Chapter 13 - Morning Star (3)

With a will of steel, Sir Dian August endured the pain of that loathsome truth serum.

That was how Isabelle chose to remember it.

What mattered was not that Sir August had screamed filthy curses at her, or that he had clutched the forearm of the man called Ivan and tried to divulge the contents of his knightly order’s account books.

Of course, unable to bear the sight, Isabelle had promptly punched Sir August in the face.

Only after Ivan had thoroughly lectured her on the dangers of striking someone in the head when they were coughing up blood did Sir August finally manage human speech.

“Mommy?”

“Hmm.”

Ivan inspected the neatly closed wound and delivered a clear diagnosis.

“The shock has caused him to regress. Isabelle. This is because you hit him. Reflect on what you’ve done.”

“I doubt Sir August would agree. Can you get him back to normal?”

“Don’t worry. It’s a common symptom. He’ll come to his senses in time.”

Ivan surveyed the outside for a moment, then spoke.

“But all that screaming will have drawn attention. It’s about time the men lying in wait up the mountain came down. We need to prepare.”

“What about Sir August?”

“He’ll have to be carried.”

Ivan gazed steadily at Isabelle. Isabelle gazed back.

A silence passed before she finally understood his pointed look and asked in dismay,

“By me?”

“Yes.”

“What about you?”

“I have to fight.”

“I can fight too!”

Ivan looked down at her and shook his head. Her talent was unquestionably without equal among her peers, but her mind was another matter.

An incident as minor as this had left her pale, and the hand holding her sword would not stop trembling.

“I’m sure you can.”

“Your words and your actions are saying opposite things...?”

“An accurate observation.”

Ivan gave a faint chuckle and turned away. Left alone in the compartment, Isabelle heaved a sigh and hoisted Dian onto her back.

Heavy.

She had not grown so weak that she could no longer carry an adult man. The weights she trained with were heavier than Dian.

Yet the weight of this wounded, weakened man bore down on her shoulders.

She needlessly adjusted him on her back and stepped outside. Standing with the moon behind him, Ivan suddenly looked around at her.

“Your aptitude isn’t bad.”

“That’s pretty insulting. Do you even know me, mister? Since when are we familiar enough for you to talk down to me?”

“Did you get your disposition from your mother?”

“Wow, you really are asking me to draw my sword. So did you inherit your shitty manners from your mother or your father?!”

“Who knows? I can’t even remember their faces anymore.”

“Oh...! I...! Seee...? Um...”

His eyes and skin looked strangely youthful, but Isabelle stared at the bushy beard covering his entire jaw and squeezed her eyes shut.

The war had ended only four years ago.

And it had lasted nearly twenty years.

Of course, it would hardly be unusual for someone his age to have lost his parents in the war...

Somehow, she felt wronged. What, did being an orphan give him a free pass? Bringing someone’s parents into it was rude in the first place! Was it different in Krasilof? Was that just how people said hello here? (In Droan, inquiries of this sort about one’s parents do qualify as friendly greetings. Not so in Krasilof.)

Only after grumbling for a while did she realize what Ivan’s words implied, and she started in surprise.

“Do you know my father?”

“Who knows?”

Ivan smiled slightly at the rapidly shifting emotions on the girl’s face and considered the question.

Who indeed? Was there anyone who could truly claim to “know” Maximilien?

He shrugged and spoke.

“Gather the survivors. Light a fire, pull out the train seats, and cover them with blankets. The winter nights here are harsher than you think.”

“If we light a fire, what about the attackers?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“You’re going out there alone? When you don’t even know who they are?”

“That, too, is not your concern.”

This was Ivan’s first encounter with Maximilien’s daughter, and he found himself somewhat surprised.

She was the spitting image of her father in looks and talent, but not at all in temperament.

True, Maximilien had described the “sweetheart back home” he boasted about every night as warm and considerate. Still, she must take after her mother.

This was what made love so dangerous. It blinded people to others’ faults and weaknesses. Ivan chuckled and walked away.

* * *

There was a saying in the tactical doctrine Ivan had studied.

Assume the worst. Act for the best.

Back then, he had scoffed at it for being so obvious.

Until actual combat taught him to reconsider those words.

Their true meaning was this.

Assume the worst. In other words, the enemy would always attack in the way most difficult to counter.

Act for the best. That meant:

If your enemy was your worst possible opponent, then you must be the same for them.

Therefore, imitate the enemy’s tactics. The worst attack you could imagine facing would be the best offensive you could launch against them.

What Ivan had to do now was perfectly clear.

First, imagine the most terrible situation possible.

'An ambush while we’re fleeing after surviving the crash would be the worst. Worse still if they turn it into a drawn-out engagement.'

Intermittent raids in the dark of night would compound their exhaustion. Ivan might endure them, but for the injured and a young girl, they would be lethal.

So, assuming the worst, the enemy would certainly be acting on the expectation that Ivan and his group would attempt to flee.

After all, common sense dictated that when an attack derailed a train, one should leave the site and call for help.

Now, consider the countermeasure.

