Chapter 3: Gilbert, the Mercenary King

The horses’ hooves gave rise to a rustling noise as they trampled the undergrowth, the carriage’s wheels clattering along with them. Enzo the blacksmith was seated cross-legged inside, a casket-like wooden crate resting before him. Inside was the most important item he would ever deliver—Princess Argentina’s esteemed sword, the Grand Tonnerre Quatre.

Beside him was his apprentice Lionel, who, despite the rocking and shaking of the moving carriage, was busy at work adding detail to a hinge. After securing it in place, he held the tip of a scratch awl against the flat surface before gently tapping it with a metal hammer. This process left a small mark on the hinge, and it took many, many more strikes before a design started to surface.

The old man who had joined them on their journey was fast asleep, perhaps worn thin by a long voyage.

Enzo moved aside the curtain separating him from the cabman’s perch to see their surroundings. He was met with white. Pure white. A heavy fog had set in.

It was about time for the sun to climb across the eastern sky, and yet their vision was no better than it would have been during the night. He struggled to make out the horses pulling the carriage, let alone the military horseman who was leading the way.

With that thought, their guide looked back in their direction. Enzo imagined that he was most likely regarding them with a modest smile, but despite how close the man was, his expression was hidden beneath the veil of white.

“This fog sure is thick, don’t you think?” the horseman asked.

Enzo replied with a nod. “You took the words right outta my mouth.”

“I can’t tell east from west anymore,” the cabman added, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hah. Don’t you worry—we haven’t left the highway,” the horseman said confidently. “And say what you want about me, but my sense of direction is the one thing that never lets me down.”

They had met with the horseman serving as their guide at the point indicated in Regis’s letter, and he would apparently deliver them to the army’s main camp. If unforeseen circumstances resulted in said camp being moved, then there was supposed to be a second guide waiting for them at its original spot.

“Still...” the horseman muttered. “Did it rain yesterday? I can’t quite recall. Sure, the weak wind makes it easy for fog to settle here, but something like this is pretty rare this time of year, what with all the dry spells.”

Having been listening to the conversation from inside the carriage, Lionel leaned out, somewhat interested. “Some areas are more prone to fog?”

“Of course. These are the highlands, but we’re surrounded by mountains, and there’s hardly any wind. Then there’s the ground—soft with bad drainage. Whenever it rains— Well, even a little rain wouldn’t produce something like this.”

“Do you think it rained during the night, then?”

“Can’t say for sure. There are a few too many spots that aren’t wet, though...”

The sounds heard as the horses moved across the highlands varied with each step—a dry, firm crunch would be succeeded by a wet squelch. The same held true for the wheels—one moment they would be running along hard ground, and the next they would splash through a puddle. It was quite the surreal sensation.

“It’s almost like someone splashed water all over the place!” Lionel exclaimed with deep intrigue.

Enzo, the carriage driver, and the horseman all looked around blankly. There was no wind, and the white fog hanging in the air greatly obscured their vision. They couldn’t see them, but there were supposed to be high hills stretching out around them. They also would have spotted a mountain range in the distance had it been a clear day. Could someone have really sprayed enough water over the whole region to replicate the effects of rain?

The horseman cocked his head quizzically, but Enzo couldn’t imagine it at all. “Splashed water? Who’d do something like that, and for what reason?”

“Oh c’mon, boss. I’m only kidding around,” Lionel chuckled.

At this, the guiding horseman’s expression loosened. He let out a quiet laugh himself, when—

«Halt! You there! What is your affiliation!?»

From among the fog came a sharp voice, speaking in High Britannian. The guide’s eased smile vanished, and his face quickly paled as soldiers came into view. They couldn’t have been more than twenty paces away, and there were around ten in all. They were mostly on foot, with only one person atop a horse—a man wearing a helmet.

An enemy patrol, perhaps? They didn’t seem to be flying a flag of any kind, but their words erased all doubt that they were members of the High Britannian Army.

The cabman’s voice quavered as he asked, “What do we do, boss...?”

As a humble blacksmith, Enzo of course had no idea how to deal with an enemy patrol. His only hope was their guide, but it seemed there were times when knowing the proper measures only made things worse; the horseman appeared to have fallen the deepest into despair, having turned as white as a sheet.

Fleeing almost certainly wasn’t an option; the enemy troops carried rifles, and there would be no survivors if they all fired at once. Even in a best-case scenario, it seemed unlikely that their guide would escape unscathed, and with him disposed of, the enemy rider would effortlessly catch up to their carriage. To make matters worse, the carriage’s only occupants were a blacksmith, his apprentice, a carriage driver, and an old man. They couldn’t possibly put up a fight.

Do we surrender? Enzo considered the move, but he knew it wasn’t an option. He would never forgive himself if one of the Empire’s treasured swords fell into enemy hands on his watch. But then what else could they do?

All of a sudden, the guide whispered to them. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I thought, with how thick the fog is, that it’d be safe to use the highway. We should have taken a detour...”

“No, that’s not—”

“Please, run. The camp is five lieue (22 km) west. I’ll distract their horseman.”

The guide’s hand reached for the sword at his hip. Perhaps their current situation was indeed his fault, but he was a fine man nonetheless; he had a clear sense of responsibility.

Meanwhile, the High Britannian soldiers drew nearer and nearer, their guns at the ready.

Enzo placed a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “The moment he draws his sword, have the horses run as fast as they can,” he whispered in his ear.

But the soldiers stopped ten paces away. They kept their guns pointed and shouted in Belgarian: “Dismount your horse! Driver, on the ground, too! Everyone down, or we’ll shoot you dead!”

How could this be...? They’re not even giving us a chance!

There was nothing they could do. Their guide would ultimately be executed the moment he unsheathed his sword, and even with the carriage going at full speed, there was little hope in them getting out alive.

Enzo’s hands quivered. As the reality of their situation began to truly set in, he found himself struggling to breathe. We’ll need to take a gamble. I’ll rush out, going in the opposite direction to the guide... and while they’re shooting at us, the carriage’ll make a break for it.

But as that dreary thought passed through his mind, a figure dressed in a fluttering brown robe walked past the side of the carriage. The old man who was supposed to have been sleeping in the back calmly approached the High Britannian soldiers.

«Shoot us dead? That’s not very merciful.»

«Identify yourself!»

«I’m just an old man—no one suspicious. Take a better look, if you want. Big as you are, what have you got to fear from someone as ancient as me?»

He was now five paces from the soldiers.

«Hands out of your robe!»

«Of course. As you wish.»

He removed his brown robe entirely, letting it drop to the ground. His build was moderate—average, even—though with his stoop he stood about as tall as a child. There was no doubting that he was an old man. He wore the sort of plain hemp shirt that could be found in any country, tucked under a belt from which his plain longsword dangled.

