Chapter 153 - At the End of the Rebellion (1)

Ten days earlier. Krasilof, Prizhenkaya, the dean's office at St. Jansk University.

TAP.

TAP.

TAP.

CRUNCH.

The fountain pen's solid-gold nib crumpled, drenching the desk in ink. The attendant standing beside her flinched at the sight but dared not move. Even if she were beaten for disrespect, she could not step before her sovereign now.

Terrible killing intent poured from her, enough to dim even the mana lamps illuminating this royal office.

After a silence in which even breathing was difficult, Elizaveta turned her dry gaze toward the man kneeling before her with his head bowed.

"Is it true?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Pavel's voice was solemn. Stripped of his usual humor, it sounded much as it had in those days long ago. In this moment, he was not a man making flippant jokes about promotion and ambition, but the commander of the Royal Guard, with all the gravity that position demanded.

That only made Elizaveta's fingertips tremble harder.

A catastrophe in the Bernina Mountains. Ivan Petrovich Yeremov missing.

Suspected terrorist attack targeting Gilles Vert. Enemy strength: over forty dragons confirmed by visual observation alone. Ground forces unknown.

Simultaneously, three counts of Thilles have launched a coup. Suspected masterminds of the attack. Estimated troop strength: twenty thousand at minimum, up to one hundred thousand given Thilles's wartime mobilization capacity.

Maximum forces Thilles's royal house can muster at Saint Matilene: seven thousand. Depending on when battle commences, approximately half that number can realistically be expected to fight.

'Thilles has fallen.'

The instant she read the report, Elizaveta's dispassionate mind reached its conclusion. Assuming the kingdom's fall as fact, it was time to calculate what could be gained.

Unless she intended to wage war against the next regime, making enemies of them would be folly. Winter was nearly upon Krasilof.

Krasilof could not survive winter without trade. Whatever might have been true before, that was especially so after the war against the demons. The country's very survival as a state was now at risk.

Without an ice-free port, Krasilof had to conduct all trade overland. And the United Kingdoms' largest trade railway began in Thilles.

Unless she could conquer Thilles, she must not antagonize its next royal house. At least until winter ended.

'And Vanka... was caught in it.'

But every part of Elizaveta that was not cold, every part that reason could not govern, dwelled agonizingly on that fact.

On that alone.

"Pavel."

A sovereign's judgment must serve only the welfare of the state. That was common sense. She had lived by it herself, and had drenched her hands in hot blood countless times because of it.

But in this moment, every feeling in Elizaveta that was not cold was sobbing in the deep darkness. Theories of rulership were only words. Human emotions, however, were more than words.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The commander who had lost the last of the Royal Guard answered quietly. Sovereign and servant were of one mind.

"We will mourn at a more fitting time. Rise."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

When Pavel raised his head and stood, blood marked the corner of his mouth. He had bitten through his lip. Elizaveta stared at the mark, then lifted her head.

There was not a moment to waste in silence. When she lowered her head again, the moisture around her eyes had already dried.

Mourning could wait. This mattered more.

"Bring me their heads before Vanka's body grows cold. I will soothe his soul with their blood. This winter will be harsh."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"After that, I will finish the mourning I have postponed. Will you join me?"

"Gladly, Your Majesty."

"Go. Tell Count Valika to begin preparations at once. He has one day to prepare to march. Complete the muster in two days, reach the border before five have passed, and within ten I will take their heads myself."

The sovereign's wrath reverberated low through the office with every phrase. Her cold teacup trembled with a faint rattle. Mana stirred with her anger, gently lifting her hair.

Pavel bowed deeply at her orders and withdrew.

Left alone, Elizaveta finally looked down at the report filled with cold sentences. Clear drops fell, one after another, onto the ink-stained paper.

"Ah, ah..."

The attendant and guard officer hastily turned to face the wall. A sovereign of Krasilof shed tears only before the Lord.

"Ah... ah. Vanka, Vanka..."

Lord.

Is this not too cruel?

Is there anything left for You to take from me?

"I swear, I swear... I will..."

Avenge you.

In the darkened office, the eyes of Krasilof shone alone.

Ten days later, she would finally reach Saint Matilene.

* * *

BOOOOM!!

"Aaaagh!!"

The camp shook. Soldiers scattered in panic with every crashing shell.

Thilles was called the land of knights. This was no mere metaphor, nor simply a description of its politics or system of rule.

Its cavalry was its greatest military asset, and had proven that by charging across battlefields without retreat even in the war against the demon armies.

But as was typical of feudal estates, most of Thilles's infantry were mere conscripts. Even its most zealously trained standing troops were nothing particularly impressive.

Thilles fought primarily pitched battles, which meant cavalry had dominated its battlefields. The clash between cavalry forces decided the course of a war.

Krasilof was different.

BOOOOM!!

Krasilof considered soldiers expendable, much as Thilles did. But beyond that, Krasilof measured victory not by the triumph of an exceptional few, but by the deaths of the overwhelming majority.

The survival of a handful of superhumans did not matter. Its combat doctrine focused on how many more enemy infantrymen it could kill.

Thus, in Krasilof, artillery was the god of the battlefield.

"The Reaper battery. Second Corps, then. Has Count Valika chosen a side?"

