Chapter 43

In the midst of cherry blossoms dancing in the wind, Misaki opened the old diary and read the words of promise written there.

A rough, high-pitched scream, which seemed impossible to come from a human throat, echoed through the pass. The discordant symphony of pain produced by the people was created by a single imperial knight. In the crucible of heat, Worm was assessing the fate of those who were burning. The magical barrier, which served as a second skin and could even repel magical exposure and close-range weapons, showed resilience even against the Will-o'-the-wisp for some individuals. Those with a certain level of skill and resolve might dare to face the imperial knight, cutting through the sea of blue flames.

The army before him was composed of numerous infantrymen, who were expendable. Even so, if the skilled soldiers and strong warriors among them could be singled out, it might have been possible to eliminate the imperial knight. However, the intentional mix of skilled and unskilled, the strength of the group, had turned into a weakness in the face of the scorching blue flames.

"The fire, it won't go out!"

"Ugh, aah—"

Soldiers danced wildly, trying to brush off the flames reflexively. Some fell to the ground to escape the flames, but the uncontrollable crowd paid no heed to their feet. What awaited him was countless boot soles, and the muffled cries of agony announced their crushing.

"Fall back, aah, fall back!"

"Don't push, aah—stop, let go!!"

Once the wax melted, it burned fiercely and never stopped. Even the ancient strong ones, protected by the sturdy magical barrier, were swallowed by the human tide and the heat wave. Surrounded by the flames on both sides and the external force of the group, how many could remain calm?

A soldier who tried to climb the earthwork was pulled down by the shoulder and fell inward. Retreating comrades were the worst possible hindrance. But those who were drowning would grab at any straw. Those who grabbed and those who were grabbed only wanted to escape the blue flames. A figure leaped out from the chaotic crowd, heading in the opposite direction of the majority, aiming for the imperial knight.

"There's no retreat except to cut off the Will-o'-the-wisp user!"

Even in this situation, there were those who, though few, tried to control the situation and cut off the source of the fire. It was the enemy commander who had led the charge over the pass. Roaring that a full retreat of the entire unit was impossible with the limited escape routes, he was supported by a thin magical barrier that irregularly flickered from the Will-o'-the-wisp, burning his clothes and skin. Whether it was pride or duty that supported him, he was a significant figure.

"Follow the centurion Paramus!"

A responding non-commissioned officer took control of the half-mad soldiers, pushing forward in a mass that could hardly be called a formation. For the soldiers, the non-commissioned officer was a lifeline on the battlefield. In a field battle, they might have engaged in a fierce struggle with them. But it didn't happen. This was the killing zone of Myard's carefully prepared position. Worm was only one element to complement the feigned retreat of the undertrained battalion.

"Spare us the friendly fire."

A siren-like whistling sound shook Worm's eardrums.

"Ugh, aah—"

One of the pursuing soldiers bent his body into a C-shape, emitting a hoarse cry. Several spells cut through the swirling blue flames. They were earth projectiles. As planned, Deborah's magic troops and throwers began their support from the elevated position. The compacted earth projectiles shattered limbs and armor, and countless projectiles rained down on them. One by one, they fell behind, and the commander called Paramus shouted.

"Stop, stop!!"

His chest plate was distorted, his left arm hung limply, and his skin was already charred black. Still, he did not stop. Even as the soldiers accompanying him disappeared—Worm, through the mask, glared at the enemy who had come closest and swung his halberd casually.

The axe head, entering from the shoulder, cut through the armor and emerged from the hip bone. Paramus, slashed diagonally, fell face down. His scorched fingers dropped the longsword, which hit the imperial knight's half-boots. It was Worm who had cut him down and mercilessly sent his subordinates to their deaths. The emotions he carried were no comfort to the dead, perhaps even an insult. Still, he could not help but say it.

"Indeed, it reached you."

Lifting his face to witness the death, he saw the late-escaping militiamen throwing themselves from the earthwork, cliffs, and slopes. Some would survive, depending on where they landed. The attack on the imperial knight was not entirely in vain. The plan was to spread more chaos at the earthwork.

"...I'm sorry."

Worm spoke in penance. It was not for the dead before him but for the tragedy to come. Those who had crossed the earthwork were calming their hearts, which were about to burst from tension and confusion. They might have regained their senses, helped their comrades out of guilt, and the voice trying to regroup from the other side of the earthwork belonged to a surviving officer who recognized the crisis.