The armored horseman made another demand. «Toss your sword aside!»

«If you act so frightened of such a frail old-timer, you’ll surely be the laughingstock of your men.»

«Do you want to be shot!?»

Unfortunately, the soldier they were dealing with was considerably cautious. But the old man simply shrugged and removed his sword.

«Fine, fine. Have it your way. It’s only cheap, but it’s been passed down since my great-grandfather’s days. Keep a close eye on it!»

With that, he tossed the sword up into the air. It spun circles as it climbed to such a height that one had to wonder where this sudden burst of strength had come from. Enzo followed the blade with his eyes, as did the High Britannian soldiers. It ascended up into the fog until it was no more than a gray silhouette, when... Clink. There was a strange sound.

What was that?

Enzo hurriedly looked back down to see that the old man was gone.

“Ghh... Aghh...!”

Then came another noise—a strangled groan from the armored High Britannian horseman. The old man had reappeared behind him, wrapping his arms around the soldier’s shoulders like a child getting a piggyback ride. His hands were on the man’s helmet, and the head in his grasp had been turned to an impossible angle.

He... broke his neck.

Letting out hacks, gasps, and other sounds that no human should emit, the armored horseman started to foam at the mouth before eventually spitting up blood.

The old man sneered. “My name is Balthazar Basil de Balzac, elder of a lineage that has passed down the sword of L’Empereur Flamme for generations!”

He reached down and drew the weapon at the unmoving horseman’s hip—a brilliant silver sword fashioned from High Britannia’s new alloy. Its blade was double-edged, thinning up to a fine tip. Swords that maintained their width all the way along were the current preference in Belgaria, making this more similar to the blades mass-produced around fifty years prior, though perhaps this style was still popular in High Britannia.

“Hm... A fine blade. I shall borrow it.”

Balthazar then disappeared again. Or at least, that was the only way Enzo could describe it. The old man, who had been riding atop the horse just moments ago, had leaped into the air without any preparatory movements.

The closest rifleman let out a gasp. There was blood spewing from his throat.

They had witnessed their commander die, a grand reveal, and then the death of another comrade, all in the span of a few seconds. Most comprehensible thoughts had already vanished from the enemy soldiers’ minds.

«Kill him!» one man hastily screamed in High Britannian. «Open fire!»

There was an immediate explosion of gunshots, but at close range on terrain with very few obstacles, there was no guarantee that firearms had the advantage—especially not against someone whose movements seemed to surpass human understanding.

The result was far too one-sided to even call a battle, not a single soul managing to capture any of Balthazar’s moves. Blood scattered through the air as each attack felled another soldier, and in the blink of an eye, not a single one remained on their feet.

After just one glance at the mountain of corpses, Balthazar tossed the pilfered sword aside. Despite having been made from the new alloy, the blade was already in a terrible state; he had used it to sever flesh through armor, a feat that was inconceivable for a normal person.

Balthazar picked up both the robe and longsword he had been forced to abandon before once again springing into action. “Why are you zoning out?” he asked sharply. “Those gunshots will attract more enemies. Can’t you hurry with the wagon?”

The driver hurriedly flicked the reins, at which point Enzo reached out to the old man. “Grab on!”

Balthazar firmly grasped the hand that had been extended to him, and Enzo pulled him up into the carriage as it passed.

Their guide took the lead on his horse. “We’ll take a detour off the main road! Please, follow me!”

“I’m counting on you!” replied the driver as they both picked up speed.

Balthazar stumbled back to his seat, wheezing heavily. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle twenty...” he muttered.

“That was pretty impressive. You’re a duke, right? Granted, I didn’t know, but still—I’ve been pretty rude to you,” Enzo said, respectfully lowering his head. But Balthazar dismissed him with a wave.

“Oh, what does it matter? All those grand words were simply a means to distract them. Just let me remain an old man, would you?”

✧ ✧ ✧

Warhorses tore through the surrounding blanket of white, causing the ground to tremble beneath their hooves. Four hundred Black Knights and five hundred Crescent Knights rode together, with a few lightly armored horsemen bolstering them to one thousand.

Together they closed in on ten thousand High Britannian foot soldiers, surrounding them from all sides. The enemy hadn’t moved their supplies from the camp prior to the fog thickening—that much had already been confirmed—and they almost certainly hadn’t made any attempts to since. No matter how stealthy they tried to be, it was near impossible for their wagons to leave without any noticeable noise.

Belgarian scouts closely watched the enemy’s movements through the fog. They reported every little detail to the knight brigades, at the front of which rode Jerome with Abidal-Evra beside him.

“Recon report! The enemy remains stationary!” one scout announced.

“Good!” Jerome exclaimed. “Diversions, go!”

The bugler relayed the order, at which point four parties of twenty split from their ranks and joined the front, following the instructions that had been given to them prior to the attack. While on horseback, they pulled pieces of wood tied to rope from their sacks and dropped them on the ground. Rather loud scraping noises almost immediately followed as the wood was dragged along behind them—a racket that would no doubt steal the enemy’s ears. Their plan was to ride around the camp, making it harder for the High Britannians to pin down the movements of their main force.

The sound of gunfire echoed out from among the fog... but the Belgarian horsemen were positioned too far away for this to be an actual concern.

They couldn’t have made it clearer that they can’t see a thing right now. It seemed that the Mercenary King hadn’t foreseen such a development, but this certainly was a crude response.

“Vanguard, advance!” Jerome barked.

“Graaaaaah!” the Crescent Knights roared as they charged ahead. They were firing on the camp from a distance, though they were considerably closer than they had been during their fleeting attacks peppered throughout the night.

Soon enough, High Britannia began to return fire. But the Crescent Knights weren’t approaching in a straight line—they had approached as if drawing a circle, and so the shots disappeared into the open air.

Even in the dead of night, metal armor reflected the light of the stars. The glow of a bonfire also spread quite some distance, and when coupled with the use of equipment such as flaming arrows, an army could never truly remain invisible.

But that had now changed.

To think fog would make them resort to such a lazy counterattack... Jerome was beyond shocked, now feeling somewhat astounded.

That said, this entire situation was centered around the fact that the enemy had supplies they needed to protect; they couldn’t simply leave them behind, but their wagons were slower and made too much noise. High Britannia’s forces had consequently reached a standstill. Under any other circumstances, each side would no doubt have been probing through the fog for the other’s location—a battle on equal footing—but it was precisely because their foes had set up their defenses, intending to make use of their superior ranged weapons, that it worked in Belgaria’s favor.