Ivan murmured as he watched the bombardment pouring over the hill. He glanced once at his liege overlooking the camp from its crest, then forced his buckling legs to hold him up.

Chaos already engulfed his surroundings. The command staff had fallen apart, and soldiers were scattering with screams.

Send the cavalry. Retreat. Stand and fight. Return to Saint Matilene and hold out. Arguments flew among the commanders.

But it was too late. Unlike knights with Line of Fire Detection, infantrymen experienced artillery as divine punishment raining from the sky. They could not detect it, and died the moment they noticed it. The manner of their deaths was gruesome enough for their comrades to see with their own eyes.

Death made a spectacle of itself, just as it did in a cavalry charge. With the fatalities from the bombardment concentrated entirely among the infantry, their morale was being utterly shattered.

"Do you think the walls will stop their cannons? Fools!"

"But we can minimize our losses!"

"Idiots! With Jean Beltois having cut off supplies, an attack on our rear will leave us completely isolated! We must settle this in a pitched battle!"

"Your Majesty! Morale has collapsed in the rear! Our banners have fallen. If we fight a pitched battle now, we cannot possibly stand against that wicked woman!"

"I know! That is why I am saying we must retreat now!"

Saint Matilene lay before his eyes. The throne, the beginning of a great royal house, was right before him.

Why, then, had Krasilof chosen this exact moment to interfere? Every one of their corps should have been tied down on the northern front.

Etouan ground his teeth and turned his horse.

"Rally as many soldiers as you can. Winter is nearly upon us! Once we raise another army and force a pitched battle, they will starve to death throughout the winter!"

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

Etouan and his commanders rode away.

Or rather, they tried to.

They got no farther before a throwing knife flew straight into one of the nobles among the command staff. With the dagger buried in his chest, he choked and fell from his horse.

"What...?"

Etouan stopped short. Cold killing intent constricted his heart. Stiffening, he turned his gaze.

There, death was staggering to its feet.

"How...? How can you still move...?"

"You should have done a better job of killing me."

Bleeding, with several arrows and spears lodged in his body. Bleeding until he could scarcely have the bare minimum of blood a human needed to live.

Yet the man stood and raised an arm to aim at him. Etouan shrank back despite himself.

'Move any more and you'll die.'

Ivan ignored Kim Seonwoo. The fellow had become talkative the moment hope appeared before them. But Ivan was a man of common sense, and would not listen to the mutterings of his trauma.

'We have to live. We shouldn't risk our life. If we're prepared to die, at least let it be for our own fight. Not for complete strangers or a foreign country.'

Did demons sort humans by nationality?

'What?'

Or did the hero save people according to nationality?

'You're saying we're going to become a hero? Us?'

Not us. Me. Because I had promised.

Because I had promised that bastard Gilles Vert.

"Kill him. Kill that man! Now!"

"I've heard that often enough."

Ivan raised his sword upright before his eyes.

"And I'm still alive."

From the half of his face hidden behind the blade, from the bloodstained side of the cleanly polished steel, Kim Seonwoo murmured.

'That wasn't what your story was supposed to be.'

Enrique had told me. Only after I had lived out my own story could I return home.

'That story...'

It had always been me. Not you. Me. From the moment Kim Seonwoo no longer wanted to turn the page, I had always been the one whose hands shed blood, touched corpses, killed people, cut down demons, and slew a god.

And if only now I had realized it.

'The prologue...'

Had ended thirty years ago. More than half my pages had already turned, and my story had unfolded anew.

The story of the Hero's Party had not been my long prologue. Every story I had shared with them had been my own.

Kim Seonwoo fell silent. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing. As always.

Ivan was a man of common sense, so he felt no sense of accomplishment at having won an argument with himself.

He merely raised his sword.

He cut down the approaching knights. Even the handful of mana he had left was enough for that. Fortunately, he had yet to manage to die.

"Do not run, Etouan de Grandmartel."

"You will never leave this place alive!"

Etouan spurred his horse. Ivan's legs were in no condition to run. He would not be able to chase a galloping horse. Raising his sword, he spoke.

"Your son, at least, faced death with dignity."

"... What?"

Etouan brought his fleeing horse to a halt. He stared blankly at Ivan.

BOOOOM!!

A shell slammed down nearby and exploded in a red flare.

"Were you never told of your son's final moments?"

"He is in Krasilof... at St. Jansk University..."

"Have I not introduced myself yet?"

Ivan pointed his sword and gave a small salute. The etiquette was flawless, exactly as a knight of Thilles would perform it. And steeped in mockery.

"Colonel Ivan Petrovich Yeremov, Krasilof Counterintelligence Command. I oversee domestic intelligence, and personally led the operation to root out spies at St. Jansk University. Your son is, of course, still at the university."

He had been unable to return home even in death.

At Ivan's words, Etouan gripped his sword with a trembling hand. Horror, disbelief, anger, sorrow. Countless emotions scattered like fragments across his face.

"I'll kill you."

What remained after those emotions had passed was no retreating rebel leader. Only a father who had lost his son remained, growling with his sword in hand.

Ivan nodded and raised his own sword to meet him.

"You'd better get it right this time."

BOOOOM!!

Another shell crashed down beside them.

As though it were the starting signal, Etouan and Ivan charged at one another.