Chapter 33

The temporary peace was shattered. The land reclaimed from monsters was now being taken by the same human race. The ambush by the private army of the Creist Kingdom temporarily disabled key points, and the gap was more than enough for the overwhelming force that poured in. After several clashes, the provisional border guard lost its organized resistance, and the defense line collapsed. The fate of the people who lost their protectors was always tragic. Those who remained in the village were bathed in the thousands of hungry malice and devoured by the army like a locust plague.

The old Felius farmer's family, who had barely escaped the chaos caused by the militia, had been fortunate until now. While many survivors of the great upheaval lost their families and scattered, the family managed to reach Selta and survive, spanning three generations. The village that had been their homeland had turned into a monster territory but was returned to human hands by the pioneer soldiers, and the farmer settled with his family.

The wheat seeds he carried and fled with sprouted, and after much hardship, he achieved a harvest. At that time, the wheat was as dear to him as his own children. But now, the farmer was fleeing again with the wheat seeds and his family. They passed through a slope that seemed to go on forever, with forests on both sides. Although the highly dangerous monsters had been eliminated, some stragglers were drawn to the commotion and crept closer. Indeed, there were bloodstains where something had been dragged into the gloomy depths of the forest.

The family had been walking all night. The fatigue that clung to them made everyone look pale. Realizing their limits, the farmer stopped to rest temporarily. His wife applied herbs to the children's feet, which were red and bleeding from repeated friction, causing painful calluses.

"Want to ride on my back?"

"No, I'm okay."

When the farmer called out to his second son, he shook his head and refused. The tender consideration of his child, who was not yet ten, was now only painful.

"Don't be shy. Unlike grandpa, I'm still strong."

The man patted his child's head and squatted down. How could a parent not carry one or two children?

"That's nice."

"It's your turn."

"Okay!"

Smiling at his child, who looked enviously at his siblings, the eldest son exclaimed happily. Perhaps they would make it to Selta. The farmer's modest wish was about to be crushed by reality. It was a distant, muffled sound, but it was clearly heard.

"..."

The surroundings also noticed the anomaly. The sparse line of people gradually quickened their pace. The farmer's family was no exception. Then, the scream of an unknown person announced the situation.

"Creist militia! Ahh, aahh!!"

The line of refugees went into a frenzy. Everyone ran desperately, but those who had no strength left fell one after another. Many fled into the forest, abandoning the road. The farmer continued to run with his children. His elderly father and wife were also running hard, but their breaths were ragged, and their legs were stiff with fatigue.

The screams were getting closer. Looking back, he saw the spears wielded by the Creist militia trampling a family that tried to escape off the road. The light infantry that had advanced first were killing the refugees indiscriminately. What should he do? Should he flee into the forest— but then he wouldn't be able to reach Selta. Waiting in the forest were not only monsters but also the intensified mountain hunts against the defeated soldiers and citizens. He couldn't choose a slow death.

"Why, why are they the same Felius people?"

"My legs, I can't run anymore..."

The lament was drowned out by the harsh voices and death cries. Perhaps the neighbors who were swallowed by the great upheaval met the same end. The farmer, who should have protected his family, felt ashamed. Fear rose, exposing his cowardice.

"Grandpa will drive them away."

"Father-in-law!?"

The farmer couldn't believe his ears at the sound of his father's voice. The old man, whose back was completely bent with age, drew the short sword he had carried as a war trophy.

"Father, that's—"

The farmer knew from hearsay that his father had served in the military and fought against monsters and humans. He was proud of his father, who had fulfilled his duty. But it was reckless. There was no way he could defeat fully armored active soldiers.

"Shut up, you fool. Listen, don't look back, don't look back at all."

Despite his stern tone, the old man gently patted his head, bringing back memories from his childhood. His eyes were filled with the same firm resolve as when his mother died from an epidemic and his father, returning from his post, hugged him and said, "I'll raise you well, even if it's just you." His father, who let go of him reluctantly, stepped away from the family. The farmer was speechless.

"Hey, grandpa, no!"

"Look forward, and run."