While the enemy’s offenses were concentrated on the Crescent Knights, Jerome raised his lance high into the air and thrust it forward, signaling for the Black Knights to charge. He purposely didn’t spur his horse, however. Instead, he and his men attempted to stifle as much sound as possible as they cautiously closed the distance.

Gradually, the bursts of gunfire grew louder. Should the fog choose this very moment to clear, the rifles of however many bloodthirsty High Britannians would be pointed straight in their direction.

Another moment passed. They were still too far away. From their current position, Jerome’s lance certainly wouldn’t be able to reach its target. And yet, from this distance, the enemy’s bullets would pierce even the thickest parts of his armor. This was the range at which guns were most effective.

Jerome led his horse onward, moving as calmly as someone parading before a crowd. The other knights had broken into a cold sweat, and understandably so. Didn’t it seem like the horsemen were dragging their noisemakers along too quietly? Weren’t the Crescent Knights being too lax on their offense? If they made it too obvious they were just trying to draw the enemy’s attention, wouldn’t they figure out what was going on? These questions only heightened the knights’ fears and anxieties. They were traversing a world of pure white, staring straight into the complete unknown that was certain death.

A black shadow soon came into view—a High Britannian soldier poised with a large shield. Before Jerome could even make out any other details, he kicked his horse’s sides.

“Chaaaarge!”

At his command, the vanguard raced forth. The distance to the enemy camp was a mere twenty paces—less than an instant away for a warhorse moving at full speed.

The soldier let loose a scream, his eyes shooting open in shock. «The enemy!»

“Hraaaah!”

As Jerome thrust forward his famous lance, the man hastily attempted to defend himself. The shield he carried sported a metal frame but was otherwise made almost entirely of wood; using thick enough plates to stop swords and spears would make it much too unwieldy to use, and anything thinner wouldn’t provide adequate enough defense.

Of course, the wooden boards stood no chance against a charging knight—their speed, strength, and quality of weapon made them an exponentially bigger threat than a foot soldier with a polearm. The shield shattered almost immediately, offering zero resistance as Jerome’s lance continued its course and plunged into the man’s torso.

“Gwuh!?” Blood quickly began to trickle from the enemy soldier’s mouth.

“Graaaaaah! Anyone with a death wish, come at me!” Jerome yelled, swinging his lance. The movement threw aside the impaled soldier, who rolled along the ground in a gruesomely bloody display.

«Riflemen! Over here! Fire!»

Jerome turned his horse toward the officer barking orders in High Britannian. The man was pointing a rifle in his direction, trying to steady his aim.

“Too slow!” Jerome roared, lunging forward again. In one swift move, he knocked aside the gun and opened a gaping hole in the officer’s chest.

By this point, the rest of the brigade had managed to breach the camp’s simple defenses and were promptly disposing of the enemy soldiers. There was little that could be done to stop them now that they were inside.

As the attack continued, High Britannia’s transporters hid under their wagons and atop their cargo, trembling in fear with their heads in their hands. Belgarian carriers were trained as soldiers, meaning they would have armed themselves with spears and joined the battle in such a situation, but this was an understandable difference between a nation that had waged endless wars for hundreds of years and its relatively peaceful neighbor.

A point-blank shot caught one knight, causing him to topple from his horse. But as the enemy soldier tried to reload, a second horseman charged in with a spear and skewered his head. It irked Jerome to no end seeing his men die to what were evidently untrained soldiers, but he had already steeled himself against the losses.

Abidal-Evra came up beside him. “The enemy troops are fleeing!”

The High Britannian soldiers were indeed throwing down their rifles, pushing down the protective fences they had erected themselves in a scramble to escape.

Jerome scoffed. “Ignore them. They’ll still need to get through the Crescent Knights and foot soldiers.”

“Yes, sir!”

Had the enemy forgotten they were up against an army of sixteen thousand men? Even if they managed to evade the knights attacking the camp, there were far more soldiers in the encirclement. But even as Jerome watched them retreat, there was something far more important occupying his mind.

“Oi... Did you catch sight of Gilbert?”

“The Mercenary King? Ah, no, we—”

Everyone they had encountered appeared to be a regular soldier of the High Britannian Army; Jerome hadn’t seen anyone who looked even remotely like a mercenary.

“Tsk. So they turned tail. Unless...” Jerome abruptly turned his horse around with a sharp tug on its reins. “Oi, Abidal-Evra. Clean up the remnants, and secure the supplies as best you can. If you face too much resistance, then burn it all down!”

“Understood, sir! Er... What about you, General?”

“I’m returning to camp! Listen here, you lot! If any of you think you can manage one more round trip, come with me!” After raising his voice to the knights surrounding him, Jerome raced off as though he were charging at the enemy, growling through gritted teeth. “I won’t forgive you if you die here...!”

✧ ✧ ✧

There was a chance they would need to move at a moment’s notice, and so the tent—as well as all the other camping equipment—had already been packed away. The main camp was now denoted by nothing more than a single flag.

A chair had been set down for Altina, plus a table that was being used for strategy discussions. Regis stared at the map spread out over its surface, moving pieces based on scout reports as he tried to grasp the situation as a whole. There was some distance to the front line, which meant the information he received was always somewhat behind.

Belgaria’s main camp was now even farther east than it had been the night before, only one lieue (4 km) from the enemy’s camp; Regis had wanted it set up as near as possible to allow for more frequent and accurate updates. This came with a risk, however—positioning themselves too close increased the chance they would also engage the enemy, and it would be catastrophic for the main camp to be attacked when he’d stationed most of their soldiers elsewhere.

While the Empire’s soldiers were powerful, High Britannia’s tactical combination of shield and rifle was a very real threat. The Seventh Army had managed to force a close-combat encounter—an area in which they excelled—and were still overwhelmed. What’s more, if the battlefield became too chaotic, it would be near impossible to take strategic command; whatever plans Regis came up with would serve no purpose if they couldn’t be relayed to the soldiers. Though the fog had rendered the enemy’s superior range meaningless, he had exposed his own side to greater danger.

Despite a chair having been prepared for her, Altina had remained standing since daybreak. Her arms were tightly folded, a dejected look on her face as she glared into the fog. When Regis had suggested she remain at camp, he was sure she would refuse, but...

“If staying here is going to benefit our army, I’ll put up with it,” she reluctantly conceded. Perhaps her time aboard the warship had taught her the importance of carrying out one’s own role—quite favorable growth for someone who stood above others.

The faint sound of gunfire could be heard, but the battlefield was far away enough that neither thundering hooves nor the cries of soldiers reached them.

Altina stuck out her lips in a pout. “Mh... Hey, Regis? Couldn’t we have moved just a little closer?”

