The inscription on the stele resonated deeply in the men's hearts.
That afternoon, excluding the scouts, the entire force gathered before the stone mound for a moment of silence to honor the fallen. They poured libations of strong liquor.
Crackle, crackle.
That night, several members of the command staff sat facing the bonfire.
"Who do you think Y.K. was?"
"Surely not from the Caminiti side."
"If not the Caminiti?"
A hush fell at Karl Bailyner's sharp observation.
"Well, anyone who could approach this close..."
"...Hm."
As always in such situations, all eyes turned to Brad.
"Karl's got a point."
"You mean those filthy bastards?"
"I can't wrap my head around it."
They were foes they'd clashed with big and small over long years along the frontier. It was only natural to question why they would do such a thing.
"A living enemy is a foe, but the dead are not. Besides, isn't it a fine example? 'Look, the enemy's soldiers are this loyal. We should follow their lead.'"
"You're saying they used it as a lesson for their own troops? Which means..."
Brad nodded.
"Caminiti forces were lying in wait, watching everything. Harsh as it sounds, even without the orcs, defeat was probably inevitable."
His chilling analysis froze the command staff.
After a stretch of silence, someone cautiously spoke up.
"Even so, the stone mound itself could be seen as a gesture of goodwill."
"Right. And the inscription was a noble one too."
Brad nodded.
"Exactly. It was a phrase that acknowledged the enemy and granted them honor."
Pride doesn't win battles or fill bellies. But on the blood-soaked fields where flesh is torn, it holds men together, keeping them from breaking.
In truth, the soldiers' faces were brighter after the memorial.
"In any case, the enemy commander's conduct is praiseworthy."
"Yes. Unlike some greenhorn."
"Damn it. Fighting the enemy is tough enough without our own commander..."
Brad smirked at the grumbling about the Third Young Lord and stood.
"I'll head in and rest first."
"Yes, sir. Good work, Commander."
"Good work, sir."
Once Brad left, the company captains rose one by one. There was no more talk without booze, and the area was one where combat could erupt at any moment.
"Karl, not turning in?"
"Can't sleep, so I figured I'd check on the watch."
"Then we'll head back first."
"Please do."
Karl Bailyner sent the captains off and rose from his seat.
He was a native-born warrior and healer who had shone in countless battles. His skill with herbs was exceptional—rumor had it he'd saved enough men to form an entire battalion.
As the eldest, he also served as the unit's second-in-command.
"You there, Mogly? Clean this up, will you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll make a round."
As the soldier on watch extinguished the bonfire, Karl strolled into the woods with his hands clasped behind his back.
Fortunately, there was no orc provocation that night.
It was a quiet night, mocking the survivor's tales of countless orcs.
And another day dawned.
The troops efficiently handled breakfast and assembled before the mound.
"As you've all seen with your own eyes, even our enemies showed respect to comrades who fulfilled their duty. Thus, I'm changing the mission."
Brad's briefing led straight to work orders.
"This is the Obelisk remembering our comrades' devotion, and it will become Westguard's sacred ground in the future. From now on, expand and reinforce the stone mound."
"Will this be their resting place?"
Nil voiced the question for all, and Brad nodded.
"All troops, gather stone. Rangers, continue scouting. Any questions?"
"Any size restrictions on the stones?"
"Boulders or pebbles, all have their use. Doesn't matter."
"We lack tools for quarrying stone."
He pointed to the wagons lined up before them.
"Go around nearby and take only what you can carry back. Anything bigger, we'll handle later. Company captains, lead your men."
"Yes, sir. Everyone, gather up."
With a glance from Brad at the captains, work began.
"You heard the commander. Ten men per wagon. Ray, form an emergency standby unit with the rest."
"Got it."
"Head out as soon as you're ready."
Rumble, creak.
The wagons scattered in all directions, soon returning laden with stones.
"Use big stones for the shape, small ones to support."
"Not on top. See, wedge the small ones between the big ones to bear the weight and reinforce strength."
Those with building experience directed the finer work.
"Don't fuss over round or flat—just find a good spot. If you can't figure that much, come here. What's the point of living? I'll send you straight to our comrades' arms myself."
"Yeah, if you can't even follow orders, you're no man—you're an orc."
"True that. Heh heh heh."
"Enough laughing. Move out. On to the next spot."
Creak, rumble.
Grueling work, yet the soldiers hauled stones without complaint, piling them onto their comrades' resting place. The process repeated all day.
Thus, the stone mound gradually shifted from a simple cone to a beautiful hemispherical form. The stele was simply moved forward, accepting someone's goodwill.
The labor's result was grand and massive.
The mound, originally man-height, doubled in size that day alone, becoming a true Obelisk honoring the soldiers' devotion.
Brad praised the command staff.
"Good work. Beyond expectations."
"Yeah, it turned out better than I thought."
Before them, soldiers toiled at final touches on the site.
"Well done, all. Rest up—we'll return early tomorrow."
"Is this enough? What if orcs damage it?"
Orcs devour corpses indiscriminately after battle, friend or foe alike. It was why even elite orcs capable of speech were classed as monsters.
"Dismantling that massive pile for the bodies inside? Too much effort for little reward, no?"
The captains nodded at the straightforward logic.
"Even if instinct rules them, they're not that dumb."
"They might eat each other first from exhaustion."