The farmer, his voice trembling, urged his children. Crying would only disrupt their breathing. A metallic sound followed by a dry thud echoed. The family, as agreed, did not look back. The clamor of battle grew slightly distant. But it was only temporary. The farmer, who knew nothing about war, was certain. They would be caught. His father died without a single cry. What was the point of his death— was it in vain?

The small hands holding his were trembling, and the child on his back was breathing heavily from tension. The weight was precious to the farmer. That's why he understood his father's feelings, as if his heart was being torn apart.

"…It's my turn now."

"Please, you, you!!"

The children clung to him, determined not to let go, and his wife collapsed in tears, trying to stop him. The farmer's resolve only grew stronger.

"Run to Selta, and stay strong."

Handing over the wheat seeds and pushing away his family, the farmer faced the impending death. He drew a short knife, which seemed insignificant compared to the long spears aimed at him. His throat tightened, and the tears that flowed from the flood of emotions pressed on his breathing.

"Huh, huh, huh, ah, aahh..."

The old man fought without making a sound to prevent the family from looking back. But the farmer, pitifully, let out a sound. The cluster of bloodstained spear tips approached, like countless branches that had sucked blood. He could see their faces clearly. In contrast to their mocking expressions, the farmer gritted his teeth. He couldn't handle weapons, but he was determined. Even if he died, he would cling to them even after death.

◆

The people, pursued from behind, vomited blood and fell to the ground. The militia looked quite experienced— it was easier to loot those who didn't move. They couldn't run or hide their possessions. The group, intoxicated by the blood that satisfied their hunger, saw a brave old man in Freug's eyes.

"Squad leader—"

Quietly, yet clearly, one of his subordinates called out, seeking a signal.

"Not yet, they're still far. Besides, if we intervene now, the people of Myard will be crushed."

To save many, some sacrifices were necessary. Half-hearted intervention would only increase the casualties. Many who had experienced the battle in Dandueg had some sense of gratitude to the Principality of Myard, large or small.

The old man's sharp sword skills were impressive. He crushed several spear tips and temporarily stopped the group's advance, but at the cost of his life. The existence he was willing to die to protect was in danger. Not only Freug, but the experienced soldiers were also anxious. Those who had lost their families and hometowns in the mainland and relied on Selta for their livelihood had come to like Myard as their new home.

As a soldier, Freug detached his emotions and waited for the right moment. But as a human, his emotions screamed. Don't give up, run, a little more, faster, a little more. Following the old man's example, another farmer turned around. He held only a small short knife. The Creist militia, frustrated by the old man, were ready to impale the farmer with their spears, partly to vent their frustration.

The farmer's panic was visible from a distance. It was easy to mock, but how many soldiers could stand in front of a cluster of spears. Freug gave the order, slightly faster and higher-pitched than usual.

"Target, the front of the enemy group— Fire!"

The twelve magic soldiers of the squad, abandoning their concealment, unleashed their magic. The four elemental magics ravaged the enemy ranks. If it were a simultaneous fire attack, it would be easy to finish them, but it wasn't that simple.

"Ah, ah, ah—?"

"My arm, my arm!!"

"Magic soldiers, if you stick together, you'll get hit."

"Don't leave on your own!!"

In the fading dust, the results of the attack were visible. Some were dazed by the shock, sitting down, while others swung their lost arms with their spears. The soldiers, like hunting dogs before their prey, waited for the next order. Freug released their leashes.

"All units, charge!! Cut them off. Cut them off!!"

Spurred on by the command, the strong soldiers charged. The soldiers on both sides formed a line, but Freug, leading the charge, thrust his spear with the momentum of his run. The shaft bent, and the tip, cutting through the air, broke through the militia's incomplete defense. The blade, making a high-pitched sound as it struck the helmet, ran along the temple and tore the soft neck.

Blood spurted like a fountain. In the blood mist, Freug was already targeting his next victim. The regular Creist officer who led the militia, trying to calm the chaos with his shouts. As Freug's soldiers followed, clearing the path with their spears, Freug himself pierced two militia men on his way.

With no obstacles left, the Creist Kingdom's commander was exposed. The sharp thrust was deflected by the flat of a sword, but repeated thrusts caused blood to seep through the damaged armor.

"Someone, help, ohh!?"

