Chapter 283
‘Oh, hmm, not bad.’
Encrid had declared from the platform that he would send assassins.
Of course, no such thing would happen. At least, not now. Sending them now would be a waste.
Krys knew that better than anyone.
That was why he made use of Encrid’s words.
What would happen if the enemy heard that their commander was about to be beheaded tonight?
‘If it were me?’
I’d be too cautious to move first. I’d strengthen the guard, double the sentries.
And then, giving the order for a full-scale assault would be out of the question.
‘They’ll be even more hesitant.’
He even had troops make a show of moving at night. He deliberately let spies catch wind of it so they’d report back.
Krys milked Encrid’s words for all they were worth.
‘Even better.’
His plan had already been based on the enemy’s mutual hesitation.
It was always likely to work, but with Encrid’s declaration, it was guaranteed.
‘He really does have a good head.’
He might act like he found thinking bothersome, but the captain was anything but shallow.
He had instincts. And now, once again, they’d paid off.
The enemies, already wary, didn’t attack. They only tightened their defenses.
More torches lit the night.
Allied scouts galloped ceaselessly, horse and rider both pushed to their limits.
Still, Krys couldn’t shake his unease.
Then what should he do? Seeing it with his own eyes would ease the fear.
What they needed now were eyes.
And in war, eyes meant reconnaissance.
“Scouts will decide the outcome,” Krys said.
Benzense nodded harder than ever.
“That’s obvious.”
Afterward, he drove his scouts like madmen.
“Run! If you slack off, the other soldiers all die! Pain is!”
“Kills me!”
The chants grew stranger, but they worked.
The troops moved.
They regrouped, reorganized, and spent the day preparing.
At dawn, under the dim sky, they marched through the gates.
“Forward, march!”
Veteran voices rang out from within the ranks.
Watching them, Krys still felt uneasy.
It was always like this. Always ominous, always anxious.
‘It’s fine.’
He told himself.
If it came to it, he could run. That small reassurance steadied his thoughts, an anchor for his mind.
And an anchored ship would not be swept away so easily.
The troops marched west of the Border Guards, across wasteland too barren to farm.
South of that, Krys stood on a small hill under the protection of two squads, watching the battlefield unfold.
Would things go as planned? Or would something unexpected happen?
Or would the enemy read his intent and counter?
‘If they pressed with a full assault from both sides?’
That would be the worst. An unwinnable scenario.
Even ten Encrids couldn’t stop that.
“Boring, Big Eyes.”
Rem grumbled nearby, his axe slung over one shoulder, his narrowed eyes brimming with bloodlust.
His body language screamed he wanted to charge right now.
Krys was unlike his usual self.
He ignored him.
“Wait. You’ll fight until you’re sick of fighting soon enough.”
Right now his mind was too busy.
Enemy intent, the commander’s thoughts, their tendencies, their judgment—he stuffed it all in his head and churned it over.
It was a curt answer, but Rem, strangely, stayed quiet.
Even he could tell Krys wasn’t acting like himself.
‘So this bastard is useful after all.’
Rem wasn’t all brawn. He could think too—he just saw everything through his own twisted lens.
Krys didn’t even notice Rem’s uncharacteristic silence.
His thoughts whirled on.
The key was elites.
How they were used would decide victory or defeat.
And in the midst of his dread, a strange thrill bubbled up.
‘If this works as planned.’
They might actually hold. He didn’t bother with small variables. Those, the soldiers would handle.
His thoughts jumped further.
How could they make it easier to win? What did they need?
‘If the corps were standardized in arms and equipment?’
He imagined a future. Uniform gear, tactics built on that, regiments moving as extensions of their commander’s will.
That was how the Imperial Army was said to fight.
Then why not the Border Guards too?
Keep the elite units separate.
But unify the rest, give them the same strength, the same training.
‘With standardized arms and roles—’
A soldier who might lose a duel…
‘Could win at the company level.’
Elite battles mattered, but so did large-scale war.
And to win those, uniformity was key.
Lose one-on-one, ten-on-ten, but win a hundred-on-hundred.
Watching the troops form up, Krys found himself realizing it.
He began categorizing—swordsmen, spearmen, shieldbearers—quietly ordering his thoughts.
This idea would have its use someday.
—
Baron Tarnin felt his courage falter when the Border Guards marched out.
“Pain is mine!”
“My joy!”
“Come on, fight!”
The enemy looked more numerous, better armed.
“Don’t be afraid. That’s what they want.”
Lykanos, a warrior from the Black Blade Bandits, spoke.
The handle of his weapon jutted above his shoulder, the spiked ball of a massive flail hanging at his hip.
His arms were as thick as a woman’s thighs, his gauntlets studded with iron.
He looked like he could crush a skull with his bare hands.
And in truth, he could.
He was a proven fighter even within the Black Blade Bandits.
No one but the chieftain could command him.
“What are those cult bastards doing?”
“They’re just watching.”
Lykanos was a warrior, not a thinker.
Tarnin was even worse.
A defecting noble spoke up timidly.
“Rumor in the Border Guards is bad. Men are lining up to desert.”
Tarnin frowned.
If their insides were so rotten, then what were these shouts?
“Pain!”
“Hurt me!”
“Make me suffer!”
Were they lunatics?
Had they all taken some drug?
“…When I left, the army wasn’t even under control.”
The noble trailed off.
Lykanos wanted to smash his skull, but held back.
Not his concern.
“Just hold them off!”
If they launched a full assault now, would the cult move?
Would Azpen?
Probably not. They were all filthy opportunists.
If their forces bled here, there’d be no second chance.
They couldn’t let the cult stab them in the back.
