Chapter 212 - A Truly Exquisite Dish

The moment the tide of battle turned decisively in his favor, Marcus pulled back instead of surrounding the enemy. As flags waved the signal to withdraw and horns sounded the agreed call, Border Guard's troops halted their frenzied advance. "Stop! That's far enough!" As the allied troops withdrew, starting with the advancing Turtle heavy infantry company, Rem grumbled.

"Come on, we're just getting started." Blood dripped from his axe blade. Seeing him smile as he spoke like that, several allied soldiers who had been about to cheer averted their eyes. Even Encrid found him frightening, but surely he wasn't mad enough to swing his axe at their own men.

'His fists, perhaps.'

An idle thought. Even knights grew tired after prolonged combat. Why would Rem be any different? His axe work did seem to be losing a little of its finesse. The five of them had cut down dozens—no, over a hundred men. And it hadn't taken them long. No one who had witnessed this battlefield would ever forget the names of the five men standing at its heart. Indeed, the enemy had stopped in their tracks the moment Encrid announced his name. They were terrified. Afraid. Their spirit was broken. Marcus had opened an escape route for them at just the right moment. Marcus glanced at Encrid's distant party, then looked elsewhere. A blue flag flew high: the signal from the Border Guard force that had maneuvered to the right.

'The detached force is taken care of too.' Judging by the losses on the front, even calling it an overwhelming victory was laughable. The enemy had lost to five men. A victory of politics, of cunning. A victory for the commander who had kept Encrid so well concealed. "Aren't we pursuing?"

The Second Company Commander came up beside him, panting. Marcus shook his head.

"Let them go. Even a cornered rat bites a cat, and even a cornered Ghoul uses that handful of brains it has." Krais, who had quietly settled in with command—the place he considered safest on the battlefield—heard the battalion commander's words.

'He's letting them go.'

Was it because, for all their killing, they still belonged to the same kingdom?

'What a shame.' It was the commander's decision. It wasn't Krais's place to object. They could have captured the enemy general with just the heavy infantry or the Border Guard force, without even using the Lunatic Company, yet he was letting the man go. He had never intended to capture him in the first place. Was he instead using this opportunity to demonstrate Border Guard's strength? Even so, it was a shame.

'Capturing their general would bring us a handsome return later.' They could have extracted a great deal from Martai in exchange for releasing its captured general.

'Securing trade routes.'

Border Guard was now fully prepared to become a trading city in name and substance. Securing trade routes, especially through Martai's territory, would therefore be crucial. That was the easiest benefit to negotiate with the enemy general in their hands. Was that all? No.

'A ransom.'

A man who called himself a general or whatever must have considerable wealth. Releasing noble captives in exchange for Krona was commonplace. It happened often even between enemy nations bent on killing one another. And this was Martai's mayor and general. Officially, he was an ally. Martai was known as a mercenary city, and Krais understood how it amassed its Krona. That was why it was such a shame.

'We could have made a fortune in Krona.' At this point, Battalion Commander Marcus had to be either stupid or devoid of greed.

'He doesn't seem stupid.'

Krais scratched his chin. His actions so far made that clear: concealing Encrid, deliberately drawing in the enemy, then striking. No idiot could have managed that. And to entrust all the glory of the battlefield, and victory or defeat itself, to a single man?

'His guts must be swollen to bursting.'

The strategy was so bold it bordered on madness. And this was what it looked like when it worked. Cheers erupted into the blue sky.

"Raaaaah!"

"Encriiiid!"

"Attack us!"

They raised their spears.

"And die!"

THUD!

They shouted as they drove their spearpoints into the ground. The surviving allied soldiers' morale was higher than ever. Which made this all the more regrettable. If they pursued the retreating enemy, they could fight more efficiently than ever. Didn't armies always suffer heavier losses in flight than in a head-on battle? The pursuers would hold every advantage. "Hardly any cavalry left, either, right?"

Marcus spoke again. Krais pricked up his ears.