“...That probably wouldn’t work out very well. There’s a high chance the enemy army will abandon their camp, and when that happens, the last thing we want is them discovering our position.”

“I... guess you’re right.”

That said, even in such a case, they would most likely have the numerical advantage; there were still about five thousand foot soldiers guarding the main camp. The rest were on the offensive—ten thousand foot soldiers encircling the enemy camp, six hundred horsemen running around as a diversion, and four hundred Black Knights on the charge. The actual numbers were a little lower than this owing to the casualties from the previous night’s operation, but those losses had yet to reach the triple digits.

A messenger ran over to Regis and, following a prompt salute, began to deliver his report.

“...And that’s everything so far!” he soon concluded.

Regis moved the pieces on the map accordingly. This latest information indicated that the Black Knight Brigade had charged the enemy camp, and the Crescent Knights were succeeding in their diversion.

“I see, I see... In that case, please pass this on to Sir Benjamin,” Regis said, handing over a directive he had prepared in advance.

“Understood!”

The messenger stuffed the paper into a tube on his back before sprinting away. Regis once again glanced at the map. There had been no blunders yet. The plan was proceeding smoothly.

“Hm...”

“What’s up, Regis?” Altina asked, noticing him hang his head.

“Well, everything’s going off without a hitch.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It is, yeah.”

“...Are you disappointed things are going so well?”

“Me? Not at all. I simply mean to say there’s been far too little resistance given that the Mercenary King is at the helm. I thought they might predict the route of our diversion unit and use that to their advantage.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Crescent Knights are drawing a circle around the camp—something that should be easy to figure out, even with the fog surrounding them. From there, the enemy might guess that the real attack is coming from somewhere else entirely.”

“Then the fog’s totally meaningless!”

“On the contrary, it’s much harder for them to land their shots when they can’t see who they’re aiming at. But as I was saying—assuming the High Britannians did predict our route, they should be able to tell where the imperial army isn’t stationed, right?”

“Huh?”

“Er, what I mean is... they can tell that our main force won’t be where the diversion units have already fired from. Because that’s where we’re expecting them to concentrate their return fire.”

“Oh, I suppose.”

“...So I was expecting High Britannia’s supply unit to make a full-speed dash into an area the Crescent Knights had already passed through, bringing their wagons with them.”

Such was the counterplay Regis had expected from the enemy—the only move he thought they could make once the fog had set in, assuming they didn’t surrender. He thought it would be far too poor of a plan for them to continue point defense, especially given the sheer mess of a battlefield that would result in.

Altina cocked her head to one side. “But if they rush through an area where nobody’s stationed, won’t they get away?”

“When you have wagons in tow, you can only travel at full speed for so long. I had foot soldiers ready to intercept them around the time they grew tired,” Regis explained, prodding the red pieces he had placed on the map.

“Aha, I see,” Altina responded with a nod, sounding rather impressed.

“The moment you think you’ve gotten away, you’re suddenly surrounded by enemies. Doesn’t that seem like it would shatter their motivation to continue the battle? Having them surrender would result in the least number of casualties.”

“But won’t the battlefield devolve into chaos anyway, what with the fog?”

“Their shield and rifle combination only works when they can maintain their formation; we have the advantage when things are more disorganized.”

“I see!”

“But still, the death count will only grow the longer the battle goes on. This was a plan to make the enemy surrender, but it looks like they didn’t move at all until the Black Knight Brigade attacked.”

“Is it possible they already left the camp?”

“I know the fog is thick, but I find it hard to believe our scouts missed the movement of ten thousand men...”

Regis couldn’t say it was impossible, though. The fog dampened noise, meaning that while nearby things sounded louder as they reverberated through the dense water droplets, they became considerably harder to hear as they moved farther away. It was easy to delude the senses, but with so many wagons to move, it was surely an impossible feat.

“Yes... Impossible,” Regis reassured himself. “After all, if they could manage something like that, it would be a far greater achievement than any new firearms.” Not to mention they would almost certainly feel the vibrations through the ground if so many horses were on the move. Then there was the smell to consider, too.

Altina turned her gaze to the west. “But they’re not doing what you expected. Right?”

“It happens all the time. I can prepare all the countermeasures I want, but not everything will go as planned. Especially considering that we’re up against a foe I’ve never encountered before.”

“Right. It’s pretty common for someone to be completely different from how the rumors make them out to be.”

“Yes. That is, as long as I’m not making some fatal oversight...” Regis muttered, staring intensely at the map.

All of a sudden, Altina turned and drew a sharp breath. “Regis! There’s an unfamiliar carriage coming from behind us!”

“Huh!?”

The lookout soldiers noticed too, albeit a brief moment later, and immediately became boisterous. One readied his spear and shouted, “Stop!”

What approached was a large carriage accompanied by two horsemen, both of whom Regis recognized as the designated guides. “It’s me!” one of them announced. “I brought the blacksmith!”

A bearded man built like a bear popped his head out and waved. “That’s me! I came to deliver an order for Princess Marie Quatre Argentina!”

“Enzo!” Regis shot up from his seat and rushed over.

“That carriage is my guest!” Altina declared. “Let them through!”

No sooner had she given the command than those who were blocking the carriage’s entry parted, stepping to either side like a massive human gate. The lookout soldiers returned their spears to an upright position and saluted.

The carriage had arrived from the west. Upon entering the camp, the two horsemen were the first to dismount, promptly kneeling before the princess.

“We have the blacksmith with us!”

“I’m sorry we’ve taken so long!”

One guide had been sent east to Rouenne, while the other had waited at their previous campsite following the Fourth Army’s relocation. The latter had been ordered to lead the blacksmith to them in the case that he arrived at the wrong destination, and it seemed he had properly fulfilled that duty.

“Thank you!” Altina said, returning a grateful salute.

The horsemen stood and took a step back, the relief clear on their faces. The carriage that followed had come to a reserved stop a short distance away.

They were currently situated atop a hill, their makeshift, open-air conference room comprising little more than a table and chairs. It wasn’t far from the various areas where they prepared food, repaired equipment, treated wounds, and allowed troops to rest.

The camp itself was surrounded by about five hundred combat-ready foot soldiers at any given moment, while a further thousand had been spread out and were keeping watch in teams of ten.

From where his carriage came to stop among the forces guarding the camp’s rear, Enzo Bardot Smith stepped down under the watchful eyes of many soldiers. His fatigue was palpable, his drained expression and weary gait making it clear that the journey hadn’t been an easy one, and upon reaching Altina, he stooped into a reverent bow.

“Your Highness, I am here to deliver your order.”

“I really can’t thank you enough. You did a commendable job, bringing it all this way through a dangerous war zone!”

