Chapter 67: The Shaken City

On the battlefield, I had never been more certain that we would win.

Fred, on his tall warhorse, raised “Ink Shadow” high and galloped along the edge of the outer city wall. Wherever his horse’s hooves thundered, deafening shouts rolled through the sky:

“Victory! Victory! Victory!”

If the most power ful warrior on this continent had already fallen at our feet, what else could possibly stand in our way?

Yes, we—victory was ours!

The attack had begun anew. This would be a fight to the death, a battle that would not end until one side was finished. A city—to a soldier, it was a word that meant grandeur, majesty, and supremacy. It was a solemn existence that scorned weapons, scorned blood, and scorned life itself. It was an unnatural, deformed monster created by humanity to besiege itself and slaughter its own kin.

And now, the city was wavering.

Its bricks and stones had not loosened. Its height had not lowered. Its foundations still pierced through the skin of the soil, clinging tightly to the bones of the earth. But its heart was already shaking.

Perhaps it had already sensed that for this army that had just created a miracle, there was nothing that could not be conquered! Before their raised blades and spears, the city was nothing more than a pile of bricks stacked a little higher.

The first scaling ladder was set against the wall. A small, nimble figure climbed upward. His body cleared the crenellations of the battlement. He swung his blade—there was blood on it. Then, a spear pierced his chest. If this had been half a day earlier, he might have fallen from the wall in despair, becoming just another nameless soul beneath the city walls. But now, the doomed warrior grabbed the spear that had stabbed into his body and, with the last of his strength, lunged onto the wall. He used his body, already losing its warmth, to crush the enemies before him, carving open a tiny gap for the comrades behind him.

When the desire for victory became an instinct, even the most humble and cowardly person would die with courage.

We were fighting, and so was the enemy. At last, I saw the golden-haired prince set aside his commander’s reserve and fight as a warrior. Watching his bearing, I felt that even without royal blood or the position of commander, he would certainly have earned fame across the world as a hero. The knight’s sword in his hand was bright and clear; even blood could not tarnish its brilliance. It swung again and again at the bravest warriors on the wall, using their names to add to its own glory. Just as Fred had done at Kampnavia, this leader of both wisdom and courage always appeared where the battle was most desperate. Even in life-or-death combat, he seemed to radiate a brilliance like the sun. Whenever his figure flashed by, it stirred a proud roar:

“Courage! Glory! Victory! For His Highness!”

As if fighting alongside that man was the greatest honor of their lives. And then, those warriors in armor of different colors from ours turned into mighty soldiers we did not wish to see, forcing back the attackers who had just found their footing.

“A truly excellent commander is not just someone who uses strategy to lead soldiers to victory,” Fred said approvingly, his eyes never leaving that legendary opponent who had won his respect. “He also becomes the faith of his subordinates, making them willingly walk through fire and water, defending his name with their lives. Prince Louis is exactly such a person.”

I did not doubt his words. But he had left out another great person who deserved the same highest praise—and that was himself. Fred had done the same thing under equally unfavorable circumstances. No—he had done it even better.

“But I will win, Jeff. Victory belongs to us!” His eyes burned with a stubborn, fervent longing—the longing to fulfill the dream of a lifetime. To defeat him, then end this war with his own hands—perhaps that was his greatest belief right now, I guessed.

No matter how brave the enemy was, the scales of victory were tipping toward us without any way to stop it. More and more of our men crossed the defensive line, fighting in a chaotic melee with the enemy. In some areas, we had even begun pushing the enemy backward. Falling in the battle groups were not only the infantry holding their positions, but also cavalry in brightly colored armor. On this city wall where horses could not move properly, every rider had to abandon the dignity of being a knight and fight alongside the infantry. At this moment, their lives were worth no more than anyone else’s. At least, the color of the fluid that sustained their lives was no different from anyone else’s. When blood mingled with blood, the fallen peacefully searched for the final resting place of their souls together. Rank and nationality could no longer stop them from getting along.

When Red Flame and I could no longer hold back, urging Fred to gather our finest troops for a decisive charge, he stopped us.