The swirling blue flames rapidly withered. The stagnant air, the choking smell of burning flesh, and the clinging heat lingered on the plain. What remained in the clear vision was a bonfire of what was once human. There were no survivors. But it was not over. It was not over. The enemy, leaning forward, was about to be punished, and if they collapsed, there was only one thing to do. A strong voice, like a mountain breeze at night, echoed.

"All units, charge!! If you slack off today, you'll regret it tomorrow!!"

It was a statement that hit the essence of things. The drillmaster understood it well. The attack drums sounded to accompany the charge order. Worm, preceding the thunderous charge, leaped over the earthwork piled with corpses.

"Hurry up, get up!!"

"They're coming, the Myard soldiers are coming!!"

"Pick up your weapons, don't run. Defend against the pursuit at the earthwork!!"

In the shade and on the approach paths outside the pass, the half-burned soldiers groaned. What they shared was fear and anxiety. Having assessed the situation, Worm pushed them from behind. His target was the officer who served as a calming agent for the group. Ignoring the common soldiers, he closed the distance in one swift move.

"Ah, aah!?"

"It's the Will-o'-the-wisp user, aah!!"

"Don't waver, take him down!!"

The more severely burned soldiers crawled and tried to avoid him. Still, there were brave soldiers who stood in his way.

"My arm, aah!?"

"How can you stop that?"

Worm, using the magic-imbued halberd for a powerful strike, sent limbs and heads flying. If he only considered efficiency, it was a wasteful move. But as a demonstration of overwhelming power, there was no better place. After cutting down four, a path naturally opened up.

"You're the centurion, right?"

In response to the imperial knight's question, the only surviving centurion answered with a draw of his sword.

"Damn you, come if you dare!!"

Magic lit up the sword blades. He must have had skill, likely a promoted soldier. Raising his halberd, the longsword was swung. The powerful strikes of the halberd and the sword repelled each other, and after a moment of deadlock, the sword tip was redirected with the elbow.

The man, without hesitation, tried to close the distance to cover the opening. His movements were smooth and battle-hardened. In fact, the centurion's shoulder found its mark on Worm's chest. In the presence of countless soldiers watching in silence, the centurion, without making his next move, wavered. A warm sensation tickled Worm's skin. The hot liquid was the blood gushing from the neck. The mask, like a dry desert, drank the blood pouring down.

"Monster, you—"

The centurion, seeing the mask drinking the living blood, muttered in reproach as the life drained rapidly from his eyes. His weak arm could not grasp anything and collapsed at Worm's feet. The branch blade, thrust forward with the charge, tore through the throat, glistening with blood. Despite the enemies to be killed, the Clayest militiamen's bodies were as heavy as lead. They could not even speak, but the army that had crossed the ridge finally came to their senses.

"The enemy is—"

Those who spoke and raised their weapons were met with the blood-soaked spear tips. Without much effort, Worm buried them and extinguished the group's resistance.

"Charge!!"

"Push them to the bottom!!"

The trained battalion, following the drillmaster, had Yorgim and Moises guiding the soldiers. The new recruits, descending the slope, swung their spears and swords at anything in their path. Worm had trained them.

"Don't blindly strike the armor!! The blade will chip and just let them escape!! Aim for the flank or the legs, that will stop them."

They were only a few days out of their first battle and did not know the ways of the battlefield. A light push to the back of a fleeing enemy would not stop them. The target should be the vulnerable flank or the legs that support their escape. The neck, with a small area and hard to hit, was not suitable for beginners.

To show an example, he shaved the legs of a descending soldier with the branch blade, causing the Clayest militiaman to collapse to his knees. The man, trying to get up, was met with countless blades. Pounded mercilessly by the inexperienced new recruits—over and over again. The second fall was eternal.

"...He's already dead. Don't beat the corpses."

While it was troublesome for them to cower like puppies, the intoxication of blood was also a concern. Through minor failures and trial and error, the new sprouts, supported step by step, followed Worm's teachings and pursued the enemy. The difference between the two armies was significant. There was no room for leniency. Even if they had a local advantage, both Myard and Haiselk were being cornered on the whole battlefield.

The pursued soldiers, rolling down the hill, dragged their comrades with them. There was no one left to correct or stop the disorder. The blood that overflowed on the Orzeka Hill turned into a river, flowing down the slope, containing countless dead.