"Can you kill him?"
"I can't kill him. Not like that. If I'm going to take down this General, it'll be head-on."
"What kind of head-on?" Throne's voice was low, his eyes razor-sharp. "Epic against epic. Hero against hero. I'll face General Radahn at his peak and give everything I've got."
"Pfft. You've got guts." Ranni burst out laughing.
This wasn't arrogance. Even Malenia wouldn't dare claim she could best Radahn in single combat. But traveling with Throne had taught Ranni something, shameful as it was to admit. The swordsman wasn't joking. He was dead serious. Her laughter died in her throat. "If you can't kill him, why should I blame you?
But as your sovereign, I have to ask—
Are you sure about this?"
Things had shifted. The plan was unraveling, and the secondary objective seemed impossible now. Throne's gaze drifted to the opposite hill. A group of black-robed figures stood there, watching. Their leader, thick-haired, flashed him a friendly grin.
The grin said it all:
How long can the Redmane protect you? Throne smiled back, tucked the doll away, rested his hand on his sword, and strode toward camp. Come and try.
The armies were mobilizing. The swamp camp was taking shape. Throne had no intention of joining either faction, so he avoided the Redmane main base. Most of the Redmane soldiers in the mountains were conscripts—militiamen with a simple task: wait for the signal and light the fires.
The Haligtree Army didn't have the resources to deal with these amateurs. The fewer they needed, the better. Campfires dotted the landscape. Throne scanned the area and froze. Someone familiar stood among the crowd. The man turned, locking eyes with him, and scrambled to his feet.
"Hey, it's you!" The one-armed veteran hurried over, snatching a roasted chicken leg from a fire on his way. He shoved it into Throne's hands. "You joined up too? Hah! I knew it! A warrior like you couldn't stay out of this fight."
"I'm just lending a hand. And you—aren't you past conscription age?" Throne took a bite of the chicken leg, then paused. Radahn wasn't desperate enough to draft the disabled or the young.
"I pulled some strings. Old buddies in the army. Don't give me that look. How could I call myself a Redmane Sword Saint if I sat out a war like this?" The veteran tapped the greatsword on his back. The blade bore a few scars but gleamed without a trace of rust.
Before Throne could respond, a group of villagers chimed in, laughing.
"The village chief is boasting again. Sword Saint? He couldn't even get into combat units."
"Yeah, he dragged us all the way here to feed mosquitoes. What's the point of this firewood? I want to earn merit by taking heads!"
The veteran's face flushed red. He grabbed a stick and swung it at them. "You idiots! Every role in war matters.
And besides, with your amateur skills, are you just going to charge to the front lines and die?" He chased them off, laughter erupting from militiamen of other villages.
"Cheka Village is falling apart, huh? Shouldn't those fields be handed back to us?"
"Bullshit! Come and take them if you dare."
"Once I train some young men fit for the Radahn Festival, I'll marry off the prettiest girl from your village!" Old Ika declared, grinning wide.
Throne tore into the chicken leg, ignoring the boast. "Hahaha, keep dreaming, Old Ika." The people of Caelid were simple folk, their lives uncomplicated.
In the grand scheme of war, they were nothing—cannon fodder at best. Yet to Throne, they were vivid, real. A veteran stumbled back into the camp, panting, and tossed down a stick snapped in two. "These idiots have forgotten I'm the strongest among the three villages."
Throne's gaze flicked to the greatsword and the battered chainmail. He nodded slowly. "I can see that."
The veteran puffed up, chest swelling. "Did you all hear that? This lord has affirmed my combat strength!" He scanned the crowd, relishing their stunned silence. They didn't know who Throne was—only that the Redmane Knight treated him with respect.
Calling him 'lord' meant he was at least a knight. To the common folk, a knight was a figure as lofty as the heavens. Throne had slain countless powerful foes, yet here, in their eyes, he was a legend.
"Alright, alright, too much will spoil the harmony," Throne said, cutting off the veteran's gloating. He leaned back, casual. "Did someone come looking for me earlier?"
"Yeah, two men. Said they were searching for a Warrior Jar. I thought of Alexander immediately." The veteran paused, picking his teeth. "Is there a problem?"
Throne shook his head, smiling faintly. "No problem. They're old friends." Now he knew how the hunters had tracked him down. But what could he do? Silence Alexander? That was unthinkable.