“It is a sword, after all—a war zone is where it thrives. I only hope it’s to your liking...”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.”

With that, Altina made straight for the carriage.

Regis greeted Enzo with a modest bow. “I’m sorry for all the trouble. If only the war had ended just a little sooner...”

Enzo glanced around, then lowered his voice enough that the surrounding soldiers wouldn’t be able to hear him. “How’s the war looking, anyway? Please tell me Rouenne’s gonna be okay.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, it should be in the clear.”

“But Rouenne’s pretty close to the capital, right...? Truth is, I told the wife to take the kids and evacuate to my parents’ place up north.”

“I can’t see my sis ever agreeing to that.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t having it. Immediately proclaimed: ‘Leave it to Regis and that princess. Everything’ll be fine.’ Maybe I’m just overthinking things, though. I mean, the Empire’s never lost before.”

“Granted, we’ve lost quite a few battles this time around... But that should end here, so long as the First Army holds out,” Regis concluded. Upon noticing the increasingly concerned look on Enzo’s face, he attempted to reassure him with a simple, “No need to worry.”

The two began to follow Altina over to the carriage, when out of nowhere, she leaped back.

“Wha—!?”

“Haaah!”

Someone pounced out from inside the carriage with a longsword in hand, swinging down upon the young princess. Not a single soldier could process the move in time to react, with Altina alone moving to block. Drawing the sword at her hip in one smooth motion, she successfully locked the lethal blow before it could touch her. A shrill, metallic shriek pierced the air.

But it didn’t stop there—the mysterious attacker unleashed strike after strike.

“Here! There! Take this!”

“Kh... Tss... Hah! Hyaaah!”

Skillfully using her own longsword to parry each attack, Altina countered with a horizontal swipe. The tip of her blade grazed the man’s brown robe, at which point he appeared to momentarily back away. Then, both parties closed in once again, only this time...

They cordially clasped hands with one another.

“Balthazar! Long time no see! Glad you could make it!”

“I see you’re as sharp as ever, Argentina!”

Altina gleefully smiled while the old man let out a dry laugh. The guard soldiers surrounding them were frozen in place with their spears in hand, the bemused looks on their faces making it very clear they had no idea what had just happened.

Regis, however, immediately hurried over to the brown-robed man. “U-Um... Are you perhaps... the former duke, Balthazar Basil de Balzac?”

“The very same!” the old man proclaimed, speaking with such enthusiasm that saliva flew from his mouth. Altina was standing beside him, now holding his hand and swinging her arm like a rejoicing child. Her other hand, meanwhile, was still firmly grasping her sword.

Regis sighed. “Could you please restrain yourself...? You were moments away from being stormed by our guards.”

“Dying in a hail of spears? I could hardly ask for more!” Balthazar declared with a proud grin. Altina was nodding along with him, fully convinced.

You really shouldn’t agree with a statement like that...

“What’s more—Princess, you’re in front of the soldiers.”

“Oh, you’re right.”

It was perhaps a little late now, but she straightened her back, tightened her expression, and sheathed her sword. Balthazar tucked his blade away as well.

“Ahem. This gentleman here is the former duke of House Balzac. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He is also the princess’s sword instructor,” Regis explained to the flustered guards.

Only then did they lower their spears. House Balzac had performed so brilliantly in the wars that founded the nation that they were named the First Emperor’s right hand. As a prestigious noble house revered enough to have been granted one of the Empire’s treasured swords, it was understandable that its esteemed former duke had been hired to teach the princess.

Enzo’s shocked expression settled with a relieved sigh. “Hah... For a second there, I was worried that I’d brought an enemy with me.”

“If she hadn’t reacted so quickly, then she very well might have lost her head! Kahahah!” the old master exclaimed, accompanying his unthinkable statement with a hearty laugh. Altina happily chuckled alongside him.

The way Regis saw it, there was something a little strange about how these two perceived the world—it was as though they were letting their muscles do the thinking for them. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t comprehend such an unusual mindset.

All this aside, for the man to have willingly come all the way to the battlefield, he must have had some sort of aim. “Um... Sir Balthazar, what brings you to the west?” Regis asked.

“Oh, nothing important. I simply heard through the grapevine that Argentina was bested by a mercenary.”

“Erk!” Altina’s expression was tinged with embarrassment.

“I hear that you lost.”

“Th-That’s... Well... She avoided my attack, my sword got embedded in a tree, and my hands went numb, so—”

“Blah, blah, blah. I didn’t ask what happened, or how she got the drop on you. None of that matters. Did you lose?”

“...Yeah,” she conceded with a nod, nervously biting her lip.

Balthazar let out a deep sigh. “That’s no good... No good at all... How you use your sword isn’t important, but you must win, regardless of what you’re up against. If you’re outnumbered, your opponent is stronger than you, or you’re staring down the barrel of a hundred guns, resort to whatever means you have to. A loss on the battlefield means certain death, and you won’t achieve anything if you die.”

“I know that...” Altina said, turning her gaze to the carriage. “That’s why I had my sword repaired.”

With that, Enzo gave a firm nod. “Let me fetch it for you.”

Together with his apprentice, he brought down the casket-like crate. It was fastened shut, and to open it, they would need to carefully remove each nail one by one. The cabman cautiously peeked out as they worked, watching from among the shadows of the canopy.

Balthazar’s eyes narrowed. “Hm, hm... So you’re the blacksmith she entrusted the emperor’s sword to?”

“I am. Though we’re about to see whether or not I met her expectations... In fact, I share in your surprise, sir. You’re the princess’s sword instructor, are you?”

“Instructor? Nay! Her friend! I’ve never taught her a thing!”

Altina nodded. “He has a point. We’ve always just sparred with one another.”

“And I haven’t lost once!”

“Eh!? I’ve won three times!”

“Bah! Says you!” the old man retorted, almost sounding like a child.

Continuing to pull nails from the crate, Enzo turned to his apprentice. “People learn by example. In the world of smithery, they’re what you’d call a master and pupil,” he said, gesturing toward the bickering duo.

“Hahah...” Lionel responded with a wry laugh.

A few more nails were removed until, eventually, the coffin lid came free.

Regis’s plan was proceeding exactly as expected. Now that they had the treasured sword, they simply needed to await the results from Jerome and his men, subjugate the enemy supply unit, and then send a message to the capital that the Fourth Army was on its way.

So long as that information reached the feuding forces at Fort Boneire, the war would be over. No matter how powerful High Britannia’s guns and cannons were, Latrielle had over forty thousand men at his disposal; it was hard to imagine he would fall in half a month.

A warm breeze stroked Regis’s nape.

✧ ✧ ✧

Through the fog crept death incarnate.

