"Wrong again. I am merely a banner, drawing out the courage from within your hearts." General Radahn, the Starscourge, withdrew his hand from the knight's chest, flicked his cloak, and began to walk downward. "Follow me. Let us go and see the wounded." "General, but you were just there yesterday." "They were injured fighting for me; how can I not go and see them?"
Ogha gave a wry smile and had no choice but to follow. The two walked down the mountain path. The road was lined with soldiers, all standing tall with chests puffed out, gazing excitedly as their commander walked past. The Dragon Hunt War had been going on for over ten days.
The Redmane Army had won consecutive victories and was heading toward the core area where the dragons gathered, but no matter how excellent the tactics, casualties were unavoidable. Down the mountain was the infirmary, packed with soldiers who had lost limbs to dragon bites or suffered burns. The Perfumer, wearing an apron, saw Radahn approaching and wore a helpless expression.
"General, you've come again. Even for a demigod, you should rest." General Radahn came every day; it had almost become a habit, and no one in the Redmane Army thought he was just putting on a show. "I can't sleep anyway. It's good to come and chat with the lads."
Radahn ignored her, lifted the curtain, shook hands with each soldier on the outer side, and patted their shoulders from time to time to encourage them to recover quickly. When he reached the section for the severely wounded on the inside, he became somewhat silent, listening quietly as the Perfumer reported their conditions.
Some were wrapped in bandages, their bodies burned by dragon breath; others had had their legs bitten off, staring hollow-eyed at the top of the tent. But when they heard footsteps, they struggled to prop themselves up. "General." "General, you've come." "Everyone lie down. Don't bother with the salute; I'm just here to take a look." Radahn pressed his hands down and walked past each bed.
The brows on his square face furrowed deeper and deeper. He didn't give any stirring speech, just beckoned with his hand. "Ogha, come here." The tall knight, serving as adjutant, hurried over and asked tentatively, "General?" "I am issuing the following order. Take note."
Radahn pondered for a moment and said in a deep voice, "Take the flask of crimson tears from the warehouse and distribute them according to the severity of the injuries. Do your utmost to save every soldier's life." "But the quantity is too large; there might not be enough." "Then take from my share. You fool, what dragon could possibly hurt me? Why prepare so much?"
Radahn widened his eyes, looking stern without being angry. Seeing the knight nod, he continued, "Settle the soldiers who have undergone amputations properly. Give them plots of land from outside Redmane Castle." Once this war is over, you'll be destitute, the only lord in The Lands Between with no territory of his own.
Ogha sighed helplessly and had to nod to show he understood, but he didn't walk away. "Is there anything else?" "Uh, there are some recent developments I need to report." Radahn was chatting with a soldier who had both legs amputated and said without turning his head, "Then speak." This had become the norm.
General Radahn would not stay in his spacious, luxurious tent to direct operations; he was either visiting the wounded in the infirmary or using Gravity Magic to help the logistics troops with transport, so Ogha was used to it.
"First, someone is spreading rumors in Caelid, saying that you were completely suppressed by Morgott in Leyndell, and that you are slaughtering dragons in the north just to avoid the Valkyrie's vanguard." "Who said that?" "I don't know, but it is speculated to be Malenia." "It cannot be her."
Radahn wiped sweat from his brow with a soot-streaked forearm, still gripping the blacksmith's hammer. The wounded soldier before him flinched as sparks flew from the glowing steel.
"This isn't rumor," Radahn said, teeth flashing white in his flame-lit grin. "Morgott put me down hard, but men rise where they fall. Next time, I won't lose." His calloused hand thumped the soldier's shoulder hard enough to stagger him.
"Right, Ogha? Even legless, you're still standing."
"Yes! General!" The soldier's spine straightened.
"Better." Radahn snatched up a waterskin, draining half before tossing it to Ogha. "Still breathing means still fighting. What's with the funeral face?" He moved down the line of wounded, boots crunching on forge cinders. "Next."
The adjutant cleared his throat, parchment crackling in his grip. "Liurnia reports. Raya Lucaria birthed another Primeval Sorcerer. Killed a professor during escape."
