Chapter Seventy-Six: The Heavy Burden

“Retreat?”
Roul sat atop his horse, holding the latest report from the front delivered by a messenger.
Hm… Winning yet retreating—Adrick, you must have sensed something amiss as well.
Roul kneaded his plump cheeks, squeezing the fat into lumps; his subordinates, standing nearby, had long grown accustomed to their general’s peculiar habits.
As an infantry corps, Roul’s troops marched north at a sluggish pace, burdened by the responsibility of transporting vast quantities of supplies and provisions.
The soldiers of the Sixth Corps felt no urgency to reach the front—the saying goes, the general is the soul of the army, and a commander’s temperament leaves a deep imprint on his troops. Thus, the Sixth Corps was never the iron-clad force like the Thirteenth.
In truth, as they set out northward, General Roul the Rabbit was haunted by a persistent sense of unease—a peculiar intuition he’d possessed since birth, always intensifying at the approach of danger. His years in the army, his countless battles, owed much of his survival to this acute instinct. Now, each step northward heightened the sense of peril so intensely that, despite the cold, sweat soaked his padded tunic beneath the armor.
Roul pondered for a moment and made his decision: “Gather all our warhorses, and the scout units… Yes, leave a thousand men from the rear banners! Form a mixed rearguard, detach them from the main force, have them advance slowly behind us. Maintain a distance of one day’s march—don’t let them draw too close, nor lag too far behind!”
Giving his orders, the Rabbit General sighed, a bitter smile on his face. “Let’s hope my instincts are right again.”
He patted his round face, grumbling with a half-laugh, “Hastings couldn’t kill me—will the commander leading Odin’s army this time be fiercer than Hastings? Hmph!”
※※※
The Thirteenth Corps, renowned as one of the Empire’s finest, executed Adrick’s retreat order without hesitation, though the men’s hearts brimmed with doubt.
After regrouping, the Thirteenth quickly disengaged from the battlefield, withdrawing along the flat plains. General Adrick himself led a banner group as the rearguard to guard against Odin’s pursuit.
Ten miles—not far, not near—a meal’s time, and the cavalry had reached their designated rally point.
Socia, the hard-charging warrior accustomed to leading heavy cavalry assaults, remained dissatisfied. After the regroup, he hurried to complain to Adrick.
“General, I simply don’t understand. If we’ve won, even if we don’t charge into the valley, we could at least pin Odin’s corps there! Why retreat…”
Adrick sat astride his horse, eating his supper. He swallowed a tough piece of bread soaked in cold water, wiped his mustache, and squinted at his foremost champion. There was a faint disappointment in his gaze.
He drew a deep breath, his eyes dimming slightly. “Socia, how many years have you followed me?”
Socia, his beard thick, considered. “Nine years in the Thirteenth. When you first arrived, I was just a deputy camp officer.”
Adrick seemed to smile, the authority in his eyes undiminished. He turned, surveying the neat ranks of cavalry, silently marching down the road. Not a word was spoken, only the clatter of hooves and armor; otherwise, utter solemnity.
The general’s expression grew complex. He sighed softly, then forced a bitter smile. “Socia… I fear I won’t be here much longer.”
Socia’s face changed instantly as the general’s voice, heavy with worry, continued: “Nine years in the Thirteenth—does the Empire ever let a commander stay so long with one corps? Hmph… Two years ago, they tried to transfer me. You’ve been an imperial soldier all your life; you know the rule—no commander of a main corps can remain indefinitely. It’s to prevent generals from growing too powerful and fomenting rebellion. Nine years is already the limit. If I’m right, after this campaign, within a year or so, I’ll be gone—perhaps to Osgiliath’s military staff as a deputy minister, maybe to govern a district as governor…”
Socia’s face darkened; his lips parted, but he could not speak a word, staring at Adrick.