“Be patient, my friends. There are at least eight thousand defenders in the city. Their strength is far from spent,” Fred explained to us.

“But we have almost won,” I said.

“If that’s the case,” Fred replied, “then even without adding more troops to the attack, we can still win. Wouldn’t that be better? If I’m right, the Winston still have a trick up their sleeve. Even if we sent in our main force now, we still couldn’t take the city in a single push.”

“If that’s the case…” Poirot asked, puzzled. “Then why would they make such a dangerous move?”

“To probe our bottom line!” Fred turned and told me. “When you are confident you can repel an even stronger attack, showing weakness at the right time can make a greedy enemy reveal all their strength too early. A head-on blow at that moment can completely crush the enemy’s morale, and can even have the miraculous effect of turning the battle around. The balance has to be handled very precisely. Only a truly great commander would dare use such a method.”

“So you’re probing their bottom line too.” A flash of insight struck me, as if I had grabbed onto something.

Fred looked at me and nodded approvingly.

“However…” He turned his head and gazed at the city wall, speaking as if to himself. “To dare to put on such an excessive show of weakness, even risking your own life—that requires not just courage, but also a deep understanding of the elasticity of your defensive line and immense confidence in your reserve force.”

“If that’s the case, we can never win.” Hearing Fred’s words, Red Flame dejectedly stabbed her blade into the ground.

“Humans are all such cunning creatures…” Red Flame’s tone was somewhat indignant, but there was no displeasure on her face.

…

Even though I had guessed correctly, I still could not believe it. This brutal battle, which had already killed nearly eight thousand people, was actually just a mutual probe between two powerful commanders. War gave those in high command more power to decide the lives and deaths of others, and made the lives of soldiers on the front line even more worthless. A tremor surged through my chest, followed by disgust. This disgust was not aimed at any particular person, and could never be aimed at my friend—he deserved it less than anyone. Everything he and Crown Prince Louis had done was merely following the rules of this battle. I didn’t know who or what this disgust was aimed at. If it was aimed at anything, it should be war itself—that tide of fate that manipulated the paths of people’s lives, erased the difference between noble great men and despicable villains, and made this unfair world even more unfair.

Oh, that unstoppable tide of fate…

Finally, the elasticity of the Winston defensive line reached its limit. We had already taken control of nearly a third of the wall. If it were allowed to collapse any further, the situation would have become beyond saving. At this moment, the enemy’s actions confirmed Fred’s prediction:

Their reserve force appeared.

Every commander skilled in the art of war, even with only a few soldiers under his command, would keep a reserve force ready before battle, so that his plan would not be too rigid in execution and could maintain maximum flexibility for adjustment. These reserves were usually versatile warriors capable of both offense and defense, ready at any moment to face any possible enemy and handle any unpredictable emergency on the battlefield. But in some special situations, some commanders would prepare a reserve force with a single purpose. That usually happened under extreme battle conditions, when the battlefield situation could be completely predicted.

Without a doubt, Crown Prince Louis had foreseen the problems that would appear on the battlefield, and he had chosen the right reserve force.

What kind of soldiers would unleash the greatest power on a narrow city wall, giving them enough strength to reverse this nearly irreversible decline and retake the lost defensive line?

Heavy Infantry. Only Heavy Infantry!

Rows of heavily armored Heavy Infantry poured onto the city wall from who knows where, chopping off the arms of the Delanmayans who had nearly wrapped themselves around the waist of the goddess of victory.

They moved slowly, their heavy swords whistling in the hands of these brawny giants. Ever since stepping onto the wall, their footsteps had not paused. Compared to the wall beneath their feet, this wall of theirs—made of steel and lives mixed with discipline and duty—seemed even harder to shake. Before them, bravery might as well have been a joke. Many brave—and braver—Delanmayan soldiers fell on the wall that had already belonged to them. Their courage deserved praise, but they were struck down by an even more powerful word, without the slightest chance to get back up.

That word was: “Power!”