"That's good, that's good," the veteran muttered, nodding. He didn't press further. Instead, he lit a campfire for Throne, dragged over a few bottles of ale, and stood to leave. "Enjoy your drink. I'll go keep an eye on those brats."
"Go ahead," Throne said, settling on the ground.
He sat at the edge of the camp, doubling as a lookout. The crude bottle of ale rested in his hands as he listened to the men's discordant singing. It lacked the haunting melodies of the Bat-winged Sirens, but it was enough. The lyrics, though—crude, lewd, full of innuendo. Something about long skirts, shifting peaks, sweat, and loneliness fading away.
Throne grimaced, breaking into a cold sweat. He quickly tucked the doll back into the spirit-calling ring before Ranni could scold him. As the doll dissolved into particles, he froze. His head snapped around.
A massive shadow emerged silently from the forest. Throne's hand instinctively gripped his blade. When he recognized the figure, he let out a wry laugh. "General, your Gravity Magic is quite effective at scaring people."
It was Radahn. A man of his size appearing soundlessly behind anyone was enough to startle the bravest soul. He raised a finger thick as a radish, signaling silence. Clearly, he didn't want to disturb the revelry.
Throne shifted aside, making room. He offered Radahn a bottle of ale with both hands. "General, what brings you here for an inspection?"
"The terrain here is good. Perfect for a command post," Radahn said, his tone casual.
Throne raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
Radahn chuckled, waving a hand. "Alright, the truth is the camp's preparing for battle. I was too embarrassed to be the one leading the drinking inside, so I came out here for some air."
So, General Radahn slacks off too.
Thorne smiled faintly, eyeing the bottle that looked comically small in Radahn's massive hand. "Should I get you a few more?"
"No need. Alcohol's best in moderation. Getting wasted'll just mess with the mission." He gestured toward the crowd in the distance. "Besides, victory's when the drink tastes best."
"Well said." Thorne tipped the bottle back, the burn of liquor igniting his veins.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks for earlier."
"Earlier? Oh, the Death Hunters." Radahn shrugged, casual. "We've fought side by side. It was nothing."
Thorne knew better. It wasn't nothing. Radahn had to know who sent them. Stirring up trouble with that figure was no small matter. Capturing him? Easy. This debt wasn't something Thorne could ignore.
"Don't overthink it. You were doing Caelid's work. I don't sell out comrades." Radahn's hand came down on Thorne's shoulder, heavy enough to drive him into the earth. Thorne winced, sidestepping half a meter. Comrades? In a way, sure.
The discordant singing drifted through the air. Thorne's secondary goal aligned with Radahn's. Whoever won this battle didn't matter. What mattered was stopping the Scarlet Rot. "I wish you victory." Thorne raised the bottle again, draining it in one go. "But be careful. It'd be a damn shame for a hero like you to turn into a mindless monster."
Radahn poured the last of his ale down his throat and crushed the bottle in his fist. "You be careful too. Best to slip out during the chaos. Those hunters aren't planning to let you walk free."
Thorne spread his hands. Let him walk free? They'd already called in reinforcements to block his exit.
Once the battle kicked off, they'd probably try to take him down in the chaos. "Don't worry. I'm not leaving."
Radahn's eyes flickered. He didn't argue, didn't offer help, didn't even ask why. Everyone here was a seasoned fighter. Each carried their own weight.
Before he could speak, a flaming meteor streaked across the western sky, dazzling against the black. A dozen miles out, maybe. Scouts from both sides were already clashing. The Haligtree army wasn't far now. The singing stopped.
Every head turned skyward—some eager, some terrified. War stripped people bare, revealing their rawest selves. The meteor faded from Radahn's eyes. He laughed, thrusting his fist into the air. "Malenia's finally here! Let's fight for our destinies!" His booming voice cut through the war's grim tension.
Maybe it was the alcohol still coursing through him, but Thorne felt his blood surge. He raised his fist, clashing it against Radahn's. "Take care, General. And… I owe you one."
"You too." Radahn waved it off. "Forget the debt. Don't sweat it." He turned sharply, striding toward his command post.
A few steps later, he glanced back.
"If there's ever a Radahn Festival, you better show up. I'll be waiting."
He didn't wait for a reply. Like a meteor, he launched himself into the night. Thorne watched him disappear, then looked down at the shattered bottle gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the trees. Its fragments glowed faintly, a quiet reminder of the man who'd just left.