Brad raised a hand to draw attention.
"With this, we've kept our promise to our comrades. Any objections?"
"None, sir. No finer resting place exists."
"We'll explain it well to the families too."
The command staff replied in unison. As always, people would forget the defeat and remember only the noble sacrifice.
The captains turned and dismissed their men.
"All hands, cease work."
"Good job. Wash up by company and assemble—dinner then straight to bed."
"Move it. Slackers go hungry."
No chaos from the soldiers. They'd done this dozens, hundreds of times—it was routine.
Brad Cahill watched it all.
Training elite soldiers was surprisingly simple.
Survivors of victory or defeat become veterans, eventually either going mad and dying or reborn as proud warriors. Harsh, but that's the elite way.
'They just survived. And grew stronger for it.'
He let out a short sigh.
Afternoon sun was sinking red.
The next day, withdrawal began early.
Soldiers up at dawn, breakfast done, tents packed onto wagons, armed and formed ranks.
"Scouts away?"
"Scouts left an hour ago, main recon thirty minutes back."
Brad nodded at Karl Bailyner's report.
"Our turn."
"Yes, sir. First Company, move out."
Neigh.
"Whoa, whoa. Let's go."
Creak, rumble.
"Move up."
Wagons first, troops flanking left and right, advanced slowly.
"Eyes open. Short on sleep? Snap to!"
"Hand on the wagon. You! Match stride."
"Anyone run over by wheels, we leave 'em."
Thus, the wagon-centered column marched steadily.
But withdrawal wasn't smooth.
Clop, clop.
Around noon, recon returned amid dust and reported.
"Orc settlement 10 km ahead. About thirty huts. No Orc Riders spotted."
"10 km—Kiter Valley entrance?"
It was called a valley, but just hills crisscrossing with a stream and small woods. Suitable for wild monsters, sure.
"No way. That was our route four days ago."
"...Something's off. This fast?"
"Yeah. Unexpected."
Brad groaned low.
Even the calm Karl scratched his chin, face troubled.
"We cleared Kiter Valley last fall. Took over 500 orc hides—should've been peaceful for a year at least."
"Even orcs don't reproduce this quick..."
Orcs bred fast. A pair birthed 7-10 a year; young matured to fighters in one, lived average 30. Or died as warriors or prey sooner.
Still, this surge was unprecedented.
"What now, sir?"
"..."
Brad closed his eyes, still as stone.
Captains waited without pressing.
Clop, clop.
As the old knight pondered, another report came.
"Report: Orc settlement spotted 15 km northwest."
Clop, clop.
"...Reporting."
Clop, clop.
Hoofbeats continued.
Reports were uniform. Per scouts, Westguard territory swarmed with orcs.
"Commander, your orders?"
"Fight or flee? Answer's clear."
Brad commanded after deliberation.
"Goal now: survival. Ditch wagons and food. Wrap armor and weapons in tent cloth and bury. Use all pack mules and spares to carry troops. Move!"
"Yes, sir. Dismantle gear."
"Unhitch mules, gather wagons."
"Two days hungry won't kill you. Leave it all."
Troops followed orders, pooling gear. Meanwhile, Brad continued.
"Per scout intel, approach orc settlements on foot, mount up, punch through fast. Repeat till fortress."
"Understood."
"Stop digging. Camouflage with rocks and brush. Mark for later recovery."
"No fighting regardless. Unsaddle armor too."
"Feed the horses well. No extra fodder."
Soon, soldiers lined up holding reins.
"Move out."
"No chatter from now. Silence till next order."
Tension, but no disorder.
Combat could strike anytime, yet they had response time and chain of command. Routine for veterans, perhaps.
Thus, men and mounts conserved strength in quiet advance.
"Orc settlement 1 km ahead."
"Punch through fast now."
"Yes, sir. Mount up."
Snort, whinny.
"Wedge formation, go."
Fifty-odd horses charged. Three men per, but unburdened by gear, speed held. Momentum undiminished.
Thundering hooves.
Broad daylight; orcs lounging—minus hunting parties—panicked at the earth-shaking roar.
Gurgle, grrrk.
Squeal, hiss.
As flustered orcs tumbled or fumbled for weapons, the cavalry column swept past the village fringes. Over in a flash.
"Gurgle, grrrk. What the hell were those?"
An elite orc with an axe stood dumbstruck, blinking.
His gaze met only dust.
Flutter.
A yellow banner flapped at the column's head.
"Halt."
"Dismount all."
"March on foot to next target, then same as before."
This repeated two days. Mercifully, no stragglers—they returned to the fortress intact.
Clop, clop.
Snort, whinny.
Horses neighed in relief, sensing home.
Late afternoon, the avenue before the gates teemed with crowds. Their faces uniformly grim.
"You look like hell. Run into an orc horde?"
"Good grief, you must be beat."
"Looks like no major casualties, thank goodness."
Some fretted, others sighed in relief.
Brad beckoned; captains clustered.
"Nil, explain to the people—no misunderstandings. Karl, see to the men's rest. I'll report to the command post."
"Yes, sir."
Nil led his recon team into the crowd.
"Listen up, everyone. What happened was..."
"Ah, I see."
Families trusted soldiers as much as their fallen kin. Hearers relaxed; the fortress regained calm.
But one person could not.