Chapter 81: Char's Decision

Chapter Eighty-One: Shaya’s Decision

In the distance, along the main road, groups of figures began to emerge, scattered in twos and threes across the path and the open fields on either side. From the look of it, there were hundreds, perhaps even a thousand or more. Judging by their attire, they were all dressed in Byzantine-style uniforms or armor, though most were in a state of disarray—many had lost pieces of their gear, some wore no shoes, others no armor, and a few had even lost their shirts altogether, running bare-chested. The most startling of all was one man clad in nothing but his undergarments. These men stumbled toward the camp, their faces grey with exhaustion, their movements desperate and directionless, like stray dogs. Most bore wounds, their blood-soaked garments testament to recent battles, and many leaned on one another for support, limping and staggering, a pitiable and tragic sight.

At last, a few warhorses appeared in the distance, but only the first two bore riders; the rest had empty saddles. The two knights leading the way sat slumped in their saddles, barely upright—one of them was sprawled across the pommel, his fate uncertain. The riders quickly overtook the straggling foot soldiers, reaching the gates of the camp first. The officer guarding the camp did not open the gate but stood atop the lookout, glaring down with suspicion. On either side, archers kept their bows drawn, arrows aimed at the newcomers.

“Who goes there? State your identity, or you will be killed without mercy!”

The man on the left, clad in battered light armor, his face smeared with blood and an arrow protruding from his left shoulder, forced out a voice hoarse with agony and edged with tears: “I’m a sergeant of the Ninth Legion’s scout detachment! This is our captain, Ross—he’s gravely wounded! The Ninth Legion has been utterly destroyed! The Odin forces appeared out of nowhere and ambushed our camp! Our general led his guard and all the mounted scouts to cover the retreat, but he fell in battle! Only the two of us made it out alive from the rearguard!”

With those words, the last of his strength spent, he toppled from his horse, trembling as he fumbled inside his coat, producing a badge that he raised feebly above his head, unable to utter another word.

The officer at the gate, a grizzled veteran, did not immediately order the gates opened. Instead, he scrutinized the men below, then murmured, “Do not open the gate—maintain vigilance.”

With that, he vaulted down from the lookout, hand on his sword hilt, approached the fallen man, and checked the badge. He then lifted the tangled hair of the dying man slumped on the horse, and at the sight of his face, his own expression changed dramatically.

“Captain Ross? I know you! We’ve shared drinks! You—you…”

The officer lying across the horse was barely alive. At this, he forced his eyes open, their gaze dull and vacant, lips trembling, a tear sliding from the corner of his eye.

“It’s over… All over… The Ninth… the Ninth Legion is finished… The Second… the Second Legion too… finished… It was… it was Black… Black Hasting… Odin’s forces… they flanked us… flanked… and ambushed…”

Blood gushed from his mouth before he could finish. He was gone.

The officer’s face twisted with grief and rage. He spun around and bellowed, “Open the gates! Quickly! Medic! All medics, here! Immediately!”

As the gates swung open, the desperate fugitives surged forward, wild with a flicker of hope at last.

The officer’s face was grave as he seized a subordinate. “Take your squad and search the area! Gather up the stragglers… and stay alert! If you encounter the enemy, do not engage—report back at once!”

He issued a flurry of orders, then dashed madly toward the main command tent.

The news of defeat, like a storm cloud, swept across the camp within moments.

The Central Road’s Second Legion and the Eastern Ninth Legion—routed! The Odin Empire’s most renowned general, the terror of the Byzantine army and their worst nightmare, the God of War, Black Hasting, had mounted a flanking surprise attack. After days of relentless pursuit, he crushed both the Second and Ninth Legions, slaughtered countless men, pursued them for two hundred miles, leaving a trail of severed heads—and then, vanished without a trace.

※※※

Although Sir Bonfret, officially dispatched as a military observer, was in truth widely suspected to have come to the front merely to pad his credentials and burnish his reputation. When the main force marched north to war, this nobleman remained stationed hundreds of miles to the rear—hardly “observation” in any meaningful sense.

Nevertheless, by title, with the main force gone, the remaining troops consisted of little more than guards, support staff, and baggage handlers; the highest-ranking officer in the garrison was but a camp commander. Thus, Sir Bonfret, as the observer, became the ranking figure in the rear camp.

