Chapter 80: Entrusted With Command in Crisis

“I didn’t save anyone, sir. I only did my duty.” At their first meeting, this officer who looked like an old butler reject Fred’s goodwill to his face with a stern expression. “Also, I would prefer you to call me Lieutenant Colonel, sir. No matter what you think of me, I hope you will treat me as a soldier.”

“Then on behalf of Your Majesty the King, I thank you for fulfilling your duty well, Lieutenant Colonel.” Fred was not bothered by his impertinence in the least, and continued speaking in a friendly tone. “I apologize, but I am not very familiar with you. Although you are a staff officer, you don’t seem to speak often at meetings.”

“Should I lower myself to argue face-to-face with those fellows who have lived for decades without ever learning to tell war apart from a war game, sir? I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. And, forgive my rudeness, but you, sir, don’t seem to speak often at meetings either.” Viscount Pekra—oh, Lieutenant Colonel Pekra—answered Fred’s question with a slightly proud and disdainful look. At this moment, he was like a completely different person from that cowardly nobleman who never argued with anyone.

Fred finally showed his first smile of the night. He smiled and exchanged a glance with me, then gestured for this extraordinary lieutenant colonel to sit down.

“What are your thoughts on the battle situation, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“During the attack just now, the Cretans have already sent up smoke signals requesting reinforcements. By dawn we will likely see their first wave of reinforcements, and after that, more will keep pouring in without end. If the enemy’s reinforcements are dealt a heavy blow, it will strike a serious blow to the morale of the defenders, which will help us take the city. From that perspective, the key isn’t the town itself, but the reinforcements outside.”

“If I gave you fifteen thousand fully equipped soldiers, how long would it take you to break into Chamela?”

“If I could be assured that no reinforcements would interfere, I believe we could capture Chamela Town before lunch.” Lieutenant Colonel Pekra lowered his head and thought for a moment, then spoke.

“Very good. That’s about what I hoped for. Lieutenant Colonel Pekra, the twelve thousand infantry and one thousand cavalry here will fight under your command. Around two thousand Heavy Infantry will arrive before dawn. I order you to take this town before noon without fail. Don’t worry about the reinforcements—I will cover you.” Although I knew that Fred’s genius mind often came up with many surprising ideas, I was still startled this time. Fred took a sip of water as he spoke, as if what he had just said was something trivial like “help me fetch the book” or “your button came off,” and he handed over his command almost without any trace of emotion.

After hearing this, Lieutenant Colonel Pekra’s whole body shuddered, and his mouth fell open in shock. He had never imagined that a few short sentences would make him the de facto supreme commander of this army, while Fred, the supreme commander himself, was going to cover his operation. He stammered, “Sir, th-this is impossible. You can’t use fewer than three thousand Light Cavalry to hold back the reinforcements…”

“This is not something you should be worrying about, Lieutenant Colonel.” Fred stood up, unbuckled the sword bestowed by Your Majesty the King, and handed it to Lieutenant Colonel Pekra. “Take it. If anyone disobeys your orders, show no mercy. If you are truly worried about my safety, then capture this town sooner.”

After saying this, Fred turned and walked toward where the cavalry was gathered, leaving behind a bewildered Pekra holding the sword. In the direction Fred was heading, the sky at the horizon was already showing the pale gray light of dawn, and a thin but bright ray of light trembled restlessly along the edge of the horizon, tinged with the colors of blood and fire.

You don’t need to know who was the first to raise a weapon , nor who was the first to collapse to the ground. When the battle resumed in the gradually brightening dawn, all you could see were weapons thirsting for blood and soldiers rushing toward death in order to survive. I stood at Fred’s side, watching the killing ground reopen before us, and my heart was filled with confusion.

“Why aren’t you commanding the battle yourself?” I asked.

“I’m not a god, Jeff. I can’t command two battles at the same time. Someone has to go block the reinforcements. Just as Pekra said, the most important battlefield is outside the city. This army can only be commanded by me, my friend—this is our secret weapon.” Fred winked at me cheerfully.

“Do you trust Lieutenant Colonel Pekra that much? Maybe he’s just an old man who can only talk, no different from those noble brats. This is too risky.” Rodrick said from the side.

At this, Fred’s expression turned somewhat serious. “Yes, it is risky, but I can only trust him. Rodrick, and you too, Jeff. Unfortunately, to be frank, neither of you has the ability to fight based on your own independent judgment and to take command of the overall situation. But Lieutenant Colonel Pekra at least has exceptional observation and judgment—his grasp of the entire battle is stronger than yours.”

Fred’s words filled us with shame, and Red Flame, standing to the side, also felt his face lose its luster. His assessment was fair, and with a single sentence he laid bare the vast, clearly visible gap between us and truly outstanding commanders. I felt a bit irritated—irritated at my own incompetence, at being unable to step forward when my friend needed me and share the heavy burden on his shoulders.

