Chapter 307
Jaxson stood right behind the vanguard line.
Encrid drew all eyes to himself.
Then what was his role?
He observed the enemy soldiers.
More precisely, he read the movements of the entire enemy formation with his senses.
There was no need to see them all with his eyes.
His honed senses allowed him to judge their skill through sound alone—
footsteps without hesitation, confident shouts, the pace of their advance, and even the calmness in their gaze.
Unlike Audin, Jaxson had his own way of measuring an opponent’s strength.
He slipped his sword forward between the ranks.
A long blade slid out from his side, thrusting ahead.
“Kill them all!”
The first target was a soldier wielding a heavy warhammer.
The hammer, weighted with a counterweight at the end, came crashing down on an ally’s shield.
As it bounced back from impact, Jaxson’s sword pierced the hammer soldier’s abdomen.
Thrust in deep, then pulled out swiftly.
“Huh?”
What the—?
It’s a blade, idiot.
Behind the shield, a cold gaze locked onto the enemy.
Slash.
The moment their eyes met, the blade curved like a snake and sliced across the hammer soldier’s throat.
It was a technique Jaxson had developed after watching Encrid’s [Fluid Sword Technique] and interpreting it in his own way.
In swordsmanship terms, it leaned closer to [Formed Sword Technique], so it wasn’t the same, yet it carried the same lethality.
“Guh—”
The man clutched his neck and fell backward, gurgling.
Blood foamed from his mouth as boots—both ally and enemy—trampled his fallen body.
Jaxson kept doing the same thing.
Hiding among his allies, he stabbed again and again.
Only targeting elite soldiers—high-ranking threats or officers.
He ignored those who seemed troublesome to kill in one blow.
Jaxson was methodical.
The common soldiers didn’t notice, but some officers sensed a strange shift.
“Why does it feel like we’re winning?”
It was a platoon leader speaking.
Weren’t they supposed to be evenly matched?
Then why were they pushing forward?
He didn’t know why. But did it matter?
No.
“Keep fighting! Push them back!”
The commander did his job, shouting until his voice tore.
“Stay tight! Don’t scatter!”
Infantry battles across the continent were always chaotic skirmishes.
The tighter they stayed together, the better their odds; if they broke formation, they were dead.
Both armies were locked in the same kind of melee.
The Border Guards’ standing army, sent as reinforcements, fought fiercely.
“Flank them! Don’t let those bastards circle around!”
“Pain that doesn’t kill me—”
“—only makes me stronger!”
“Pain!”
“Strength!”
Those who had survived the previous battles were all veterans now—
a seasoned force unlike the garrison stationed at Green Pearl.
They blocked the Gray Dogs as the enemy’s flanking maneuver began.
“The Gray Dogs!”
“Relentless bastards!”
Even the allies knew the name well—one of the enemy’s most infamous units.
The Border Guards stood in their path.
“Crazy bastards.”
The Gray Dogs lived up to their name.
Even though the Border Guards had the numbers, they seemed to be getting pushed back.
Still, it was fine.
There were monsters rampaging at the front.
Encrid, fighting with his [Proper Sword Style], was tearing through lines,
and Jaxson, hidden among the Green Pearl troops, was silently assassinating the skilled ones and the ones barking orders.
Thanks to that, the tide balanced out.
Originally, they should’ve been overpowered by Azpen’s elite troops.
But somehow, they were holding steady.
Ragna slipped to Encrid’s rear left.
He intended to pick off one opponent at a time.
Swinging his sword, he slowly felt his motivation rise.
It had been years since he’d felt such a thing.
He still needed a reason to truly burn.
Ragna was always slow to ignite.
Then it happened.
He felt killing intent from the left—a flash of metal grazed his face.
Ragna leaned back, barely dodging it.
He’d warmed up too slowly.
Luckily, his body reacted on instinct.
Blood splattered as the edge of the blade cut through his cheek.
The leather helmet around his jaw was sliced open, dangling loosely.
“You dodged that?”
The attacker withdrew immediately.
Ragna recognized it instantly.
‘A skilled one.’
He didn’t know who it was, but excitement surged before reason.
He’d longed for a fight like this.
The kind of clash that Encrid couldn’t satisfy.
