30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue

Chapter 263

Chapter: 263

Dust rose on the distant horizon. After a moment, a horseman came into view. He was a warrior dressed in all black, without any banners or insignia.

It was difficult to confirm this with the naked eye in the dead of night. Rather than a courier sent somewhere, he seemed more suited to the role of a scout.

And that was the truth. He was indeed returning from a reconnaissance mission.

“Yarl!!”

The scout ran in, panting, and collapsed right in the middle of the encampment. He had been running nonstop for nearly six hours.

At his cry, a large man rose from the center of the camp. A middle-aged man with red hair walked over, gesturing.

“There, you! Bring him cold water. Feed this fellow.”

“Yes, Yarl!”

The scout gulped down the cold water from a leather pouch. After several coughs, he was able to gather himself and stand.

Bloodvar’s Yarl, Baldur Skegraude, looked down at him with deep patience and stroked his neatly braided beard as he asked.

“What’s the situation?”

“They’re still fighting, Yarl.”

“Ha… still?”

The size of the demon army was unknown. It was literally an ‘unknown’ area. The last he had checked, the enemy forces numbered around thirty thousand, and even at that moment, demons were continuously pouring in from the Demon Realm.

Taurus that usually appeared on the western front, swamp goblins and stone trolls from the northern edge, and orcs, the most common enemies from the east, were all converging in staggering numbers regardless of the region.

And the only one capable of commanding such a variety and scale of troops without infighting was the Seven Dragon Lords. In other words, it meant that the Seven Dragon Lords were in this theater. Reflecting on the experiences from the Great War, his existence was palpable.

Though he had not appeared on the front, that could still be said to be a fact.

Nine days have passed.

Nine days. A mere small force of less than five thousand, including three thousand warriors from Findvald, was holding out in a fortress for nine days.

In a war against demons, a siege does not progress leisurely like the sieges of humans. There’s no waiting around starving them out by cutting supplies.

They fill the moats with their bodies, and colossal beasts like trolls and ogres serve as siege engines, endlessly constructing ladders and siege towers from the forests brimming with demons.

They would have given up on the outer fortifications. There were too few in number to defend the entire outer structure. So it meant they were holding out in the inner fortress, but to endure it for nine days?

This was a task only Einar could manage. He was the only one in this land capable of waging such a war.

All believed that the battle would last no more than three days, yet it was still ongoing more than double that time.

“Yarl, isn’t this a mistake…?”

“What?”

Baldur’s eyes sharpened. The scout, flinching, continued hesitantly.

“The enemies just keep coming! Even if Einar falls, can we stop them with just us…? Moreover, the Seven Dragon Lords are among them?”

At the scout’s words, the warriors murmured in dismay.

Though the warriors of this land do not fear death, that does not mean they would willingly accept certain death.

To them, the Seven Dragon Lords held the same meaning as Einar. A being with no chance of survival when opposed. The Blood Eagle could “die,” but for those who dared challenge Einar and the Seven Dragon Lords, survival was simply not an option.

Hence, their complaints and anxieties were justified. Baldur clicked his tongue and straightened his back. If he bent here, it would be the end. The moment his leadership was in doubt, the warriors would not hesitate to take his head.

“What would change if we went now to save Einar?”

“…What? B-but…”

“Idiot! Have you forgotten what we’ve been through these past few years under Einar’s rule? Everyone, listen!!”

Baldur shouted loudly, scanning the faces of the warriors.

“That bastard who made a fool of our ancestors told us to dig into the ground and survive! He told us to eat fish! To scrape the frozen wasteland at the edge of the north and to catch minnows between the fjords! So what has happened? Huh? You there!! What’s your name?”

“He-Herbig, Yarl!”

“Herbig! Do you have a family?”

“Yes, Yarl. I-I have one son!”

“Any other family?”

“…”

The warrior, named, tightened his expression and lowered his head. After a moment, he spoke with difficulty.

“My parents starved to death, and my wife died of illness…”

“Was that all, just one son?”

“There were two more… b-but they too…”

“Exactly!! That is Einar’s rule!!”

Prohibiting raiding between clans and commanding them to survive through trade is an idealistic viewpoint. Drovian is a desolate land, and the most common thing in Drovian is not goods, but humans.

These are warriors. They are a tribe that must struggle to survive. It might be different in the south or west, but here in the North, even more so. Cross the Northern Sea, and the Demon Realm is barely accessible, while human territories are far away.

Certainly, many would die in winter, regardless of whether it was spring or summer. As their numbers diminished, even fewer would survive until the next winter.

The four clans that are categorized as northern tribes are slowly fading away.