When the officer guarding the camp burst into the main tent, Sir Bonfret had only just arisen. The officer nearly kicked over the attendants outside the tent and barged in, only to find the nobleman in a snow-white silk dressing gown. A golden-haired, strikingly handsome young attendant stood before him, holding a crystal mirror as Sir Bonfret carefully applied a milky-white cream to his flawless face—a popular beauty regimen among the nobility in the imperial capital of Osgiliath, made from the finest sheep’s milk, honey, and exotic spices from overseas.

As the officer entered, Sir Bonfret’s face was caked in cream. Seeing the intrusion, he shrieked, “Scoundrel! Who gave you permission to burst in?”

“Lord Observer… something terrible has happened.” The officer’s face was dark as he quickly relayed the events outside.

Clang!

The golden case in Bonfret’s hand fell to the floor, spilling cream across the soft woolen carpet. The nobleman’s body began to tremble uncontrollably.

“You—you say… say what? R-r-routed… Black… Black Hasting… defeated us…?”

He looked on the verge of fainting. The officer shouted anxiously, “My lord! You are now the ranking commander here—you must give your orders!”

“Ah! Oh, uh…” At last Bonfret seemed to stir from his stupor, then, like a startled rabbit, leapt to his feet with a scream. “Orders! Wh-what orders?!”

The officer’s face was ashen as he barked, “Military orders, of course! As the commander, you must tell us what to do next!”

“How… what to do…” Bonfret stammered, then suddenly shrieked in panic, “Run, of course! Damn it! Damn the Second Legion! Damn the Ninth! How could they have lost! Black Hasting is coming—do we have any hope? Who can stand against him? Run! We have to escape now!”

He tore into the rear of the tent, barefoot, wailing as he went, “Someone! Pack my things! Curse it all, where is my coat? My armor? You fools, bring my horse!”

The officer’s face twitched with rage. He strode over and blocked the nobleman’s way. “My lord! You cannot run now! You are the commander here—if you flee first, morale will collapse, and we—”

“Idiot! What are you saying!” Bonfret shoved the officer aside and shrieked, voice trembling, “Aren’t you all so strong? Aren’t you the Thirteenth Legion? You can deal with Black Hasting! Do you realize who I am? What my status is? If I am harmed in any way, all of you will—”

He didn’t finish his tirade, but instead stormed into the inner tent, berating his attendants, who hastily scrambled to gather his belongings.

The officer nearly coughed up blood from fury, his eyes red, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth grated.

At that moment, there were shouts outside the tent—“You can’t go in!”—followed by two thuds and several muffled cries. The tent flap was thrown open and Shaya strode inside. He glanced at the officer, nodded, and said quietly, “Go and see to your duties. I’ll deal with this one.”

The officer, well acquainted with Shaya, knew him to be General Adrick’s personal guard—a position higher than most ordinary soldiers. Word had spread that he’d returned wounded, performed great deeds, and was soon to be promoted. Shaya’s name was known throughout the rear camp, and though the officer outranked him, he was always polite. Seeing Shaya enter, he thought, He’s the general’s man—better suited to this than I am. He nodded vigorously and hurried out.

Without further ado, Shaya knocked out the two attendants trying to block his way with a punch and a kick, then strode in. The nobleman, his face still smeared with cream, was frantically struggling into his robe. Shaya seized him by the throat, lifted him with one hand, and tossed him roughly to the ground.

Bonfret nearly broke his back with the fall. Lying there, he cursed, “Who are you, you scoundrel! How dare you treat me so! Do you know who I—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Shaya said impatiently, waving a hand. “A pretty boy from the capital who sells himself for favors.”

Bonfret was stunned. Though his face was thickly coated in cream, concealing his features, the insult contorted his muscles with rage. He opened his mouth and screamed, “You! You bastard! What did you just say?!”

Shaya stepped forward and slapped Bonfret across the face, raising a swollen welt. Bonfret shrieked, but Shaya had already drawn a dagger—the one General Adrick had given him, its blade flashing cold under the tent’s light. He pressed its tip to Bonfret’s throat, a vicious smile on his face.

“Noble sir? I don’t care if you sell yourself or anything else. If you make one more sound, I’ll gut you where you stand. Want to guess whether I have the nerve?”

Though Bonfret doubted the man would dare kill him, the blade at his throat left him unwilling to wager his precious life. The wild look on this man’s face left no doubt—this was no one to trifle with. His own life was far too dear to risk on a madman’s whim…