Adrick placed his broad hand on Socia’s shoulder, speaking low: “My old friend, we’ve fought side by side for nine years. I believe you’re the best candidate to succeed me. You’re brave, and I’ve entrusted you with the finest heavy cavalry banner of the Thirteenth. Your prestige has grown, you know and care for this army as deeply as anyone. I have no doubt of your ability. But…”
The general tapped his own temple: “You need to use this more! The Thirteenth is an iron army—an army that charges ahead! But beyond courage, a commander must use his mind! You’re not witless, but you’re too used to solving problems by force. That’s proof of your bravery, but if you’re to lead a corps, courage alone isn’t enough.”
Truth be told, Adrick had a sentiment buried in his heart for years, never voiced. It was too sensitive—speaking it might harm morale…
(Advance, or die… The slogan is stirring, but the Thirteenth has borne it for far too long! So long, it’s nearly suffocating under its weight. An army that only knows how to charge, never truly controls the field! The truly invincible force advances and retreats with purpose! But saddled with the “advance or die” burden, the Thirteenth is caught in a frenzy: thinking courage solves all, that reckless fighting defeats all foes. But such thinking… is utterly wrong!)
(For a company, or a small banner, a fierce slogan as the soul of the army suffices. But the Thirteenth is a corps—a regular force in the imperial field! Facing war, sometimes “advance” isn’t enough. Sometimes, one must learn to retreat—even to fail!!)
But these words, others dare not say, and as the Thirteenth’s commander, Adrick least of all.
(This fevered slogan often inspires morale, forging boundless combat power. But sometimes, it might doom the army instead…)
※※※
Shaya sat quietly on his cot, eyes tightly shut, the fire fork resting across his knees, the magic crystal clutched in his palm.
“You don’t need to try and ‘fuse’ with this magic crystal, because when I hid my soul within it, I found your soul’s imprint already etched deep inside! Perhaps you’re unaware, but your miraculous bursts of power in crisis come from this soul imprint being triggered, letting the crystal’s true abilities emerge.”
In the depths of his mind, the dragon’s voice spoke coldly.
(Hmm, already ‘fused’? When did that happen?) Shaya frowned, pondering hard. (When did I start wearing this stone? I can’t recall the exact day—seems it’s been with me since I was very young. The old man must have put it on me, perhaps tricked me, meddling without my knowledge…)
“I can’t precisely tell you how to control that power, but from the crystal’s energy surges when you’ve exploded before, I can deduce a few things. The main source is… killing intent! On the battlefield, at the edge of life and death, the killing aura explodes! Yours, and that of those you wish to kill. This stone, strictly speaking, is a special magic crystal—it absorbs nearby killing aura, transforms it into a mighty force, then releases it. As its master, you must understand its pattern, so in future battles, you can wield it at will…”
“To trigger this power, you need external pressure. When pressure builds enough, your soul will resonate, activating the imprint within the stone, unleashing its power.
As a dragon, though I’ve lost my body, I retain most of my soul’s strength. I can still barely manifest a few dragon traits, though only a little. Among them is… Dragon’s Might.”
No sooner had he spoken than Shaya felt himself seized! An intangible oppression enveloped him—a sense of authority, invisible yet undeniable, as if some perilous force pressed down from above! His heart raced, breath quickened, every hair standing on end—as if a beast sensing danger, his body taut, curled defensively!
“Calm! Feel the pressure! My soul power won’t sustain it long! Focus on your awareness under this oppression… every sensation, every ripple… damn it, I’ve never met a human so foolish!”
By the end, the dragon’s voice was exasperated.
Shaya’s eyes suddenly snapped open, now glowing blood red! He leaped up, seemingly lost to reason, bellowing as he swung the fire fork wildly around him…
Boom!
A thunderous crash—several blood-red beams became a dozen blades of light, shooting outward and tearing through the tent, which collapsed in ruins!
The thick posts holding up the tent splintered, crashing down on Shaya and smashing his cot.
Shaya regained his senses instantly, coughing pitifully amidst the dust, tears in his eyes as he scrambled from the wreckage, landing face-first in the dirt.
He flipped up, staring at the fire fork in his hand, then suddenly threw back his head and laughed.
“Hahaha! I felt it! I felt it!!”
In his mind, the dragon’s voice grew faint and weak: “Fool! Such a foolish human! You’ve only felt it once—you’re far from mastering it! What are you so proud of!”