The words might have been meant to spur him on, but Throne heard Radahn speaking to himself. A festival gathering warriors to mourn a fallen hero—if that's all it was, better to cancel the damned thing. Could it be changed? Throne tilted his head back. The night had swallowed the stars again.
His plan was pure fantasy. Untested. Unproven. With these sudden enemies surging toward them, the odds were nonexistent. Yet his pulse hammered, his blood burned, and hesitation never crossed his mind—not even the thought of begging Ranni for advice.
He stood motionless until dawn cracked the horizon. Hoofbeats thundered closer. Redmane scouts galloped back, crimson stains on their armor, pursued by hundreds of cavalry. Thousands of iron-shod hooves pounded the earth like war drums. Banished Knights and Haligtree Knights roared as they crushed the skirmish through sheer numbers.
The Redmane Guard charged—then the enemy wheeled their mounts and fled, laughter trailing behind them. From his vantage point, Throne saw it first: a steel tide rising on the horizon, rolling across the border. Closer, another river of iron poured from the freshly erected camp.
Miles still separated them, but the air itself stiffened with battle lust. Throne listened to his own ragged breath, watched the two armies coiling toward each other, and smiled. No hesitation now. No need for guidance. It all came down to one truth:
Try, or die wondering.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Iron boots and hooves shook the ground. Trees trembled. Late autumn leaves rattled loose, a macabre rain. Throne's hill offered the perfect view—the plains below rippled with advancing steel, the Caelid road its spine.
The Haligtree banner snapped in the wind. Sunlight glared off polished plate. He raised his binoculars, searching for familiar faces, but ten thousand men blurred into a single metallic glare. Nothing else.
If communications weren't so pitiful here, this hill would've been fought over like a crown jewel. Instead, Throne stood untouched, ten miles from the front. Just a lone cavalry squad blocking the path. A grand spectacle. A beautiful spectacle.
Medieval at a glance, but magic thrummed beneath the surface. No ordinary army could march this far in full plate. Throne studied Malenia's forces first. Tower shields and heavies anchored the front. Knights led iron cavalry on the flanks.
Behind the infantry phalanx: archers of a dozen races. Behind them: auxiliaries hauling catapults. And further back—golems and Trolls, hulking shadows. The entire force arranged in perfect chessboard blocks.
Each thousand-man unit a self-contained killing machine. Cavalry shielded the sides. Infantry and archers held the front. Siege engines lurked in the rear. 'Enough to make a Roman weep.'
This was the favorite formation of a certain empire; each thousand-man unit could pivot to reinforce its neighbors, while gaps in the center let reserves surge forward like blood through veins.
He swept the battlefield with his binoculars, gaze snapping to the front lines. Beneath the colossal Haligtree banner, Malenia rode a white stallion, flanked by heroes—Finlay, Niall, Marais. Their vigilance was a fortress around her. Too many eyes watched this field, too many shadows stirred. Even the Valkyrie's sharp intuition failed to catch the presence of an old friend observing her.
Every soldier bore full armor, gleaming like a storm cloud's edge. This was the Haligtree Army, forged in the crucible of The Lands Between. Throne adjusted his binoculars to the east, studying the Redmane Army's unfamiliar ranks. They sprawled outward from their camp, wings unfurling—a Crane Wing formation.
Throne, once a retainer general, recognized the tactic. It widened the battlefield; if enemies pierced the center, the wings would close around them. The Redmane Army outnumbered the Haligtree, but only their core five thousand were fully equipped. The rest wore patchwork armor, wielded mismatched weapons.
Their ranks were a mosaic of warriors—humans, misbegotten, even Pot Persons. Each stood tall, muscles coiled like springs, undeniably formidable. Yet only ten giant golems stood guard, and catapults were scarce. Strange flame chariots caught his eye, their designs alien and menacing.
Was this their strategy? Rely on individual strength, draw the fight into the swamp, turn the terrain's complexity into chaos? Throne's thoughts raced. He shifted his gaze to the main camp's entrance. A burly man stood beside his horse, arms crossed, his stare fixed on the approaching Valkyrie. He'd been waiting, patient and unyielding.
Malenia was the same. She rode her white horse, locking onto Radahn. For the two demigods, at least at this moment, there was nothing in the world that could make them look away.