The soldiers on lookout encountered it before anyone else, their foe moving so silently that they initially had no idea what was going on. The first man perished without resistance, or even any last words—all of a sudden, there was blood pouring from his neck, staining the undergrowth a deep red. He was still standing at ease, having not even raised the spear in his hand. Perhaps he hadn’t even realized what had happened.

Before the corpse stood a man in black, a large trident in his hand.

More and more of these black-clad soldiers emerged from the fog like seeping darkness. Their weapons and armor varied wildly in appearance—spears, swords, bows, sickles, canes, and even bizarrely shaped blades never before seen in Belgaria. But they were all unified by their black robes and the stench of blood that clung to them.

“One hundred kills each...” growled the man with the trident. “Cut open a path!”

The black-clad group set upon the other troops before the man had even finished. The Empire’s soldiers were not known to be weak, however.

“It’s the enemy! Mercenaries! They’re...!”

The next man noticed the encroaching foes in time to raise his spear, but his sight was almost immediately blocked out by something metallic.

“Wha—!?”

“Hrryah!”

Coupled with a heroic cry, the mass of metal bent the soldier’s spear beyond use before promptly caving in his skull. A large man was swinging about an equally large hammer.

As more of their weapons were broken, the other soldiers took a step back.

“What’s up with this guy...!? He’s like a tornado!”

“Don’t draw back! The princess is behind us! We must stop them here!”

“Ghh... I-It’s time to show them the strength of the Empire!”

They cast down their ruined spears and drew their swords, but a sudden attack shattered them all so quickly that one might have assumed they were broken from the start. The culprit was a massive sword of a peculiar make, the blade of which grew wider and wider toward the tip before curving back like a large fin.

Some said that High Britannia had imported eastern weapons along with their tea. Was this one of them?

A slender man with narrow eyes glared at them, raising an unusual cry as he pounced. “Houuu... Hyaaah! Chaaah! Ryaaah!”

Despite its bizarre shape, the sword was surprisingly sharp—that, or its wielder sported tremendous strength. Not only were the imperial weapons bisected with ease, but the men holding them as well. Flesh, bone, and tendons were cleaved in a single swipe, sliced through as easily as a tender cut of meat.

Belgarian soldiers were known to be undefeated in close combat, and yet, one by one, their lifeless bodies dropped to the ground.

Led by Mercenary King Gilbert, three hundred Renard Pendu elites had used the fog to launch an ambush. They were revered as the strongest mercenaries around, and their overwhelming individual might allowed them to easily tear through the imperial army’s defensive forces.

However, the soldiers of the Empire weren’t going to back down so easily. The country had been in a constant state of war since before the time of their great-grandfathers; these men were raised knowing they would be sent into battle at least once in their lives.

All of a sudden, the mercenaries were intercepted from the side. A well-built soldier brandished his spear, leading along ten subordinates.

“We are the 109th spearmen division! We’ll teach the enemy a lesson, even at the cost of our lives! Everybody, charge!”

“Hraaaaaaaaah!”

“Houuu... Graaah!”

The mercenary sliced through the oncoming spears with a powerful slash, cutting the throat of each spearman on the return swing. But another row of soldiers lay in wait behind them, grazing their deceased allies’ flanks as they thrust their own weapons forward.

“Die!”

“Guh!?”

The warped blade fell from the mercenary’s hand as a spear plunged into his torso. A second spear shortly followed, then a third.

“Charge! Charge!” the head of the spearmen screamed, lunging toward another mercenary in the process. His attack was deftly avoided, however, and an enemy glaive pierced through his stomach. “Gff—!? Grrraaah!”

No sooner had the captain been impaled than he tossed down his spear. He had accepted death the very moment his attack missed, and with his remaining strength, he clung to the weapon shaft protruding from his body.

“Glory to Belgaria!”

The mercenary looked up, dumbstruck. With his weapon secured in place, he was unable to pull away. The other soldiers took this opportunity to swarm him with their spears.

There was no denying that Renard Pendu were a force to be reckoned with, but they only totaled three hundred; in a drawn-out battle, it was inconceivable that the Empire’s five thousand would lose. Or at least, that would have been the case under normal circumstances.

The Fourth Army’s chain of command was still a mess; of the five thousand men guarding the camp, only around half were from the former Beilschmidt border regiment, with the rest being remnants of the Second Army, or private reinforcements sent by lords to aid the nation in its time of crisis. Among these numbers were youths, passionately driven but largely untrained; old soldiers dragged back from retirement; and nobles who had joined for the sake of appearances alone.

What’s more, Belgaria had just reorganized its forces. Many of the remaining soldiers had never before trained together, and rather than the chaos of the battlefield, it was this lack of drilling that seemed to impede their ability to move together. Some were so worked up that orders simply passed them by, others arbitrarily made choices based on their own experiences, while still others were too fearful to move at all.

As a result, what should have been an easy enough battle ended up very much the opposite—the outer defenses collapsed, with the reinforcements charging in far too late. In the blink of an eye, those tasked with guarding the main camp dropped to the bloody earth...

And before Altina stood the man with the trident.

✧ ✧ ✧

Ten paces remained between them. How many had he killed to get here? His once-black robe was stained red all the way to its outer hems as though he had raced through a downpour of blood, and chunks of seeping flesh clung fast to the weapon in his hand.

The man smiled like a beast. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, princess of the Empire.”

“A three-pointed spear... You must be Gilbert Schweinzeberg, the Mercenary King.”

Altina drew the sword at her hip. She had guards, but Gilbert had come with four others who looked exceptionally skilled.

“How could this be...?” As his own failings dawned on him, Regis’s entire body started to tremble. In his mind, he was begging for the earth to swallow him up.

To think he would attack a camp five thousand strong with less than a thousand men himself...

“Princess,” Gilbert began, “you’ll be coming with me. I’ll trade your safety for our supplies.”

“You really consider my life of equal value to the Empire’s future? No one in their right mind would accept that deal.”

“That’s something... Well, we won’t know unless we try.”

There were plenty of ways to break a person, and Altina was quite a powerful unifying force. Were she to be tortured into ordering that High Britannia’s supplies be returned to them, what would the result be? Someone like Jerome would never concede to such a command, but what of the other soldiers? Perhaps they would follow it, meaning there was a chance Gilbert could reclaim what they had worked so hard to secure.

Regis cursed his naivety. They must’ve decided to capture our commander when the fog started setting in... With five thousand defending the main camp, he had considered this impossible to achieve. But the enemy had broken through so easily. He had taken Renard Pendu too lightly.

