Chapter 873

Chapter 873

Initially, the arrows directed at him were few, numbering no more than five. Gradually, the volume swelled. From five to seven, then ten, and eventually twenty.
Thung–
“The string snapped! Curse it—switch to spears!”
The infantry, who had previously shrunk back in fear, found their courage reignited. The knight was staying true to his declaration. If that were the case, were they expected to simply loiter? Absolutely not. The Rihinstetten battalions grew frantic.
“On three—heave!”
They launched their javelins in a synchronized burst. Despite the barrage, not a single soul stepped over the boundary. The crazed knight of Naurillia swung his black-bladed weapon, carving two simultaneous arcs from the ground upward.
Five incoming spears were snared by the steel and severed. The fractured ends were jagged and uneven.
It was a brutal display of swordsmanship. Several soldiers from the south gulped in trepidation. If he decided to break his word and attack, that blade would undoubtedly seek their throats. To claim they weren’t terrified would be a blatant lie.
“Where do you think you’re going!”
The knight, however, appeared to have no interest in taking the lives of those throwing spears or shooting arrows, provided they remained behind the line. In that case—could they continue their assault?
“Throw as many as you wish.”
Conveniently, he offered those very words.
“…Fetch more spears.”
A group of physically imposing soldiers formed a row and edged closer. they stopped exactly five paces from the mark the knight had carved.
“Throw!”
This time, there was no collective roar. They simply released their weapons at once, and with a solitary sweep, every javelin was knocked to the dirt. Following this, they varied their rhythm, hurling them individually.
Bolts and arrows were peppered into the gaps. A portable anti-infantry engine—known to the southern legions as the Trias Bow—was brought to bear.
Its name was a hybrid of the old tongue and the Imperial dialect, signifying “the bow operated by three.” Its primary merit was sheer force; its flaw was its fragility.
Thung–! Crack!
After several discharges, the tension proved too much for the strings, which snapped, or the wooden frames anchored in the earth splintered. The density of the projectile fire plummeted to half its original rate. Perspiration rolled down Pell’s brow. Nevertheless, it seemed unlikely that a single spear or arrow would find its mark.
“You—get out of the way.”
An enemy soldier shoved his peer aside and took a bold step forward. He moved until he was standing right at the edge of Pell’s line.
“I told you I would strike you down if you crossed.”
Pell spoke while effortlessly dodging and parrying the incoming fire, his breathing remaining perfectly steady. That composure was the source of the horror. The soldier went stiff at the warning, then coolly measured the gap—and suddenly flung his shield.
Whoosh!
Clang!
The maneuver was intended to obscure the knight’s sight. Pell simply batted the shield away with a heavy fist. Through the resulting opening came a swarm of javelins, crossbow bolts, and the heavy shafts of the Trias Bow.
Pell’s vision sharpened. In a heartbeat, he tracked every missile heading his way and reacted.
Bang!
His form blurred into an afterimage as he shifted to the flank. Four arrows were intercepted by his sword and shattered. One fractured piece, still trailing half its length, tumbled through the air before embedding itself in the dirt.
“I said no.”
Even if he were struck—could the wood even penetrate his skin?
Pell had been forged and tempered within the Mad Order of Knights. Tempered? He had ground his teeth for the first time in his life and struggled desperately just to keep pace. Through that ordeal, he had inherited and perfected the technique of the warrior known as Iron Armor. Even these massive arrows would do little more than leave faint marks on his skin.
He could have endured the impact directly, yet Pell chose to evade and deflect. Not a single blemish appeared on him.
The opposing soldiers massed together, hurlings arrows, spears, and even their shields. One officer even drew his sidearm and threw the sword itself.
Pell snatched it mid-air and instantly threw it back, burying the blade in the earth right before his boundary.
So long as they stayed back, he would spare them. He upheld that principle flawlessly. To the Rihinstetten commander, this was pure psychological torture. Fear made manifest.
‘He has the power to slaughter us—and he chooses mercy.’
Three knights had already fallen, and while morale was low, the soldiers’ spirits had dissolved long before this moment.
It was due to the terrifying resolve Pell displayed. These were words he had no obligation to honor. It wasn’t a formal oath or a sacred vow. Yet, Pell adhered to them. He respected the boundary he had defined.
“Do not cross.”
He offered periodic reminders.
‘A knight is a walking disaster.’