And that is precisely what Einar desired. Unlike the clans that occupied the southern territories, the northern clans were rebels who had fiercely resisted Einar’s unification.

So even if Einar returns alive, what future could there be? None, absolutely none. Their only remaining choices were betrayal and struggle.

“The four clans combined mean that the warriors present here number twelve thousand!! It has been extremely rare throughout Drovian history for this many warriors to gather in one place! Each and every one of you is better than five weak easterners! This means our actual number is equivalent to sixty thousand!!”

If one Drovian warrior is considered equivalent to five easterners, a legion of twelve thousand Drovian warriors could be viewed as an army of sixty thousand easterners.

Indeed, all warriors had no choice but to tremble at this clear arithmetic. Yes, this is an undeniable fact… it is a ‘truth’ that cannot be disputed.

And there has not been a large-scale battlefield with sixty thousand easterners since the last Great War. Therefore, just having this number now equates to the legions from that time, even the frontline forces that contended directly with the Seven Dragon Lords!

In the end, whether this or that, they would die, but if they succeeded in winning the fight against the demons after Einar dies, it meant they could claim all of Drovian, along with its best lands and possessions.

It is a fight to either lose everything or gain everything. And that was not an unusual occurrence in the lives of Drovian warriors.

Only struggle could guarantee their lives.

The next day arrived.

It was the tenth morning since the conflict began. Einar, six hours away at the eastern fortress, was likely still holding the demons at bay with all his might.

How many more days could they endure? It had already been a myth with the struggles thus far, but how long could it last further?

The remaining warriors dwindled to the point where they could not even enjoy minimal rest, and even they were unable to be fed as supplies ran out, and with broken arms and armor, they would be left without equipment to fight.

Then the eastern front would open. Yes, it would. And it probably wouldn’t take long.

Baldur, Ulrik, Sven, Bjorn.

The four northern lords sat in silence, awaiting the results of the next reconnaissance. They had become so tense that they no longer exchanged words.

Aside from past grievances and future hopes, their king who fought over six hours away was undoubtedly the greatest warrior in the history of Drovian.

At this moment, leaving such a warrior to die, they were chewing on the fragments of guilt as warriors before being Yarl.

And then, in the distance, a warrior was running toward them.

“Has the reconnaissance already finished? They say the demons are coming!”

Baldur jumped up, his eyes shining. If the fighting continued, those distracting thoughts would disappear.

But the warrior shook his head and spoke urgently.

“Troops are coming!!”

“What? Not demons?”

“Yes, Yarl!! Not demons, but warriors! Warriors of Drovian!”

“From where? Who?”

This was the northeastern plains. To the east lay the eastern front, to the north was their territory, and the west was too far away.

Thus, there were not enough locations where a large-scale army could suddenly emerge—

“They are coming from the north…!! From the north!! The banner of Eldbark has been spotted! Angvar is coming!!”

“How in the world did that crazy old man—!!”

Baldur cursed as he stood up and hurriedly headed north in the camp.

The glinting sunlight reflecting off the armor was visible beyond the horizon, from the rise. The sunlight shone dazzlingly on the weapons, and warriors filled the rise.

Three thousand to four thousand. Gathering every warrior from a single territory, regardless of gender or age, they mustered those numbers. That was understandable, but… from the north…?

“Our ground… has been… stepped on…!!”

Baldur gritted his teeth and shouted. The Northern Realm was now completely vacant. Aside from youngsters, old people, and women, there were no defenders remaining.

It was only natural. The demon horde was imminent, so they had to assemble their forces.

Beyond the North lay the Sea. As long as they could solely defend the plains before them, their realm would be safe from threats. Therefore, they were able to venture forth without worrying about the rear.

The price for that was now before their eyes.

A leading old man, chewing an apple, shouted loudly.

“How have you been—!!”

His booming voice echoed across the plains. Baldur scowled and rushed out. The lords and their retainers followed closely behind him.

“Tell the warriors! Tell them to prepare for battle! The bastards have swept our lands and come here!!”

“Yes, Yarl!!”

The warriors scattered immediately, passing on the orders. It would be impossible to turn the spearheads that were aimed toward the east instantly.

If they rushed in like this, they would suffer significant damage before the battle even started. They needed to buy at least a minimal amount of time.

Baldur and the Yarl rode quickly toward the northern raiders.

“Angvar—!! Are you out of your mind!!”

“Look at you, looks like you’ve been living well. Good to see you, Baldur.”

Angvar spat out the core of the apple onto the ground and grinned. The Yarls glared at him, gripping their weapons tightly.

In the distance, warriors were hastily moving toward them. They had not yet mastered their forces, but it would not take long.