"Yes, we took care of them all. They did keep some cavalry back from the start," the adjutant replied.

"If we hadn't opened an escape route, those bastards would have ridden in and whisked Olf away." That could have happened. Krais nodded inwardly. He hadn't anticipated it. Still, it would have been worth trying. Marcus said nothing for a while after that. The retreating enemy stirred up clouds of dust. With so many humans gathered on the battlefield, not a single demonic beast or monster prowled nearby. Even a brainless Ghoul would flee at the sight of a battle this size. Perhaps finding the silence frustrating, the adjutant spoke first.

"Shall we withdraw?" They could indeed finish things here, pull back, regroup, and celebrate their victory. Uncorking bottles to fill their bellies with wine and breaking out all manner of provisions for a feast wouldn't be bad. But Krais thought it inefficient.

'What did we even gain from this battle?' To Krais, who measured everything around him in Krona, this battle had yielded nothing. The joy of surviving? The satisfaction of crushing an enemy who attacked them? What use was any of that if it didn't turn into Krona? Well, those things would become Krona eventually, but there was no immediate reward. That was quite a shame. Still, the battle was over. Just as he thought it must be time to return, Marcus, who had left the adjutant's question unanswered for some time, spoke.

"The entire army will advance." "...?"

Advance?

Krais tilted his head. This time, he couldn't hide his reaction. Fortunately, only Pin, standing beside him as a sort of bodyguard, saw it. "What?" she asked.

"He says we're advancing," Krais whispered. But advancing where? Ahead, the adjutant standing beside Marcus asked in surprise as well.

"Advancing where?"

"Where do you think?" Krais could see Marcus's face then. It wasn't the face of a commander drunk on victory. It was the expression of a politician or merchant delighted that events had gone exactly as planned. In other words, this wasn't over yet. "Let's go."

Marcus bared his canines as he spoke. That radiant smile revealed his intentions to Krais. His teeth caught the light with a flash.

'Ah.'

He had never intended to let this battle end without a profit. A brief realization struck Krais. A small but intense thrill ran through him. It felt like being struck by something akin to lightning, if not quite lightning itself: understanding. Krais had learned something new. 'Let them go, then follow.'

The enemy would return home. A cornered rat might bite a cat, but set it free and it would return to the place where it kept all its hoarded treasure. A chance to seize wealth. Krais took his thinking a step further. He read Marcus's intentions. Was this merely pressure? A threat to keep them from ever attacking Border Guard again?

'Not a chance.'

Of course not. Martai's cooperation could secure trade routes and all sorts of benefits. But what if they occupied the city? That changed everything. Changed the entire game. This wasn't about trade routes anymore. It would be like giving the trading city of Border Guard wings. Martai was known as the mercenary city of the east. Its troops, its power, its location—all useful. If only they could swallow it, if only they could digest it.

"A truly exquisite dish," Krais murmured. Whether Marcus heard him or not, he spoke again, his canines still bared. His teeth still gleamed in the light.

"We're going to attack Martai."

Marcus ordered the advance, and his adjutant passed the order along.

* * *

Naturally, the same order reached Encrid at the front.

"We're advancing from here?" In an instant, he considered several things: what Krais had said, their current situation, their army's morale and strength, and any problems an immediate advance would pose. None. No, one nagging concern remained. The enemy's five concealed mages were nowhere to be seen. Were they a trump card, or had they fled once they saw which way the battle was going? There was no way to know. It was through pure intuition rather than reasoning that Encrid grasped Marcus's intention.

'Take the city.'

What would happen if the growing Border Guard swallowed Martai?

'Something good, I suppose.' What did he know of what came afterward? Encrid did his part in the situation before him.

"You can sit this out if you're tired."

At his gentle suggestion to the other four, they replied:

"Are you out of your mind?"

"My name is Ragna. I can still run."