The enemy leader’s legs turned to jelly. Though he managed to stay upright, his internal resolve had already collapsed. The storm of weapons finally went silent.
Clop, clop, clop, clop—
A stallion with a magnificent mane and deep-brown coat drew near at a walking pace. The horseman was draped in a cream-colored mantle, emblazoned with the crimson sigil of the Sun Hand, carrying three blades and a shield.
“Hoo… what’s this? Are you surrendering?”
Pell exhaled and spoke. He noticed a presence at his back but gave it little thought. Most of the enemy soldiers were ghostly pale with dread.
Freaks of nature.
A knight was either a catastrophe or a demon. To the soldiers watching now, the man standing at that line was both.
The officer who had summoned the grit to coordinate the attack felt his hope fading.
‘Would a full charge have been better?’
Even a knight only possessed two hands. Even if he went on a rampage, the infantry might have managed to draw a bit of blood. Or perhaps it was truer to say—he never anticipated the situation would devolve into this.
Because of the actions of one knight with light-brown hair, a freezing terror had taken root in every soul. He performed these impossible tasks as if they were trivial.
The senior officer present calculated how many men would actually walk away from this.
‘Should we yield? Desert?’
But this wasn’t the heart of the southern host. If they gave up here, they would simply be executed later.
The High Pontiff—their sovereign—did not tolerate even a single instance of betrayal.
The High Pontiff was a man devoid of mercy. That was the nature of their ruler.
‘Does that mean we have to charge and die here?’
The commander looked for a sign from his deity. Of course, the gods rarely manifest precisely when mortals require them.
“Geo…”
He prepared to scream that they would fight even in the depths of hell, that they would fight until every last man was a corpse. It was a late realization, but no other path remained. He was out of options.
“If you stay behind the line, your lives will be spared!”
The commander never finished his command. His voice failed to rise. The figure in the cream mantle spoke first.
Crang threw his support behind Pell’s actions. He took the momentum the knight had built and gave it a voice.
Every eye turned toward the proclamation made from the saddle. The brown horse reared its front legs and brought them down—hiiiiing!—as if the animal’s cry provided a foundation for its master’s words. He hijacked the exact moment the Rihinstetten leader was about to rally his men.
It is said a true master of speech knows exactly when to break the silence.
That was Crang. He captured the attention of both friend and foe. He didn’t even seem winded. With a steady air, he looked toward the enemy officer and then appeared to appreciate the results of his knight’s work. Then he remarked:
“Exquisite.”
Truly—even among the opposing ranks, there were those who agreed. Was it typical for knights to be so fastidious about their word?
Even outside of the warrior class, such individuals were rare. Even if someone was capable, few would endure the danger and inconvenience required to keep such a promise. That was why “exquisite” was the perfect description.
“Knight Pell.”
Crang addressed the madman.
“At your service, Your Majesty.”
Pell mused for a moment why he had been left here doing this when Enkrid had instructed him to watch over the king.
As he responded, he tensed to intercept another projectile should the enemy open fire. Four members of the Sovereign’s Guard stood in a disciplined line behind the king.
Even while riding this close to the front, the king’s movements and speech were relaxed. There was no sign of panic. He didn’t look like a man about to command a massacre that would leave only a handful of survivors.
He was a man holding the life and death of every soldier there in his palm.
“Has anyone perished by your blade?”
The king inquired.
“Not one,”
Pell replied.
“And the reason?”
“They did not cross the line.”
Because that was the rule he set—and he intended to follow it.
He spoke without a trace of doubt. It was the epitome of what a knight was meant to be.
Even a casual remark, once uttered by a knight, became law. it was a perfect display of the code. Though Pell had been a simple shepherd from the wilderness, in this moment, his conduct was more noble than anyone else’s. Enkrid’s unit took after him. Crang suppressed a smirk. He couldn’t afford to laugh in this setting.
“I understand.”
Crang spoke as he climbed down from his horse. He walked toward Pell. Pell debated whether he should intervene.
‘Should I let him pass?’
If the king moved forward like that, it would make protecting him from arrows much harder. There was always that one-in-a-thousand fluke.
Wasn’t the king supposed to be kept safe from even the slightest mishap?
“Your Majesty.”
The leader of the Royal Guard stepped forward. The king waved him off. It was a soft but firm rejection.
“This is my theater. Stay back.”
