Chapter 874

Chapter 874

The grin that had occupied Crang’s features following his daring gamble evaporated rapidly. The forces of Rihinstetten had retreated. Four of their knights lay dead, and the Gryphon Riders had dispersed like insects fleeing a sudden chill.

There was nothing inherently negative in these developments. Nevertheless, Crang’s expression remained bleak. He bore the look of a homeowner fretting over the approach of a summer gale. It was as if, despite all his safeguards, he trembled at the storm’s potential cruelty because its true magnitude remained a mystery.

This was a vulnerability visible only to Enkrid. Until the moment Crang turned to offer a final, confident smile before ducking into the small command tent, he had maintained a facade of absolute certainty. Only in the privacy of the tent did he let his trepidation show. Was this a situation that truly demanded such speculation?

Crang was capable of joking endlessly about trivialities, but when matters turned grave, such antics were discarded. Enkrid took the most direct route. He faced his companion and spoke:

“Why?”

It was a brief, heavy syllable that bypassed the need for a lengthy inquiry. It asked why his face was shadowed, what fueled his dread, and why the taste of victory seemed so ashen.

The initial response came from Cypress rather than the king.

“The headcount of their soldiers and knights is far too low. The lack of knights is especially glaring. Based on what we encountered, we cannot classify that force as their primary strength.”

In pure statistics, the Rihinstetten military was far more numerous than Naurillia’s. Their knight count was reputed to be triple that of the king’s forces. It was common knowledge that they possessed three distinct knight orders.

Though Enkrid had sent four members of the Amethyst Order to their graves, Cypress calculated that such a group was insufficient for a true blockade. Even bolstered by Gryphon Riders, it was merely a tactic to buy time.

“Rihinstetten has divided its power. Their remaining host is so substantial that it is an insult to call the force we just fought a detached unit.”

Crang resumed the explanation. The grimmest scenario he had envisioned was now a certainty, confirmed only after they had pushed the enemy back. However, the king’s assessment contained a subtle, dark irony. In terms of raw combat efficiency, it was actually Crang’s group that functioned as the detached unit, while the hidden enemy host was the true main army. In essence, the bulk of Naurillia’s strength had been pinned down by a mere distraction.

“They have struck a significant blow,” the king remarked.

Enkrid’s mind raced, his tactical instincts working as hard as his sword arm ever did.

‘Crang brought only a fraction of his military and the Royal Guard. For a sovereign’s personal campaign, the numbers are dangerously thin.’

Where were the others? They would be positioned at Crang’s original stations: the royal palace, the capital, or the strategic roads leading to it.

‘Crang arrived with a small retinue yet made sure to display his banners prominently. Now that he has triumphed, he has signaled his exact location to the foe. Unless I am mistaken, allowing a force of this size to operate with such freedom is the kind of act that defines a legacy.’

Victory would frame it as a masterpiece of strategy; defeat would mark him as history’s most incompetent monarch.

‘The news that the king of a nation is personally on the field will travel like wildfire. It won’t be a mere whisper, but a verified truth.’

There were hundreds of witnesses. Among them were numerous officers whose reports would be taken as gospel. By slaying the knights but allowing the common units to retreat, Crang ensured that survivors would recount the sight of the golden-haired man with the blue eyes and cream cloak.

Crang’s actions were the equivalent of establishing a dueling circle and announcing that the war could be ended right here, without further bloodshed across the land. It was a king throwing down a metaphorical gauntlet.

Crang had made his move. Rihinstetten had violated Naurillia’s borders from the outset, and Crang had identified the only viable path forward. He sought to minimize the suffering of the people within the nation’s borders by offering himself as the ultimate prize.

“If this succeeds, I am hailed as a visionary. If it fails, I am a lunatic. I am well aware of the stakes, Enki.”

Crang had alluded to this plan before, but now he laid it bare. It was a brief exchange, yet Enkrid understood perfectly. Seeing this, Crang nodded.

“An army drains resources simply by existing. Once they have mobilized, they won’t simply turn home empty-handed. They will seek to sack at least one city and seize its granaries before retreating.”

“Do you intend to deploy Lien and Ingis, Your Majesty?”

Cypress’s voice was steady. The knight with the grizzled, light-brown hair remained a picture of stoicism. He lacked a terrifying aura, yet his words were as sharp as a whetted blade. He was forcing a decision.

The forces left behind were attempting to hold back a deluge with a wooden fence. Were they enough? Would the king sacrifice them, or would he dispatch aid to bolster the defense?

Enkrid recognized the cruelty of the choice, but as it was a royal burden, he let Crang bear it. His own duty was to find his place in the coming storm. He asked for the identity of the man who was currently holding the line on the road to the capital.

“Who is commanding the rearguard?”

“Marquis Baisar stepped forward,” Crang replied.

He was a man who appreciated fine tea, affected an air of irreverence, but held a deep, secret devotion to his father’s memory. He had once been Enkrid’s superior. Crang offered a smile that looked like it tasted of ash.