The thirst for blood. The desire to risk his life in battle.
That was what Ragna wanted now.
No need to find a path.
No reason to lose it either.
Just follow the one in front of him.
He tore off his cumbersome helmet and advanced.
After a few steps, an enemy with a short sword blocked his path.
“You bastard!”
The one who had slashed him had retreated that way—
behind his allies.
Following him meant diving straight into enemy lines.
The enemy reacted, but Ragna was faster.
His blade thrust forward, piercing through a neck and pulling out in one motion.
The man’s body lurched forward, collapsing.
Before it even hit the ground, Ragna had already cut down five more, carving straight through the enemy formation.
It was reckless, suicidal even, but the effect was undeniable—
the enemy formation broke apart.
An allied commander nearby suddenly felt the fight become strangely easier.
‘They’re not so tough after all.’
Their prepared fallback routes suddenly seemed pointless.
“Fight! Fight and kill them all!”
The line was long broken.
At this point, whoever killed more would win.
The platoon leader knew it well and shouted relentlessly.
“Pain is strength!”
The slogan had spread among the ranks before anyone noticed.
* * *
“Our troops are retreating,” a subordinate reported.
Avnaier laughed.
Everything was going exactly as planned.
“Just as I thought.”
The aide bit his lip.
He couldn’t understand this strategy.
Success and failure seemed the same here.
“I’ll be remembered as the idiot who got a thousand men killed.”
Avnaier said it without hesitation.
“Is this… right?”
“There’s no doubt.”
The voice of a genius—clear and unwavering.
The aide bowed his head.
He could no longer stop him.
* * *
‘Now, show me what you’ve been hiding.’
Krys watched the enemy’s movements closely.
They were going to make a move.
Encrid was rampaging up front, and Jaxson’s assassinations had crushed enemy morale.
Ragna—well, who knew where he was.
‘This isn’t the end, is it?’
He’d kept Sinar and Dunbakel in reserve as their trump cards.
In war, you never reveal your final hand before seeing your opponent’s.
“Big Eyes, I wanna fight,” Dunbakel said, hand on her scimitar.
“Wait.”
“I’m not a dog. You tell me to wait and I’ll wait?”
Beside her, Sinar stood silently, arms crossed, eyes half-closed.
“Try being calm like the Elf Commander.”
“I’m a beastkin, not an elf.”
Even while calming her down, Krys’s gaze never left the battlefield.
The overall fight seemed balanced, but within that chaos, their side was gaining ground.
Those small victories would stack, one by one, until they owned the battlefield.
That was the plan Krys had drawn.
He hadn’t let the variables remain variables; he’d woven them into the flow of the battle itself.
He’d even prepared contingencies to stall or pull back if the enemy revealed their hand—
but so far, he hadn’t needed them.
Everything was going smoothly.
Then why was Azpen still watching?
Why hadn’t they played their hidden card yet?
Something was there.
Something definite.
Otherwise, why advance so slowly?
Why fight at the very end of winter?
‘No hidden trick? Just an idiot?’
Of course not.
“Messenger! Messenger incoming!”
A runner came sprinting from the rear.
They had intentionally kept Nurat—sharp-eyed and quick-footed—back to relay information.
Garrett remained symbolically at headquarters, but Nurat was the true field commander of Green Pearl’s forces.
She was quick, sharp, and always timely.
“Enemy forces flanking us—many of them!”
A map unfolded in Krys’s mind.
The terrain, the routes, the enemy’s movement patterns—
He saw the intent instantly.
‘The Border Guards.’
They were aiming for the rear.
Some might have already broken through.
“To the rear!”
Dunbakel and Sinar moved at once.
It was their turn to block the enemy’s hidden move.
* * *
“Second flanking unit spotted!”
“Good.”
Avnaier clapped his hands once.
Nothing ever went perfectly to plan.
The battlefield was alive—always shifting.
But if one goal was achieved—
‘That alone is enough.’
Battles are ruled by the elite few.
Avnaier knew that better than anyone.
So what if he killed the elite instead?
Genius was finite, not infinite.
How many prodigies existed in one era?
Not many.
The fact that knights were rare proved it.
Therefore—
‘Sacrifice one battlefield…’
And win the war.