'Linger as though we have all the time in the world, and leave their target somewhere conspicuous. Looking helpless.'

That would force the unknown enemy to recall the personnel they had scattered to pursue the fugitives. They would now have to shift tactics from pursuit to encirclement.

This world was not a strategy simulation game. Unfortunately, it belonged to the academy genre.

“Inputting” orders did not make soldiers instantly “output” actions.

In short, the delay in recalling the pursuit teams would give him a tactical advantage from that moment onward.

And for an attacking force, encirclement generally brought a sense of ease. They would consider their quarry rats in a jar, ripe for the taking whenever they pleased. That meant they would choose their moment to attack all the more carefully.

Once they had recalled their pursuit teams, they would want to strike an inescapable blow at the perfect moment, leaving their target no chance to flee.

This was their second-best option. The “worst attack” the enemy would think to attempt.

So he would imitate it. Make the enemy’s best course their own worst nightmare. Prepare an ambush, carefully refine his offensive, and encircle them.

“Hah...”

Deep in the forest, where the shadows of night lay thick, he gripped his icy-cold pistol.

Ivan drew a silent breath, then briefly exhaled half of it.

Crouched beneath a tree, he held his breath and slowly raised his hand.

Carefully, so that shoulder and fingertips formed a straight line. Suppressing the tremors of his body’s natural rhythms as much as possible.

CLICK.

With the index finger inside the trigger guard, he squeezed slowly enough not to disturb his aim, drawing out the pressure over the span of three breaths.

Then.

BANG!

The Pistol Sniping Technique. A shooting method devised to let Extermination Unit agents launch long-range attacks with pistols when they had to conceal their weapons in enemy cities.

Beneath the moonlight, a silhouette half the size of a fingernail crumpled.

There was no need to rush the reload. The first shot had struck home. An uneasy air soon settled over the forest. The gunshot had told the enemy, too.

The ambush had begun.

And soon, they would learn something else.

This was an Extermination Unit ambush.

Given a dark night and a deep forest, familiar terrain and the right weapon, well accustomed to the hand...

In an Extermination Unit ambush, one man could encircle an entire group.

* * *

BANG!!

When the gunshot rang out far off in the forest, Isabelle struggled to hide her trembling hands and braced for the enemy’s assault.

It unmistakably heralded the start of battle. Loud enough to startle sleeping birds into fluttering flight.

The people gathered around her stared at her, shivering before the campfire.

“We’re all going to die now, aren’t we...?”

“I’m scared... I’m scared... Mommy... Mommy...”

The survivors’ sobs surrounded her. Every one of them had injuries at least as severe as a broken bone.

Overwhelmed by bewilderment, responsibility, and guilt, Isabelle lowered her head. These people had been caught up in this because of her. The fact that barely a dozen or so had survived from that enormous train weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Then a low voice sounded behind her.

“We call the hero a hero not because he is the strongest, but because he is the bravest.”

“Sir August? Are you coming to your senses?”

Still on her back, August continued in a strangely vacant voice.

“Therefore, we must not become heroes. We must not even seek to become them. For we must remain aware of our own weakness.”

“Sir August...?”

“We must stand with the weak and look through their eyes upon those who are no different from ourselves. We take up the sword neither because we are brave, nor because we are strong, nor because we are superior to others.”

There was still no trace of reason in August’s voice.

Yet, strangely, his words were clear and precise. As though he meant to engrave each and every syllable upon her heart.

“We take up the sword because it is right. Because it is just. For the cause we are duty-bound to uphold. Thus, taking up the sword is no different from giving to the poor on an ordinary day, or stopping to help the injured to their feet. Because it is only natural. Because it is right.”

“Sir August...”

“So take up your sword. Do not seek to be a hero. Knight of Thilles, you stand here not in valor, but in humility.”

Now she understood what Dian was saying.

This was an ancient, deeply traditional form of knightly investiture.

Not knighthood as a title conferred by a sovereign upon a vassal.

It was the final lesson that an order of pilgrim knights imparted to its squires.

Dian August had come from a traditional knightly order. Even now, bereft of his senses, he was recalling the words that had left the deepest impression on his heart.

“Take up your sword for a just cause. To do good is always a small and natural thing. Take up your sword not for your strength, but for your goodwill. You are now a knight.”

With that, Dian fell silent once more. Only his faint breathing remained.

Isabelle knew his service record. He was a seasoned knight who had served since the war against the Demon King’s army.

Now she understood why words such a knight had probably heard only once, well over a decade ago, remained so clear, without distortion or misinterpretation. She, too, felt she would never forget this moment for the rest of her life.

She rose, finally lifting her head to look around.

So many people were watching her. People suffering from cold and terror, pain and hunger.

People driven into this plight because of her.

Guilt still weighed upon her shoulders. But now, despite it all...

“I shall.”

Slowly lowering Dian to the ground, Isabelle stood straight before them.

The sword in her hand felt heavier than before, but the hand that had been trembling only moments ago was now calm and steady around its grip.

In her eyes, the Morning Star burned.