Radahn's hammer froze mid-swing. The glowing metal hissed as it dipped into the quenching barrel. "Another?" Venom seeped into his voice. "After the last catastrophe nearly leveled Caelid?" Steam boiled around his clenched fists. "Finish the report."
"Haligtree forces are sheltering them. Possible movement toward our borders."
"Malenia?" Radahn's brow furrowed. Even after all these years, her name tasted like cold steel on his tongue. The implications coiled in his gut—this stank of more than coincidence. Carian blood still ran thick in his veins, no matter how far he'd strayed. "Why would she dance with those madmen?"
The adjutant shrugged. "No known ties between the Valkyrie and Primeval cults. Doesn't mean she won't wield them as weapons."
Radahn's knuckles popped. Everyone at their level knew the truth festering beneath Caelid's sands. Sellia's ruins whispered it. Every Night Sorcery reeked of it. The Sorcerer Hunters had earned their name hunting more than men. After the Starscourge, even legends like Azur and Lusat had branded such research forbidden. The memories rose like bile—cities melting, skies screaming.
He released the soldier's bandaged arm and stood, each vertebra locking into place like siege machinery. "You're saying Malenia wants to flank us? Sorcerers inside, her Cleanrots outside?"
"Plausible. Why else harbor them?" The adjutant spread his hands. "Without direct confirmation from the Haligtree..."
Radahn cut him off with a slash of his hand. Of course the intelligence was incomplete. No sane commander would broadcast such an alliance. To the world, it would simply appear as two enemies finding common cause—a textbook pincer maneuver. The Haligtree's forces had carved a bloody path south. Facing the Redmanes, any advantage was fair game.
His thumb traced the scar bisecting his chin. Malenia's purpose didn't matter. Only that she never left Caelid alive. "The Shattering ends here. Victory or nothing." The words left no room for debate. Leyndell bled from Morgott's failed assault on Volcano Manor. The dragons faltered. Every variable aligned—if not now, when? Soon, the throne would open to more than just demigods.
"Dragon movements?"
"Disengaging. Full retreat."
Radahn's laughter boomed across the forge, startling ravens from the rafters. "Hmm, it seems they want to pick up a bargain, while those remnants have become a serious threat." He snatched up his greatsword, the blade singing as it cleared its scabbard. "Full march. Crush the wyrms in ten days."
"General, the pace will bleed us dry—"
"No choice." Radahn's eyes burned like the forge's heart. "Burn the wagons if you must. We fight on foot or not at all."
Radahn looked toward the mountains and said solemnly, "I have an ominous premonition!"
The southern road of Caelid. Red soil and hills formed a unique landscape. Wild wolves prowled in the forest, while the smooth road was sparsely populated. Occasionally, fully armed soldiers walked by, glancing casually at the few people passing by the roadside. A swordsman with a rather youthful appearance, a timid Demi-human, and a Pot Person with a strange way of walking.
Such a combination was uncommon in Caelid, but it wouldn't make people think they were spies. Given the Pot Person's brain and the Demi-human's courage, one would have to be crazy to hire them as spies. Besides, this was the heart of Caelid; suspicious characters couldn't get in at all. "The prosperity of Caelid is lacking."
Throne, as a very professional spy, walked while observing his surroundings. He couldn't see busy merchant caravans here, nor could he see nobles in fine clothes on spirited horses, but the simple and tough local customs left a deep impression on him. There was a small village by the road.
In the open space in front of the village, a group of brats was playing a war game with wooden swords and blades, swinging them vigorously. Suddenly, with a 'thwack', one was hit on the head, and blood immediately flowed out. "Wah..." The child's crying came. A man with one lame leg hopped over to bandage him while loudly reprimanding him. "No crying!
Under the General's rule, you may sweat, but you must never shed tears!" Before he finished speaking, another burly woman slapped the man aside. Throne thought she was going to say something comforting, but he was completely wrong. "Talking nonsense is useless. Airo, go, hit him back for me! If you don't break that kid's head, you won't have dinner tonight." Throne watched, dumbfounded.
Is this Caelid or Sparta? He stopped and admired these local customs that were so different from Limgrave. The children fought in a melee, with the adults cheering on the sidelines. The lame man was still teaching them how to form battle formations. From time to time, hunters returning from the swamp would walk by carrying prey, standing in the distance and pointing.