“Don’t be discouraged, my friends. Everyone has their own outstanding qualities. Rodrick, you are an excellent field commander, able to turn orders into action in the shortest time. Red Flame, you are the finest warrior—as long as you are around, our soldiers will never lose their fighting spirit. And you, Jeff, perhaps you are not outstanding on the battlefield, but you are a genius at logistics and supply coordination. You are no worse than anyone. I am proud to have friends like you.” Seeing that we were somewhat downcast, Fred’s expression softened, and he comforted us warmly.

I must admit, receiving his praise made me feel much better.

Beneath Chamela City, the fierce battle continued.

Fred’s judgment was correct. This army, which had nearly collapsed in front of the city gates, displayed tremendous fighting power under Lieutenant Colonel Pekra’s command. Time and again, they struck one point with overwhelming force, then pretended to retreat in defeat, lulling the defenders into complacency, only to launch another powerful assault at a spot where the enemy had let down their guard. Once, twice… three times in a row, the lieutenant colonel’s little tricks nearly succeeded. It was not until the fourth time that the Cretans atop the city wall seemed to catch on to the lieutenant colonel’s habitual tactics. When the fourth attack retreated, they watched closely the movements of the rear formations of the Delanmaya assault troops, shifting the focus of their defense along with the movements of the army below, so as to prevent the enemy from attacking their weak spot again. But at that very moment, the retreat gong that had just sounded suddenly became the horn of attack. The assault troops, who had already been withdrawing, immediately turned around and threw themselves back at the city wall. The two units that had been slowly shifting in the rear halted their lateral feinting and instead joined the assault on the wall. This counterattack came in such a fierce surge that the Cretans were caught completely off guard, and many Delanmayan soldiers had already climbed onto the city wall. Unfortunately, the Cretans showed their tough side in that moment of crisis. The soldiers scattered along the wall quickly gathered together, reorganized a powerful defense, and once again forced the enemies who had set foot on the city wall back down below.

In these repeated, flexible attacks, the Delanmaya Army displayed unprecedented discipline. Every order was executed correctly and swiftly. Even when contradictory commands sent the soldiers on the battlefield running back and forth in seemingly futile motions, not a single man disobeyed. Although the ones commanding them were only a mid-ranking officer and a not-so-distinguished nobleman, the noble officers still reined in their arrogance and willfulness, and did nothing that violated the rules of the battlefield. I think Count Kargil deserved some credit for this—by offering up his own head, he taught this army what orders meant and what punishment meant. Of course, the headless count was in no position to claim that credit for himself anymore.

At this moment, Chamela Town was like a rock in the water, enduring the onslaught of great waves from every direction. Wave after wave, made of killing blades, surged up wherever they were supposed to surge, following the sword in Lieutenant Colonel Pekra’s hand, testing the sturdiness of this city wall with the passing of one life after another.

This was the first time I saw Lieutenant Colonel Pekra holding a sword. Even with a gleaming blade in his hand, he still did not look like a soldier, but rather like a teacher holding a pointer. His slack right hand and twisted grip made it all too clear that this commander, so brilliant in directing troops, had received almost no training in close combat—he might even have been worse off than a drunkard holding an empty wine bottle. Just looking at him like this, I would truly wonder how such a man had managed to get into the army. He looked no different from those dandy sons of nobles who joined the military to gild their futures. There was not a trace of a soldier about him—except for his eyes. When he looked at the battlefield, his gaze was as sharp as a falcon’s, gleaming with the luster of a sword’s edge. That was the gaze of a warrior—and not just any warrior, but an old veteran who had endured countless battles and witnessed countless deaths and bloodshed.

At this time, the morning sun rose into the sky thick with murderous intent. The traces of blood all over the ground melted into the bright sunlight, carrying a crystalline sorrow, as if the goddess of the earth, unable to bear witnessing the horror of this slaughter, was shedding tears of blood. Under Lieutenant Colonel Pekra’s command, the main force of the attacking army shifted entirely to the eastern side of the city. Although the troops would be blocked by the moat there, because they faced the sun, the Cretans’ bows and crossbows had lost their accuracy.

This attack was no longer a feint like the previous ones. After several probes, Lieutenant Colonel Pekra had temporarily abandoned the mobile tactics that the enemy had gradually grown accustomed to, and decided to fight a straightforward, orthodox siege battle here against the Cretans. He gathered the strongest forces he had, hoping to secure victory in a single stroke with the help of the favorable celestial conditions. He had chosen the right time and the right place. The sun, which on ordinary days sent warmth and light to the earth, was now utterly ferocious to the Cretans. Its nearly horizontal rays stabbed straight into the Cretans’ eyes, smearing their vision into patches of light and dark. Hidden behind those patches was the Delanmayans’ merciless rain of arrows.

More wooden bridges appeared over the moat—fortunately, we had prepared enough wooden planks in advance to deal with this troublesome river; otherwise, Lieutenant Colonel Pekra’s frequent shifting of attack positions would have been completely useless before this not-very-wide moat. After that, siege ladders were propped against the city wall. These specially made ladders had iron grappling hooks at the top, and once one hooked onto the battlements, pushing the ladder over was no longer an easy matter.

