of mana, Mihoff dashed for Jodan, who was hauling Fred onto a horse. If he took Jodan’s head, Fred would tumble back to the ground.

Slish.

A sickening slice of flesh and bone rang out. Certain he had killed, Mihoff didn’t follow up—only to see something drop with a thud: Jodan’s arm. Mihoff’s brows arched. He was… puzzled.

‘I don’t make mistakes. What trick was that?’

Tracing the strike in his mind, Jodan’s neck should have been on the blade’s path. But there was no neck—only an arm. The horse was already opening the distance; it was too late to chase. Mihoff wanted to capture Jodan and torture the method from him. Desire quickened his movements. He bounded forward, snatched a bow from an archer, sending the man sprawling in shock, then grabbed any arrow from the quiver on the man’s back and sprinted on.

The horse drew farther away. Mihoff wasn’t confident with a bow—but he could manage. He nocked, drew to the limit. Vvviinng—mana swelled through bow and string, straining to the breaking point. He loosed. Bang! The string snapped, the bow pitched downward. He had drawn far too hard. Sheepish, Mihoff pulled off his helm, raked his scalp, and watched the horse recede.

Fred thought he was dead. But he was on a horse and, compared to moments before, was leaving danger at a relatively safe speed. He didn’t dare relax—the wound was too deep. He coughed up a thick clot; Jodan clenched his teeth.

“You must endure, my lord. You cannot die here. You absolutely cannot die. Lord Fred—you are the one who will make this domain the richest in the Duchy of Eron…”

Hearing Jodan babble, Fred looked at him—cold sweat pouring. Then he noticed the void where Jodan’s left hand should have been.

“You…”

“Luck, my lord. My family keeps an heirloom. They say we received it centuries ago for helping a witch—a ring. It grants a single hallucination effect.”

“I see… fortunate indeed. I have words to pass on. If I die here…”

“Say it once we arrive.”

“No—I won’t last. Hear my will, old comrade.”

As Fred finished, Jodan bit his lip to stifle a sob.

“If I die, link up with Gaion and retreat at all costs, then aid whichever of my brothers still lives with everything you have. I will not see the marquis take our domain—not even in death. If my brothers yet live…”

Only the pounding of hooves replied. Once they cleared the killing ground, few enemies gave chase. A handful of battered riders managed to escape the cauldron and followed after Jodan.

“…Work with Louis. If it’s him, he might develop the domain as much as you hope. Ah… I’m tired…”

Those were his last words. Jodan wept, sensing exactly what they meant. Fred had bled too much to save. Jodan himself was losing plenty of blood with one arm gone, but compared to Fred’s wound it was little. And so Fred died. Jodan looked upon the face of the lord he had followed. The end looked more peaceful than he had expected. Perhaps he could face the ancestors now—he had at least left a will to deliver his forces to Louis.

A horse stumbled into Gaion’s rear command like a half-corpse. Gaion checked the fallen rider’s face and reeled—it was the adjutant Jodan. His presence meant the cavalry had been annihilated. Worse—on the horse lay armor that could belong to only one man. No matter how he shouted, the dead gave no answer. The battle still raged, but their commander was gone. The old veteran knew this was no time for grief. He forced down his emotion and let cold reason take hold. Jodan croaked to him:

“L…last message. Full retreat… and join Lord Louis…”

Then he fainted. Everything now fell to Gaion. He ordered Jodan’s arm to be cauterized at once. The reek of burnt flesh filled the air—done in a blink. Even so, the wound could still be fatal; if he died, it would be the will of the gods, Gaion judged.

To retreat, they needed a clear path. Anok, holding the rear, was crucial. At that moment, in the far rear—Anok, exhausted, stood over a man’s body, breathing hard. Imiter armor. Beside him, a halberd stood buried upright, still dripping beads of warm blood. The corpse belonged to Otomar.

Anok cut off Otomar’s head. It now hung from Anok’s abnormally large iron spear. The heavy cavalry, their morale shattered, either dared not attack again or, charging without orders, were riddled through and died on the spot.

Curiously, looking at the field as a whole, each side’s “anvil” had smashed the other’s cavalry—an odd shape of battle. Usually, the anvil broke first under the hammer’s force, and momentum flowed from there.

‘Lord Fred will commend me for this,’ Anok thought, grinning from ear to ear—almost naïve. Just then, a soldier sprinted up and reported Fred’s death.

Anok seized the man’s shoulders and asked the same question six times; by the third, tears streamed down his thuggish face. It could not be. It must not be. He flung the man aside, vowing not to believe it until he saw with his own eyes, and started for Gaion—when horns and drums shook the air on all sides.

It was the signal to retreat.

The soldiers knew instinctively they had lost. For those fighting desperately at the front, the order struck like a blow to the back of the head. With nowhere to run, a retreat order was tantamount to throwing away their few remaining lives. Troops in the center began to scramble rearward, like the tide rushing out. Even in flight, heavy losses were expected. The only small consolation was that Anok had driven the enemy heavy cavalry to the brink of annihilation.