“I know it is a gamble. I won’t offer excuses. Marcus may very well perish.”

Despite his words, the fire in the king’s eyes suggested he hadn’t given up hope. Marcus would lead a portion of the troops to delay an enemy that included knightly units. He didn’t need a total victory; he only needed to stall. The king of Naurillia and the twin pillars of the monarchy were here. This conflict would only conclude with the destruction of the knight orders and the death or capture of the king. By making himself a beacon, Crang was pulling the entire enemy weight toward himself. It was a trap, a literal Antlion Pit.

‘Had he fled or panicked, the enemy would have seen through the ruse or identified the kingdom’s true vulnerability.’

Crang had waited for a clear victory before revealing himself. He hadn’t pleaded for mercy or begged for his people’s safety. He could not afford to show a single crack in his resolve. Even if his heart was heavy, he had to remain stoic. This was why he had risked himself on the front line after observing Pell’s actions. He needed to project a calculated arrogance.

Pell likely had no idea of the role he played, but through a series of accidents, he had helped Crang achieve his goal. Everything was for the sake of time.

‘Short and sharp.’

Rather than a slow, agonizing burn, they needed the sudden violence of a lightning strike. They needed men who would anchor the enemy’s feet and force them to bleed for every inch of ground. They needed soldiers willing to trade their lives for minutes, and a leader who would meet a knight’s blade just to send back intelligence on the enemy’s strength.

“Marcus told me to tell you: ‘Do you think we’ll just sit and take it because we don’t have a knight order? I’ll show you how I fight.’”

The king relayed Marcus’s bravado, and this time, the smile was genuine. It was a complex mix of loyalty, grief, and faith—the expression of a man carrying the weight of the world.

“I feel the same. Everyone is where they need to be, fighting for what they believe in.”

The king’s resolve was unshakable. To ensure a swift end to the war, he had gambled everything—his throne and his friends. If they fell here, the kingdom fell with them. They would consolidate their knightly power in this one spot to strike at the High Pontiff of Rihinstetten. It was the only way to overcome the Southern numerical advantage.

Cypress had resolved not to dispatch the Red Cloak Order of Knights. While Lien and Ingis were mobile, sending them now might result in them arriving only in time to bury Marcus. They might not even have time for a proper burial before having to retreat. Even the swiftest horses had their physical limits.

“The morality of this will be debated by scholars in the future. For now, I stand by your decision, Your Majesty.”

Cypress offered what comfort he could. Crang’s expression softened slightly, the weight of leadership shifting toward trust.

“Even when the Goddess of the Scales tips the balance, those on the lighter side are not helpless. Their end is not written in stone.”

The Goddess of the Scales was known for her trials. When the ground tilts, what do you do? If you do nothing, you slide into the abyss. If you fight, you might find a way to hang on. In the Great Cathedral of Nauril, a painting depicted this very struggle: a lone soul clinging to the scales while a dark, heavy mass tried to pull them down.

Cypress studied the king’s eyes, noting the brilliance of his will.

“Victory grants the right to write the story.”

If they failed, Marcus’s stand was a tragedy. If they won, it was a legendary sacrifice. Enkrid noticed Cypress had a habit of speaking in grand, complicated metaphors—perhaps a symptom of his seventy years.

“Does anyone ever tell you your eyes look insolent?” Cypress suddenly asked Enkrid.

“That’s a first for me,” Enkrid lied smoothly. Even Crang let out a chuckle at the blatant falsehood as Cypress stepped out of the tent.

“Marcus isn’t the type to go down quietly,” Enkrid remarked. He had served under the man; he knew his habit of spiking his tea with liquor and his penchant for using deception to bridge the gap in strength.

‘He isn’t a genius, but he’s certainly no fool.’

Crang nodded. “You’re sharp, Enki.”

He then detailed Marcus’s specific strategy. It was an audacious plan.

“I see.”

One might call him Marcus the War Maniac. It was a self-appointed title he used to unnerve opponents before striking their weaknesses.

‘But knights change the math.’

Could he truly hold them? Logic said no.

“I could head over there for a short time,” Enkrid suggested casually.

“It’s too late for that. This battle is a mathematical certainty now,” Crang countered. He had weighed splitting his forces, but that would weaken the bait. This was the result of intense deliberation by royal tacticians. And if it failed, he was prepared to launch a total war of annihilation, dragging the south down into the grave with them. It was a threat: if the south didn’t commit to this duel, Naurillia would burn their royal palace to the ground.

“It’s not too late. If I ride, I can make it,” Enkrid insisted. He stepped out of the tent to find an expectant friend waiting.

“With so many witnesses, word will travel fast, won’t it?”

The moment he exited, he was face-to-face with Rem.

“You’re going to ride Rem? Is that actually faster than running?” Crang joked from inside. Cypress couldn’t suppress a laugh at the mental image of a madman riding a barbarian.

“Get out of here. Why are you lurking?” Enkrid grunted, pushing Rem aside.

“Am I not allowed to be here?” Rem grumbled. Enkrid simply pointed toward another ally still circling in the sky.