"Next time, make some wooden bows for the kids. Fighting still requires archers." "Bullshit, fisticuffs are what a man does. What kind of hero uses projectiles?" "You're the one talking bullshit. The General also uses a bow well. Besides, a qualified archer is better at melee combat." Throne turned his head and happened to meet the gaze of a young hunter.
The latter showed a simple smile—uh, it would be friendlier if he wasn't covered in blood. He waved to call the Demi-human over and asked, pointing to the village, "Is Caelid always this tough?" Pol was now a guide, and Throne wasn't stupid; he wouldn't let this Demi-human who knew his background leave easily.
Fortunately, after two days of getting along, Pol's tongue was finally able to straighten out when he spoke. "Hey, it's common. In Caelid, two professions are the most popular." "Which two?" "Physicians and warriors. You don't know, it's only lively when Redmane Castle holds the Radahn Festival. Misbegotten, humans, and Pot Persons all fight together."
Oh, fighting together in the physical sense, right. Throne nodded and looked at the pedestrians walking on the main road. Almost everyone was armored and sword-bearing, and they all looked like tough characters. "With so many warriors, aren't you afraid of bandits everywhere?" "Why be afraid? Those stupid thieves can't beat us." A lively voice came.
Throne turned his head and saw it was the young hunter who had smiled at him earlier. He was carrying a longbow, and his leather boots were covered in mud. "Looks like you're from out of town. A friendly reminder: in Caelid, attacking the weak will cause public outrage. No one can survive the Redmane's manhunt." "Redmane Knights will avenge the weak?"
Throne was a bit surprised, as most 'knights' didn't leave a good impression on him. "It's upholding justice!" The hunter corrected him. Seeing the extraordinary twin blades at Throne's waist, he explained seriously, "True powerhouses can go to challenge the festival. If you have enough strength, you can become a knight.
Besides, the General has also said that whoever can defeat him can take the position of the Lord of Caelid." "Really?" "Of course it's true. Every festival, there are warriors who challenge the General, but no one has been able to last more than five minutes." "And then?" Throne was even more curious; this was challenging the authority of a demigod. "Then we drink.
Those willing to stay become Redmane Knights and can challenge again at any time. Those unwilling to stay just leave, go back to train hard, and try again next year." Sounds... quite unique. Throne took a breath. Having seen the chaos of Liurnia and the harsh hierarchy of Limgrave, a kind of 'equality' had formed in Caelid.
Seeing Throne silent, the young hunter thought he was interested and was about to explain what the Radahn Festival was, but his companion's shout came, so he had to drag a bloody wolf leg and go into the village. So that's what the Radahn Festival is like. In Throne's memory, it was a bunch of heroes challenging a dying demigod, giving the latter an honorable death.
But now, warriors dared to challenge Radahn; they'd probably be beaten into a pulp by the Starscourge in his prime. He stood by the road with his hand on his sword, watching the children's game come to an end. The winning side cheered with their swords raised, while the defeated boy was not discouraged, saying he would come back for revenge tomorrow.
Throne nodded inwardly and summarized what he had seen and heard: "Here, they believe in courage and honor. A man should challenge the strong. When knocked into the mud, he crawls back up, using his wounds to hone himself into something stronger. Conversely, bullying the weak and abusing power have become things that are spurned." "Big brother, I really like it here!"
The Pot Person, who had grown a size larger after eating the corpse of the Nights Cavalry, came hopping over. He crossed his arms over his chest and did the Soviet dance, known as the knee-destroyer. This was also a training method taught by Throne: exercising knee joint strength while on the road. "Hmm, I think it's not bad either."
Throne was a martial artist himself and didn't dislike these local customs. He took a look at the sky. "We won't reach Sellia until tomorrow. Let's rest at Cheka Village tonight. Pol, remember to fix the armor." "Yes, it will be done soon." The Demi-human nodded quickly. He had ancestral tailoring skills, and that tattered Banished Knight armor had already been given to him.
"Then I'll leave it to you." Throne was quite polite. The three walked down the embankment into the village. The children lay by the roadside, curiously observing Alexander, who looked like a strange species. The Pot Person had no sense of shame at all and danced even more vigorously.