He whispered as he moved to the front.
Flap.
Behind him, the winged steed landed. Enkrid stepped off Odd-Eye and took a position to the king’s right. Cypress had also followed, taking his place to the king’s left.
“A rather grand security detail.”
Crang noted under his breath. This time, his words were audible to everyone. Remarkably, though he didn’t strain his voice, it resonated across the field.
A different method of projection, perhaps.
“Soldiers of the south, attend to me.”
Enkrid and Cypress didn’t project their power, yet they naturally radiated a suffocating pressure.
Even so, in the eyes of the enemy, the figure in the cream mantle remained the center of gravity.
He raised a hand and pointed to the ground. Following his finger, they saw the long furrow in the soil. The line Pell had haphazardly made.
Despite the chaos of the fight, since no one had dared touch it, it remained distinct.
“If this knight’s decree is that those who do not cross shall live—then I shall honor that decree as well. My name is Cradianat Randios Nauril, and I bind my reputation to this promise.”
The declaration echoed. A silence so heavy followed that you couldn’t even hear someone swallow, and then the whispers began. Among the Rihinstetten ranks, voices broke through.
“…He’s letting us live?”
“Just for staying behind the line?”
“…But why?”
It was a logical question. But among the southern soldiers, no one could fathom Crang’s reasoning.
That was how Enkrid perceived it. Logically speaking, when one had gained the absolute upper hand, what sort of lunatic would decide to let the entire enemy force walk away?
Furthermore, the two kingdoms were engaged in a total conflict.
“If you want this battle to end this very second, then step over that line and take my head. It is a simple solution.”
Crang went on. It was a level of audacity that defied belief. The enemy commander’s eyes didn’t even flicker. There was no choice to make.
‘This is madness.’
On one side stood the Gryphon Butcher in his emerald cloak; on the other stood Cypress of the Red Cloaks, the sentinel of the Naurillian south.
“Are you saying—we are permitted to retreat?”
The officer asked. He didn’t even comprehend why the sovereign of Naurillia was physically present. Every detail was a shock.
Naturally, doubt crept in. Was he offering them a sliver of hope only to snatch it away? Making such a public statement made it nearly impossible to retract later.
Every knight present was a witness.
Maintaining dignity and honor was core to their being. Humiliating an opposing army in such a way was beneath a knight. Even if the king ordered it, it would breed internal discord. Knights were sensitive to such things. The commander’s mind whirled.
“You are free to leave. However—”
Crang spoke again. He trailed off, locking eyes with the commander.
The Rihinstetten officer stared back at the enemy king. His eyes were like blue gems. The youthful determination within them was strikingly clear.
‘Those are not the eyes of a deceiver.’
The officer thought as he waited for the king to finish.
“Inform the High Pontiff that I am here. And tell him I am let down—I expected he might show himself if he traveled this far.”
It was a sophisticated insult. A challenge wrapped in a question: I have come to the front lines in person—where are you hiding?
Furthermore, the south had a culture that worshipped power. The High Pontiff was the embodiment of that power.
“Go. Inform him. Tell him I am waiting.”
Crang spoke as he turned around. His cream mantle snapped in the breeze.
“You’ve orchestrated something quite entertaining, Your Majesty.”
Cypress remarked at his side.
Enkrid had already deciphered his friend’s strategy. Thus, he had no reason for shock. Instead, he looked the enemy commander in the eye.
The commander—still plagued by the doubt of Is it truly permitted for us to leave?—met Enkrid’s gaze and looked away.
“If these are the only knights you could muster—”
What was that man about to say?
“Tell him I am disappointed.”
“…Excuse me?”
“They were so pathetically weak I didn’t even get a chance to warm up my muscles.”
Enkrid spoke with total honesty. If this was the extent of their power, he truly was disappointed. He let that feeling show plainly on his face.
“Pfft.”
Crang let out a snicker. His regal persona slipped for a moment, but he didn’t care.
“Hahahaha!”
He laughed out loud. Cypress also began to chuckle.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny—but regardless, tell him to bring better knights next time.”
Enkrid spoke flatly and turned his back.
That evening, when the commander withdrew and delivered his account to the main host, he had to weigh his words with extreme care.
The High Pontiff did not explode into a rage upon hearing the report—but the armrest of his throne bore the deep marks of his grip. The wood had splintered from the sheer force of his hand.