“Break only those who come at us!”
It was measured enough.
One of Tarnin’s men chewed his lip.
‘If we attacked now, the cult and Azpen would join in, and that would be the end.’
He kept silent.
Say that aloud, and he’d be branded a cultist spy.
“You! You’re a spy!”
Tarnin himself slapped the defected noble across the face.
Smack!
“Argh! No! I’m not! I swear I’m not! When I left, morale was in ruins!”
The man crumpled, begging.
“Shut up, liar!”
Tarnin’s rage fell on him until he groveled for mercy.
After that, silence.
Lykanos did as he’d said. They fought, but only half-heartedly.
“We’ll strike when they bleed.”
The Wolf Bishop agreed.
‘No need for my flock’s blood yet.’
The cult lay in wait.
No assassins had come last night, but tonight? Who knew.
A messenger from the Black Blade Bandits demanded aid. Nonsense.
“We’ve got to guard Martai’s garrison and watch for assassins.”
The request was denied outright. Lykanos fumed, but could only shout about cutting Tarnin’s throat.
“If this keeps up, we’re doomed!”
He longed to slit the pig’s throat, but Tarnin was the excuse for this war.
He couldn’t kill him.
—
Azpen invested heavily in gathering intelligence—spies, scouts, sorcery, magic.
“Are they moving?”
A subordinate asked.
A man brushed back his green hair.
It fell across his brow again as he spoke.
“Not our turn yet.”
His eyes glinted coldly.
Azpen’s genius strategist, once demoted after a lost war. His name: Abnaior.
He had set a clear goal for this battle.
One head.
Expanding territory could wait.
They had mountains of preparations just for this.
His heart raced. How long could they hold?
He wasn’t a sadist, but as a strategist, testing his plans was sheer delight.
—
“You bastards! What did I say? My word is God’s word! I said it’s light! Now charge!”
A squad leader roared, his men echoing.
“Aaagh!”
They were all half-crazed. They’d learned blind obedience in days.
The greener the recruit, the harsher the treatment.
It wasn’t malice—just the way of veterans.
Platoon and squad leaders answered the call. They only did as ordered.
“They’ll fight hot but stay cold, even in the fever of battle.”
Krys had barked like a mutt, but no one listened.
So Encrid stepped in.
Black hair, blue eyes—the madman of the battlefield.
“Half-kill them if you have to, but make them obey their commander. And you obey your superiors. Don’t, and you’re dead. Rem and I will drill you and beat you until you do.”
Whatever rank or wits they once had, as soldiers it was best to keep it simple.
They obeyed Encrid.
Among them was Vell.
Now a platoon leader, he bellowed:
“All gonna dieee!”
“Uwaagh!”
“Don’t go out! Stay in line!”
The vanguard. Vell’s cry split the air.
It was Krys who’d told Graham to put him there.
Most of this line were green recruits.
One of them couldn’t hear anything.
All he saw were the demonlike foes advancing.
Swords, spears, shields, hammers, flails filled his vision.
‘Ah.’
Am I ready? Is my judgment sharp enough? Should I thrust my spear? Raise my shield?
As his thoughts tangled, his mind went white.
Smack!
A blow to the back of the head. Hard enough to make him see stars.
Color flooded back into his mind.
“You little shit, repeat after me!”
The curse drilled into his ears. A squad leader.
“Yes!”
“Thrust, ten times!”
“Thrust, ten times!”
They obeyed. Most of the recruits jabbed their spears forward.
“Back! Fall back, dammit! You, I’ll deal with you later!”
Veteran voices rang out all around.
And so the first skirmish passed.
They’d set out at dawn, clashed by noon.
Eighty men, two platoons, against the enemy.
Six wounded.
None dead.
Spears stabbed, shields braced, then fell back in order.
It wasn’t the enemy—it was their own leadership that had saved them.
“Why’d they back off?”
A Black Blade merc muttered awkwardly.
He’d been burning to charge, but the foe retreated.
He couldn’t chase alone.
And soon, the Bandits too withdrew.
The next day, another clash.
Different faces, same fight.
That time, a Bandit wasn’t so lucky. A spear nicked his neck and he died.
A Tarnin serf, pressed into a makeshift unit.
Graham and the officers saw it clearly.
Tarnin’s forces were a shoddy patchwork.
Even so, they didn’t overextend.
On the third day, they even marched out the south gate and taunted the cult.
“Come on, you idiots! Fight us, or just watch?”
The jeer in northern slang started it.
Another skirmish.
Two or three companies at most, then they fell back.
Again and again. Twelve skirmishes in total.
Six dead.
And by then, most of the soldiers had tasted battle.
They knew, roughly, what it meant now.
And they had survived Encrid’s brutal training.
Real combat had filled their gaps at once.
And, just as Krys wanted, the Border Guards now looked larger than life.
To the enemy, their fighting was madness.
Of course it was.
Who else would turn a crisis into live-fire drills?
“Thankfully, they’re fools.”
Krys sighed in relief, glancing at Sinar and Encrid.
“Now it’s really your turn.”
Sinar looked at Encrid with calm eyes.
“For a warm-up, isn’t this a bit much?”
“What warm-up?”
“Our wedding, of course.”
The elf’s usual frivolous joke.
Encrid gripped the central torch stand.
Sinar reacted, shifting her left foot toward the barracks’ edge.
This elf was oddly sensitive to flames.
“Are you alright?”
“A harsh joke. Too harsh.”
Expressionless, she walked out.
Encrid chuckled, went back inside, and checked his gear.
“Well, it’s a mission.”
He spoke, and the others rose.
The beasts who hadn’t fought for weeks were eager, restless.