Not to mention, he had definitely failed to judge the newly incorporated soldiers properly. Belgarian troops were revered for their strength, but that wasn’t to say every man he scraped together was a great warrior. He had failed to use his forces to the fullest.

While it would mean the former Second Army’s soldiers would hog all the glory, he should have fortified his defenses entirely with the soldiers of the Border regiment. What’s more, had Regis possessed even the slightest sense for martial prowess, perhaps he would have realized that the soldiers he’d taken in wouldn’t be able to fight off the mercenaries.

There had been so many options at Regis’s disposal, and yet he failed nonetheless.

Gilbert slowly approached, his trident resting across his shoulders. “There’s one thing I want to ask you... The weather. We always keep an eye on it, and you don’t get fog under these conditions. What did you do?”

Altina wiped away a bead of sweat trickling down her brow; simply confronting the Mercenary King had made her considerably tense. “Our strategist is a magician,” she answered.

“Oh, really? I see... When I was looking at the ground on the way here, I noticed something—wet and dry patches. Maybe you splashed a large volume of water all over the place. Magic, eh?”

“So you already figured it out...”

“In which case, I can understand all those half-assed raids last night. Your goal was to keep us at camp, lest we spot one of your folks spreading the water about.”

At that, the princess remained silent.

Gilbert nodded, taking her lack of denial as an affirmative. “That’s quite something. Your strategist... Regis d’Aurick, was it?”

The Mercenary King scanned the camp, looking from the guards around Altina to Enzo and his apprentice. Finally, his eyes stopped on Regis.

“You.”

“Eep. Y-Yes, sir?”

He guessed correctly on the first try. Had Franziska mentioned what he looked like? Or was he too gangly to even pass as a soldier?

Gilbert broke into a smile. “Kuahahah! I see! So you’re Regis!”

“Can I... Can I help you...?”

“You actually outsmarted me! When it comes to strategy, this is the first time I’ve been so thoroughly bested. To think, you’ve got a bloke who can make fog at will. You really are a magician!”

Despite the man’s laughter, Regis couldn’t feel even a hint of amicability from him. This was more akin to a sneer from the devil himself, causing a chill to shoot down his spine.

“I schemed to ensure it wouldn’t come to this—to make sure the Mercenary King didn’t reach the princess. If we’re talking about strategy, this is unequivocally my loss,” Regis replied, desperately trying not to pass out on the spot.

“Yeah, I get where you’re coming from. If you’ve got five thousand combatants defending the place, you normally wouldn’t expect someone to reach you, right? Well, that’s where you’re wrong, kiddo. Battles aren’t all about numbers.”

“To think the poor drilling of our soldiers would cause such a dire situation...”

“Oh, c’mon. Drilling? That ain’t it, either!”

“Pardon?”

Gilbert flourished his trident, then pointed it toward Altina. “What do you think decides a battle? The answer is willpower!” he declared, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes.

“You’ve got that right!” Altina exclaimed, readying her own weapon. “I left everything to Regis and didn’t consider how my soldiers felt. This is my failure. I sat back just because we had so many on our side.”

“Well said, Princess. You failed. Now, it’s time for you to pay the price!”

“What are you talking about, Mercenary King? The price was allowing you to stand before me.”

“Oh?”

“I am a princess of Belgaria! Don’t think I’ll simply do as you please!”

“Kuahahah! Very gallant of you! I don’t hate the thought of trampling a noble’s dignity before making them beg for their life. I’ll strip you bare and have you nailed to a cross, Princess!”

“How vulgar!”

Gilbert suddenly kicked off the ground, the undergrowth beneath him shooting up into the air as though his legs had exploded. He closed the distance at speeds unthinkable for a human, and while the guard soldiers reached out their weapons in an attempt to block his path, they were being held back by the four other mercenaries.

Unimpeded by the incoming spears, Gilbert closed in. His trident shot toward Altina’s eyes, but she twisted her body to avoid it.

“Try again!”

“Bwahah! Is that supposed to be a dodge!?”

Like a twisting snake, the trident homed in on her. For Gilbert to have changed his weapon’s course mid-thrust, his might must have been extraordinary.

Altina blocked the attack with her longsword. “Not a problem!”

“Then have another!”

He drew his spear back instantaneously, only to thrust again the second one normally would have retreated. What followed was the shrill clash of metal as Altina managed to catch the trident with her blade. Had she been a moment later, its prongs would have skewered her arm.

“I’m in a rush!” Gilbert roared. “I’ve got no time to play around!”

“Kuh!?”

The Mercenary King lunged forward again. Despite how closely Regis was watching them, he was barely able to perceive the next attack; Gilbert stabbed at Altina so many times in such quick succession that he could no longer keep up. It was either the same speed or faster than what he had seen from Jerome.

The ear-jarring screech of metal resounded through the air.

Regis thought for a moment. He was useless. He had failed miserably. He would accept the blame and take any punishment awaiting him. But that was a matter for later—right now, he needed to do whatever he could to help.

Gilbert’s objective is to capture Altina; he gains nothing by killing her. Plus, he and his men would end up surrounded by five thousand soldiers thirsty for vengeance. He’ll probably do anything to take her alive.

“‘Probably’ isn’t good enough... I need to be certain,” Regis muttered, shaking his head. He couldn’t fail again, and so he decided to make his hypothesis loud and clear. “Gilbert’s aiming to take the princess’s sword!”

“I admit it! But knowing that isn’t going to help you!” he growled, continuing his intense barrage. But Altina didn’t run. Instead, she gritted her teeth and endured each strike.

“Khh...!”

Even as someone who didn’t know the first thing about martial arts, Regis could tell that Altina was reaching her limit. But if she wanted to become empress—the person who shouldered the very Empire itself—she couldn’t turn tail and flee from a mercenary. This was an overwhelming clash of willpower and technique, and as things were going now, it would end just as Gilbert wanted it to.

The sword in Altina’s hand let out a sharp noise as its blade suddenly sheared.

“What!? How did you break it so quickly!?”

She had managed to block the strikes aimed at her body, but now she had no means by which to fend off any further attacks.

A fearless smile crossed Gilbert’s face. “Ha-hah! The tips of my trident are forged from the faerie silver trystie!”

“Huh!?”

“Let’s start... by breaking an arm!”

As she was now, Altina had nothing to block the oncoming horizontal sweep...

But, at the very last moment, a man wearing a fluttering brown robe leapt in the trident’s path. Balthazar. He slid back on his feet as he caught the heavy stroke.

“Phew. I see. This one’s strong...”

“Wha—!? Balthazar!?”

“Argentina... Is that slender blade really your weapon of choice? The blacksmith awaits you.”

“B-But... in a one-on-one duel...”