Even with the help of the favorable celestial conditions, our warriors still advanced with great difficulty. Although the Cretan archers on the wall had lost their aim, they had not lost their will to resist, nor the weapons in their hands. To minimize the influence of the sun, they even leaned their bodies out over the battlements and shot straight down at the base of the wall, reaping the lives of their enemies with their weapons, completely disregarding the fact that they were exposing themselves to the attackers’ dangerous rain of arrows. Their losses were astonishing. I had never seen a defending side’s ranged units suffer such heavy casualties in the opening phase of a siege.

Their sacrifice was worth it. More Delanmayans were carried to the resting place of their souls by those terrible arrows before they could even reach the city wall. But they could not completely stop their enemies: the Delanmayans had nowhere to retreat. They had only two paths to choose from—capture this town, or die miserably with no provisions inside and no reinforcements outside. This harsh single-choice question nearly made the Delanmayan soldiers assaulting the city lose their fear of death. They were almost certainly doomed to die, but even if death was the same either way, why not struggle before dying and drag the enemies who had taken away their chance to live down into hell along with them?

And so, our warriors climbed up the city wall.

The first man set both feet on the bricks of the city wall. He bent low and fought desperately with the saber in his hand to knock aside the blades and spears coming at him. There was no doubt that he was brave, and skilled at martial arts, able to dodge fatal attacks from every direction again and again under extremely unfavorable circumstances, and even managed to cut off an enemy’s right hand during a counterattack. If he could survive this battle, he would at least become a lower-ranking officer at the level of squad leader. With his abilities, he was fully qualified for such a position.

Unfortunately, he never got that chance.

As he turned to block a battle axe swinging at his chest, he saw an arrow aimed at his face.

He froze for an instant.

That arrow struck his face.

The powerful bowstring, at such a short distance, unleashed tremendous force, driving the entire arrowhead deep into his face. The arrow tip pierced through his skull and emerged from the back of his head. The poor man’s facial features were tangled around the arrow shaft. His nose was completely caved in, his lips were torn open, revealing yellowed teeth and shattered gums. His torn eye socket could no longer hold the weight of his eyeball, and his right eye was squeezed out of his face, trailing a thin but tough fleshy cord of blood behind it. I remembered Millia telling me that it seemed to be something called the “optic nerve.” Because his skull had been pierced, a mass of milky-white fluid streaked with blood flowed out from where his nasal cavity should have been, instantly flooding his face—if he could still be said to have a face.

I witnessed all of this from below the city wall, and could not help but feel sorrow for this young man who had died too soon. But on the battlefield, what could truly protect your life? Courage? Wisdom? Martial skill? Or perhaps your weapon, your mount, or your luck—unknown to all yet seemingly everywhere?

No. None of these things were of any use. In this place where all the justice and morality of the world were turned upside down, the life of a brave man was not necessarily longer than that of a coward, and the breath of a fool did not necessarily last shorter than that of a wise man. Luck? That was even more of a joke. Only those who survived had luck, but those who had luck did not necessarily survive.

Presumably, the Cretan commander also felt the pressure of danger. He shouted loudly atop the city wall, personally leading his close followers into the fray again and again, cutting down Delanmayans who had not yet found their footing and driving them back down the wall. By this time, the sun had risen high enough that it would no longer cause the Cretans much trouble. The Cretan garrison troops stationed inside the city also rushed up to the wall in wave after wave, charging into the chaotic melee and filling the gaps left by their dead comrades with their own bravery. The Cretan archers also played their string music of death once more, forcing back again and again the enemies who charged toward the foot of the wall.

In the end, the Delanmayan soldiers on the wall, having lost their reinforcements, were cut down one by one by the enemies who held the local advantage. The command to retreat sounded from within the Delanmaya army’s formation. Our warriors fell back amid the cheers of the enemy.

I looked toward where Lieutenant Colonel Pekra stood. He stood there motionless, gazing forward with a firm and powerful look in his eyes, showing not the slightest frustration over the failure of this assault. I looked up at the sky again. It was the moment when the morning air was at its freshest. The sun had drained its last drop of red, casting its blazing white light across the earth.

“Don’t rush,” Fred said, seeing what I was doing, and lightly patted my shoulder. “We still have time.”

Suddenly, a clear horn sound came from the southeast. In that direction, dust rose into the air like a cloud of mist, obscuring the shapes of the distant mountains.

From the top of Chamela City’s wall, another horn sounded in response—sharp and urgent, as if in a rush.

The atmosphere on the battlefield instantly grew tense. The morale atop the city wall soared to an unprecedented height. The Cretan soldiers had barely emerged from the joy of repelling a powerful assault when the arrival of their reinforcements ignited their fighting spirit anew. Meanwhile, the morale of the assaulting army sank at the appearance of the enemy’s reinforcements.

“It’s our turn to take the stage.” Fred leaped onto his horse, drew his battle saber “Ink Shadow,” and shouted loudly: “All troops, assemble! Special charge formation!”