Indeed, on this narrow wall where fewer than ten people could walk side by side, what could compare to these fully armored, enormously strong warriors who pressed forward in neat formation like a moving mountain? Here, they were undoubtedly the most powerful existence. Their heavy swords might not have the right to decide whether the enemy lived, but they foretold the enemy’s death.

If I guessed correctly, these should be the last card Prince Louis had to play. And this card was indeed large enough—fully two thousand Heavy Infantry covered the entire wall. Behind them, nearly two thousand exhausted soldiers were resting. Once they recovered, this wall would become a solid fortress that we, with only the fewer than nine thousand soldiers remaining behind us, could never destroy.

The soldiers were still charging forward, wave after wave. At the foot of the inner city wall, more and more wounded soldiers lay groaning, suffering under the crossbows and heavy objects of the defenders. One soldier’s left leg was bent at an unimaginable angle, and his right leg and left arm had also broken when he fell. His voice was already hoarse from screaming in pain, and he was dragging himself backward bit by bit with the feeble strength of his right hand alone. Away. Get away from this wall piled with blood and tears, away from this hell that did not belong to the human world. He no longer wanted to know what sights lay behind this wall. All he hoped for now was to be as far from it as possible. He just needed to hold on a little longer, just a little longer. Once he left the range of the crossbows on the wall, the comrades in charge of rescue would come to save him.

Ahead, he could already see the rescue team with white cloth bands tied around their arms running toward him. They had seen him. He was about to be saved. He could forever ignore the slaughter behind him, waiting for this battle to end as a gloriously wounded soldier.

Then, he died—killed by a crossbow bolt. Perhaps it was a bolt that had lost its aim, flying crookedly through the air, but it happened to pierce his neck. His head snapped upward, a layer of deathly gray rising in his eyes. His mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. Then, he never moved again.

Directly ahead in the direction he had been crawling, fewer and fewer soldiers were preparing to attack. Perhaps only two or three squads were ready to charge onto the battlefield. If they were lucky, the current rhythm of intense attacks might last for the time it took to eat one meal. And then, of those soldiers, fewer than a third might still be alive.

Looking at the situation on the battlefield, continuing this slaughter was probably meaningless. With the limited forces we had on hand, there was no way to break through this solid wall. The enemy had already begun cheering—for victory, for the undiminished reputation of their commander.

But the battle still had not stopped, and the bleeding continued. In the eyes of the great Prince Louis, his opponent had probably violated the qualities of an excellent commander, gambling with soldiers’ lives for personal fame in an impossible battle. In fact, I was also caught up in these feelings, even though I had never for a moment thought that Fred had lost this victory.

“Isn’t this too cruel, Fred? These brave soldiers have done their very best. They’re doing something impossible. If you gave them an order now, they wouldn’t have to die…”

“If we did that, even more people would die,” he answered. “We all know that.”

“It’s different!” I said, my emotions rising. “I know this method can save more people, but does that mean these soldiers have to die? I feel… I feel like we’re committing murder…”

“Think about those who have already died, Jeff.” Poirot comforted me. “Think about them. If we give up, their lives will have been given in vain. Even though you can’t see them, they are all around us. They know all of this. If we give up because of a moment’s mercy, that would be an insult to the dead.”

“Life is not equal, my friend. Sometimes, certain people’s lives really are more precious than others’. Some people must be sacrificed. At times like this, we can only measure and weigh lives with mathematics…” Fred’s voice was also trembling slightly.

“…If this is a sin, then let me bear this guilt…”

At this point, even if Fred had been willing to withdraw his attacking troops, everything was already too late. The last batch of soldiers on the battlefield had already charged toward the enemy, to deliver their doomed attack. Prince Louis was still fighting on the wall, together with his loyal soldiers. He naturally paid no attention to this attack that showed no sign of progress. But on this battlefield filled with the smoke and flames of war, he might not have noticed that in the southwest corner of Davo City, a plume of smoke was rising. That pitch-black column of smoke was strange—it swayed in the wind but was hard to blow apart, shooting straight into the blue sky, sending a dangerous signal to some unknown corner of the world…