There was no time to dawdle. Regis ran over to the princess as well, stopping close enough to grab her by the shoulder. He was now well within Gilbert’s range.

“Altina!”

“Regis!? Why are you out here when you can’t even wield a sword!? When even a hamster could defeat you!?”

Harsh, but accurate. Even with Balthazar holding the Mercenary King back for now, just knowing that he was within the range of that trident made not only Regis’s knees but his entire body want to give out. But he couldn’t run away alone.

“I-I came here to persuade you...” he said, his voice quavering in terror as he spoke. “Altina, is your goal to be a master swordsman? Or an empress who leads the people?”

“What!? An empress!”

“In that case, rather than fighting fair and falling as a swordsman, shouldn’t you seek victory by whatever means!? To protect the country!?”

“Gh...!”

Regis’s time to convince Altina was running out. The Mercenary King once again swung his trident at Balthazar.

“Out of my way, old man! You’ll strain your back playing with anything bigger than a cat!”

“Hah!”

Gilbert must have been holding back when fighting Altina, so as not to kill her. He let out a flurry of swipes and thrusts, moving so quickly that they appeared to land almost simultaneously. Balthazar, however, parried each one as though he knew where it would be in advance.

“Kuhah! What joy!” Gilbert roared as he stepped closer. “I didn’t think I’d find someone other than the Black Knight who could parry my attacks! Let alone an old codger like you!”

“You scoundrel! Why work as a mercenary with such skill under your belt!? Become a knight! Protect a nation! Protect its people!”

“My brigade is my country! I protect them, and don’t you forget it! I don’t need a lecture! And I can’t let the princess get away!”

Another ferocious thrust. Balthazar attempted to parry, but the sheer force knocked him to the ground. He could no longer get up. His breathing was ragged, but there was a broad smile on his face. “Hah... Hah... What a pity... If only I was twenty years younger...”

His right arm—that is, his sword-wielding arm—was bent from the wrist at a frightening angle. It was very clearly broken.

Gilbert raised his trident high into the air. And then—

“58th spearmen division, get behind him!” Altina shouted. “59th through 80th divisions, don’t let the other mercenaries get close!”

The soldiers in combat scattered and disjointed, reorganizing on her order. Troops armed with guns following close behind her, Altina stepped forth, a new sword in her hands.

✧ ✧ ✧

Gilbert frowned. “What’s this? Has the fear of death led to a sudden change of heart? I heard the Empire’s fourth princess was fixated on fighting fair and square.”

“So my personality was factored into your plan.”

“Naturally. You’re the one I’m at war with.”

“No need to worry... I’m not going to use my men as shields.”

The massive scabbard slipped away, laying bare the treasured sword. Compared to before it had been sheared, the hilt was completely different: there was a massive weight at the pommel, almost like a hammer; it had been stripped of any excessive ornamentation; and the parts were now considerably thicker. According to Enzo, they had also changed the materials used, ensuring they were harder and heavier this time around.

Having been given a polish, the wide blade glimmered an even brighter silver than before. Altina saw her reflection in its surface so vividly that she could count her own eyelashes.

She turned her gaze to Gilbert, meeting her foe with a sharp glare. “I’m going to become empress, and to that end, I can’t lose. No matter what. I must accept help to buy time. And should my sword break, I shall fight on with a new one. I’ll take my strategist’s advice as well.”

Gilbert shrugged. “Wasn’t sticking to a one-on-one duel what got you accepted as commander in the first place?”

“I’ll have to ask my soldiers. After I’ve beaten you, that is!”

Altina rushed forth without a moment’s hesitation, lunging forward with her massive sword. With the spearmen closing in behind him, Gilbert couldn’t simply draw back to avoid the attack. Instead, he attempted to strike it down with his trident.

However, as it came into contact with the new Grand Tonnerre Quatre, the polearm let out a painful grating noise. The fact that only its prongs were made of trystie put the Mercenary King at a clear disadvantage.

He gritted his teeth. “The rest won’t hold up for long... But no matter how splendid your sword might be, its weight means you won’t be able to keep up with my attacks!”

Gilbert prepared to begin another flurry of strikes—the same technique he had used to break Altina’s longsword moments ago.

“Don’t swing! Deflect!” Balthazar cried out, still resting on the ground.

Altina nodded. Rather than attempting to knock away the oncoming trident, she turned her blade so that its flat would redirect the first blow. The moment the weapon made contact, she nudged it aside, pivoting the sword around where she was gripping the hilt. That slight motion alone was enough for the pommel to quickly change places with the blade, drawing a massive arc through the air.

“Ngh!” Gilbert hurriedly retracted his trident, ceasing his attack. Meanwhile, Altina was taken aback by her own success.

“Oh, I see. That’s why it’s so big... Even with such a slight hand movement, the resulting slash is tremendous. Before, it was so top-heavy that every attack dragged my body along with it.”

“Kh... Not yet!”

Gilbert attempted to stab Altina again, but to no avail—she pivoted her sword to move its cross guard, scraping away at her opponent’s weapon in the process. Rather than swordsmanship, it was closer to manipulating the helm of a ship.

Had Gilbert been armed with a weapon that could stand up to even the Empire’s treasured sword, perhaps he would have changed his approach. But he had never before fought against someone who could block his thrusts and damage his trident in a single move. Unlike before, when Altina would use momentum and sheer force to hammer her foes into submission, she could now corner him simply by keeping up her guard.

Countless cracks ran down the shaft of the Mercenary King’s trident. The battle with Renard Pendu was surely coming to a close; no matter how strong they were individually, neither their stamina nor their weapons could endure a battle against more than ten times their numbers. Once they were worn thin and their weapons broken, each mercenary would either be killed, taken prisoner, or surrender.

Gilbert was evidently no exception when it came to accumulating fatigue—his movements were becoming increasingly sluggish. But even then, he twirled his trident in a grand flourish.

“I can’t lose, for their sakes!” he declared. “Have at you!”

“I need to win to change the Empire!” Altina cried in turn, swinging her sword in turn. “Haaah!”

A furious wind swept over the two as they met, the grass scattering beneath them. The silver blade struck the bloodstained trident, and...

The trident shattered.

Once Gilbert had lost his weapon, the soldiers forming a wall behind him stuck out their spears. He squatted down on the spot, completely resigned. His eyes were closed and his back straightened, as though signaling for them to finish him already.

The soldiers let out an almighty cheer, a ripple of joy spreading through their ranks. What they had sought—what they had longed for—was a leader who would guide them to victory. Their voices, extolling both the princess and the Empire, spread far and wide across the highlands.

Regis sighed. The wind continued to blow, and when he looked into the distance, he could vaguely make out sunlight and the outline of a hill.

“The fog’s clearing...”