Even if history branded him as a mass murderer,
as the dumbest commander in the world, Avnaier would smile.
“Ready?”
“All set.”
“Good. Proceed.”
The aide bowed and withdrew.
* * *
Just as Krys had predicted, Avnaier sent a cavalry unit toward the Border Guards.
“Enemy forces!”
The Border Guards had maintained their vigilance, so they detected them early.
Rem, who had been grumbling all day, suddenly leapt to his feet.
The news made him forget the cold instantly.
“Who’s coming?”
Not even seeing a long-lost lover would have made him this happy.
“Brother, the impatient man steps in puddles and wets his boots,” Audin said calmly behind him.
“Try saying that again after you’ve left your club behind, yeah?”
“Heh heh, brother—
the Lord says safeguarding one’s body is the start of all deeds.”
A true apostle of the War God—his tone said he was ready to smash skulls.
Teresa almost rose to join them but stopped when Audin gave her a look.
The wounds she’d taken from killing the Wolf Bishop were still severe.
Fighting now would destroy her body.
Audin wasn’t about to let that happen.
“Sister, you’ll wait here.”
“…Alright.”
Though disappointed, Teresa held herself back.
Excited as Rem was, Audin was just as eager as they moved to meet the enemy—
but their excitement faded quickly.
“What’s this?”
Something was off.
For an attack force, the cavalry unit approaching the fortress was pathetically small.
They hovered at a distance, feinting and probing, never committing.
Rem waited two days.
“Those bastards.”
The enemy never attacked.
They were just buying time.
A cheap trick by Avnaier.
Marcus had once pulled a similar ruse when he pretended to head for Azpen’s city of Cross Guard—different in execution, same result.
Avnaier had bound the Border Guards in place.
That small cavalry force couldn’t breach the walls or cut supply lines.
In fact, Azpen’s cavalry were the ones short on supplies.
And they didn’t have the numbers either.
Rem squinted. Each rider had two, sometimes three horses.
A show of force—nothing more than inflated numbers.
“Got nothing better to do, huh?”
It left Rem frustrated, but Avnaier got exactly what he wanted.
He had temporarily blocked the route for reinforcements from the Border Guards.
That brief delay was all he needed.
Esther smelled magic in the air.
A powerful spell—high-tier.
Following its scent, she moved.
Crunch, crunch.
She climbed a small hill and saw them gathered there.
One of them turned sharply and met her eyes.
“You.”
It was Galaf—the man who had mastered the [World of Spells] by binding the Flow of Rivers. A mage.
He was distinguished by his short brown hair and gentle face.
No one knew his real age,
but he’d looked the same for ten years.
They said he drank from the River of Life.
A rumor, perhaps.
Esther stared silently at him.
“They said you were ruined by a curse,” Galaf said.
“So that was a lie.”
He was startled to see her in human form.
Esther simply looked back, saying nothing.
She had sensed his magical traces and followed them here.
It was coincidence—or fate.
The flow of mana, the residue of a prepared spell—
they had brushed against her senses.
Was it divine guidance, or destiny’s pull?
No.
She didn’t believe in gods.
She believed in herself—and in her [World of Magic].
A mage trusted only in what they had built.
“Master,” one of Galaf’s six disciples stepped forward.
He was known for having many students.
“You all, go.”
Galaf dismissed them, his eyes still fixed on Esther.
He could tell just by looking.
‘She hasn’t broken the curse.’
The witch couldn’t be fighting at full strength.
“Witch of Strife,” Galaf said.
“Are you here to fight?”
He didn’t need to be here—his disciples could finish their task.
But he had no reason to avoid this battle either.
Esther didn’t know what they were doing here,
but whatever it was, it threatened her nest.
Otherwise, why would a mage of his caliber be here?
Her nest—Encrid—could be in danger from their magic.
And since she had gained something by staying there—
‘Then I should protect it.’
“[Scythe of Dmüller].”
Instead of answering, Esther recited her prepared spell.
At her fingertip, a vacuum-based slicing spell manifested physically and tore through the air.
It was one of her specialties—
“[Shield of Vartan].”
A blue barrier rose, blocking the scything wind.
The barrier rippled like waves.
Between the shimmering shield and the whirling edge,
two mages opened their [Worlds of Magic].