The commander, seeking support, but the difference in training was clear. No matter how many monsters they had killed, they had never faced a unit armed with malice and equipment. A spear that slipped in from the side pierced his knee. It was a blow from an unoccupied subordinate. This was not a place for a duel. Freug had no intention of engaging in a one-on-one fight. Rather, a one-against-many situation was what a soldier should face.

"Stop, ah, ah, ah..."

The future of those who crawled on the battlefield was bleak. What was offered was not a hand but a spear butt and a boot.

"The squad leader is dead!?"

"Should we retreat, what do we do?"

"Retreat, retreat!!"

"Fall back, fall back!!"

Despite the unharmed light infantry squad in front of them, the militia, trapped in the battlefield's hallucinations, turned and fled.

"They're breaking. Pursue and finish them!!"

The squad leader's words were repeated by the officers. This was to convey the group's intent to the soldiers during combat. A well-trained group could fight without words, but no commander would silence their soldiers during combat.

"...Foolish."

If they had faced them head-on, they wouldn't have been killed one-sidedly. As they fled, their backs were pierced by spears, and they fell, tripped by the ground. Retreat was the most difficult action in combat. It was impossible for everyone to escape without a rearguard. The pursuit, or rather, the massacre, continued until the last soldier.

"They died with their loot."

The reason for their slow retreat was the loot they carried. Even in their last moments, they kept the loot but discarded their weapons. In a war where supply lines were not fully established, looting was tolerated by the military as a means of local procurement. There were limits to what individuals could carry, and in some battles, it was tacitly or explicitly allowed to boost morale. The Haiselk Empire's army had also practiced this.

"The dissatisfaction of the Felius militia was stronger than expected. On-site rampage, public execution, and venting are appropriate measures."

The military couldn't run on idealism alone. But there were limits. If the occupied land, which was also a production base, was destroyed, it would only complicate reconstruction. Haiselk imposed restrictions and limits on looting in important areas by military order. From a humanitarian perspective, the small country of Haiselk could even be said to value human resources. People were killed and killed, but they were not allowed to die in vain.

"The number of soldiers can swell, but officers and non-commissioned officers take time to train. Creist, burdened with people, is suffering from indigestion."

The problem was the failure to gradually absorb the land and people. The management had reached saturation. Freug poked the dead bodies with his spear, held in reverse. If they were just pretending to be dead, it would expose their true intentions. If that happened, the ones he had cut off would have died in vain.

"Squad leader!! Report on casualties."

The one who called out was the oldest officer among the squad leaders under the squad leader.

"...How was it?"

"Twenty-three dead, thirty-five wounded, but with the treatment from the front-line healing mages, most can return to the front. Two couldn't be saved, so we put them out of their misery."

"I see, thank you. You've done a lot of work in my place."

The senior squad leader, who had compiled the casualties from each unit, reported to Freug. The scattered bodies of the Creist militia. In terms of the kill ratio, it was at least ten to one. Considering the scale, it was a good result.

"Have the wounded, along with the units that suffered the most, fall back first. The road ahead is long. We can't afford to be completely exhausted."

The order from Colonel Justus was not to defend or reclaim but to buy time until the scattered forces in various places could be gathered and conscripted.

"Understood. By the way, should we clean up the bodies?"

"Leave them. Even if they were obsessed with looting, the impact of slaughtering a squad-sized unit is not insignificant. They will be aware of counterattacks and ambushes."

It seemed like a victory, but in the overall picture, it was a clear disadvantage. The efforts of individual units were not enough to change the course of the battle. Besides, the current suitable Felius militia, though survivors of the monster territory, were flexible and growing. They would learn from their fallen comrades, whether they liked it or not.

To switch his thoughts, Freug raised his head. In the wide view, the dead bodies and the gathered soldiers were visible, but among them were people who stood out. They were the farmer's family that Freug had called to charge and had been about to attack.

"The grandfather is dead, but the father survived... If I were a guardian, would that family have survived, and would the soldiers' sacrifices have been fewer? No, it's a foolish question, even to me."

Discarding the meaningless question, Freug prepared for the next battle. He wouldn't be troubled by the ones he would face with his spear.