"Ho ho, Brother Company Commander. Let us go." Rem, Ragna, and Audin spoke in that order. Jaxon silently swung his sword through the air, then discarded it. He scanned the ground and picked up a relatively intact arming sword. When Encrid stared at him, he muttered,

"The blade was damaged." They had been ordered to advance, but there was no need to hurry. Marcus's intention as their commander was clear: a brisk march at a moderate pace that would keep morale high. Naturally, Encrid led the way. "Ragna, were you making fun of me back there?"

Encrid asked as they walked. Ragna tilted his head, then replied,

"I meant every word. My name is Ragna. A man who never backs down—that's me." Hearing that, Rem piped up beside them, "My name is Rem," and began snickering. They had never been normal, but now they had become bona fide crazy bastards. So Encrid thought as he kept walking. Sunlight beat down on his back as he walked on and on. They were heading east, with the sun sinking westward. For an instant, a Border Guard soldier watching his back thought Encrid was shining. Of course, it was an illusion. Something like a mirage. But he had indeed achieved feats worthy of such radiance. One soldier, revealing a talent for making up lyrics on the spot, began to sing. The words were crude and the melody ordinary, little more than a patchwork of tunes heard elsewhere, but everyone joined in to shout the final lines. "Who's the flower of battle?"

"The infantry!"

"Who's the strongest in Border Guard?"

"The lunatics!" What a troublesome song. Walking ahead, Encrid couldn't help chuckling. It suddenly felt real: they had become the unit's foremost fighting force. The cheering and shouting continued, along with a song whose lyrics went something like, "My name is Encrid!" "Enjoying yourself?"

Rem asked beside him. His smirk was irritating, but Encrid answered without bothering to point it out.

"It's not bad."

* * *

Marcus did not hurry. There was no need to let the enemy see him. Half a day after General Olf entered the city, Marcus began establishing a camp outside it, quietly and soundlessly, like a lynx. Olf had no resources to spare for scouts to watch his rear. Of course he didn't. He had lost. Suffered a crushing defeat. He had only returned alive because the enemy had opened a path for him. How could he have had the leisure to look behind him? He had returned with his shoulders slumped. "Goddamn bastard."

Olf swore he would slit that bastard Marcus's throat the next chance he got.

BANG!

Frustration, self-loathing, rage, and humiliation drove his fist into the wall. Part of the wood caved inward. "Your bathwater is heated."

It was the head attendant of the inner castle.

"Very well." It was time to remove his armor, wash, and rest after letting his fatigue, irritation, and all the other emotions welling inside him settle, simmer, and fade. Not wanting to see even his wife or daughter, Olf headed for his office.

'I'll sleep on the cot tonight. That would be best.' He entered his office with that intention, but sleep would not come. It wasn't long before a cry rang out.

"General!" The office door opened. It must have been urgent: his adjutant seemed to have run there alongside the messenger. Dressed in a casual silk shirt, Olf raised his upper body from the cot.

"What is it?" How could he describe it? The instant he asked, cold sweat poured down his back. Tension clamped around his heart.

"We're surrounded!" the adjutant said.

"By whom?" Had someone watched him lose at Border Guard and attacked? Who? Had that bastard Count Molsen planned all this?

"Border Guard's standing army!" The soldier's eyes darted ceaselessly as he spoke. He was beside himself, too. Not that Olf had the presence of mind to notice.

"... What?" Olf's mouth fell open in shock. Why were those bastards here? They had been fighting just a day ago, and then they had let him go. So why come here? He questioned his adjutant with his eyes. The adjutant spoke.

"What do we do?" A drop fell. Without realizing it, Olf let saliva drip from the corner of his mouth. Things had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Defeat. An army reduced in numbers and morale. He had squandered the troops of a noble he knew, and broken the blade Count Molsen had given him. That, too, was his fault for misjudging Border Guard's strength. Another drop fell. A second bead of saliva dripped from Olf's mouth. Neither the adjutant nor the messenger thought it disgusting. They were in just as much of a panic.