Even while watching this unfold, Angvar did not move hurriedly. He casually sat astride his horse, looking down at the Yarls.

“I heard Einar has sent out a call to arms. Was everyone on their way?”

“How did you find out?”

All messengers heading out from Findvald had already been captured and buried underground. Since the conflict escalated, the fortress at Findvald had been besieged by the demons, leaving no capacity to send messengers outside.

In other words, the turmoil at the eastern front could not be disclosed to the outside for a while. Yet, here was Ingvar appearing with his forces?

Moreover, the land governed by Ingvar was at the westernmost point. Considering the time it would take to traverse all the way to the eastern front through Drovian, and considering that they had likely scorched the Northern Realm…

‘Impossible.’

It did not align with the timeline. It meant that they had set out before Einar even began the conflict, that is, before the demons properly appeared at the eastern front.

Even if Einar sent out the call a week ago. That meant he sent the messenger two days after the fighting began. Even if there were a missed messenger, it would take at least another fifteen to twenty days for that messenger to reach the westernmost point, gather forces, and arrive here.

It was physically impossible.

Except for one case.

“Einar must have launched a raid the moment he left for the east…!! Could it be that he made contact with the demon army before us?”

He acknowledged that the demons had attempted to recruit the Yarls. They were also a coalition that had gathered in such fashion. However, if they had already been ‘recruited’ before the demons’ full-scale invasion…

In that single scenario, it would explain how such swift marching was possible.

After Einar began fighting with the demons, if he had anticipated that the northern lords, who would become allies with the demons, would lead their forces away and constructed a plan to raid the Northern Realm—

That would indeed be an audacious and clever judgment. Baldur spat this out, grinding his teeth.

“This cunning old man! If he has teamed up with them, why did he leave us…?”

“You have quite the imagination. You should probably be a bard instead of a warrior.”

“What did you say…? You bastard…!!”

“I admit I’m puzzled too. I checked on my way here, and it was simply impossible to obtain information from Krasilov ahead of time. This isn’t a matter of intelligence capabilities…”

Angvar smirked and turned his head.

The events occurring at the eastern front, having sensed them before they occurred, sending troops from beyond Krasilov, is an absurdity beyond comprehension.

This is not an issue of warfare capacity. Nor is it an issue of intelligence capabilities.

Every form of information has a shelf life. Even if they had sensed the situation at the eastern front beforehand, the information would have to be transmitted back, analyzed for repercussions, a response established, and that response would need to arrive locally—all of this in such quick succession is simply impossible.

Yet, with that success now confronted, one cannot deny the harsh reality.

Ingvar smiled at a man passing by him.

“Really, how did you manage that?”

“By making situational judgments based on logic.”

He did not elaborate further and simply spurred his horse along. Clop, clop. The mounts smoothly surged forth to the front.

The murmurs of the Yarls fell quiet in unison.

Under the rising eastern sun, a man was looking down at them. Neither his beard nor facial features belonged to Drovian.

With a gaunt face, hollow cheeks, and ash-gray hair, his piercing blue eyes glowed as if they were on fire, reflecting the light beneath the fringe.

There was no hint of emotion to be found there.

The eyes of Drovian warriors, who revere death and step onto the battlefield, are usually filled with passion and religious fervor. Yet there was no such heat in the gaze of the man now before them.

Only a cold gaze, as if he were surveying their very souls. In his sharply appraising eyes lay a mechanical indifference.

A gaze that objectively analyzes the opponent’s combat capabilities. And the seasoned warriors here already knew of a group that bore such a gaze.

The man before them was not unfamiliar. He had once marched alongside legends and had carved his own epic, heralding victories out of the world’s deepest hells.

“…Long….”

Baldur lifted his parched lips and unknowingly bit his tongue.

With great effort, he managed to utter the next words.

“It’s been a long time… little Ivan.”

“Red-beard Baldur.”

Ivan’s gaze flicked to his side. Only then did Baldur take a deep breath, finally finding his stride.

“I see the one-eyed Ulrik, the giant-slayer Sven, the wolf-skinned Bjorn.”

He felt the Yarls who were named stiffen. Baldur stepped forward in front of the solidified Yarls.

“Is this the will of Krasilov…?”

“No, I did not come here to represent Krasilov today.”

“Then what?”

Ivan drew his axe and spoke.

“I have come as the consort of Einar. Baldur, in place of the King of Drovian, I have only one question to ask.”

“…?”

The extended axe pointed straight at him. Before that lethal aura, Baldur gritted his teeth and puffed out his chest.

A voice rang low toward him.

“Where does your loyalty lie?”

EP44. The strongest son-in-law of all time.