Chapter Ninety-Two: The Scars of Battle

At the farthest edge of the battlefield, the rearguard had been split off, trailing behind as the last formation. The Byzantine cavalry fought desperately to break through, but they were surrounded by the Odin warriors, encircled like beasts trapped in a pit. Their blood drained, their voices spent, their strength exhausted, they finally sank into the mire, unable to escape.

One by one, the cavalrymen fell from their horses, their numbers dwindling, though the officer at the front still shouted commands, his spear wreathed in battle energy, slashing fiercely and spraying blood. More and more Odin warriors pressed in; the corpses blocked the way, and the Odin warriors were determined to devour this isolated group at the rearguard. Axes and blades formed dense ranks, a wall of iron—no matter how fiercely the cavalry charged, they could not break even a single gap.

When the last soldier fell, he was instantly hacked into a bloody pulp by the axes thrust at him. Fonata had long since dismounted; his horse lay dying, crying out in pain. A spear had pierced his leg, leaving him dragging the shattered limb, yet this Byzantine commander remained cold and impassive. He stood, spear in one hand, short sword in the other, armor torn in a dozen places, his body bathed in blood, the color of his armor lost beneath the gore—still, he did not fall.

He swung his spear one last time, battle energy splitting apart several Odin warriors before him, but the spear could no longer withstand the force and shattered in his grasp. The sword was already dulled, its edge chipped and scarred. Fonata gathered all his battle energy, and a brilliant flash became a blade of light, cleaving an Odin warrior into fragments. Then, at last, his footing faltered and he collapsed backward.

A spear pierced his body; he gritted his teeth and slashed the shaft in two, but the blade broke as well. Clutching the broken spear embedded in his waist, he looked around at the Odin warriors, fierce as wolves and tigers.

This cold-faced Byzantine suddenly smiled…

When he received General Adric’s orders, not a word escaped his lips.

When he led the rearguard, fighting to the death, he uttered not a sound.

When his comrades and subordinates fell one by one beside him, he said nothing.

Now, he felt his blood nearly spent, his strength utterly gone. Amid the shouting all around, he felt a silence deep enough to hear his own heartbeat.

A smile flashed across his face, vanishing quickly. Then, somehow, he found the strength to wrench the spear from his body; blood gushed from the wound, but the spear still carried one last edge of lethality, stabbing forward…

He drew his last breath, shouting with all his remaining strength:

“Advance! Or die…!”

An axe crashed down on his neck, severing his final word mid-syllable. His head soared skyward, blood spraying, and several spears pierced his body…

His broken corpse fell to the earth, joining the hundreds and thousands around him, indistinguishable from the rest.

Over six hundred cavalrymen fought to break out, Odin warriors clinging to them tenaciously, but at last a gap was pried open. The six hundred escaped the encirclement, but safety was not yet theirs—a great Odin camp lay ahead.

The six hundred could no longer form ranks, scattered and battered as they charged toward the camp. After two previous Byzantine assaults, the camp was already in disarray, so their charge met little opposition, only sporadic resistance.

At this moment, Shaya lagged at the rear, his horse finally faltering, especially with the wounded Kevin riding behind him. Odin reindeer cavalry pursued relentlessly, their howls growing closer.

Suddenly, from the flank came a roar of beasts—a squad of bear-mounted warriors in white steel armor. These were no ordinary berserkers: each black bear was larger and more muscular, armored in superior white steel, the warriors atop them wielding two-meter-long trident lances reminiscent of Hastin’s weapon.

These white-armored berserkers moved with astonishing speed, quickly catching up from the side. Shaya urged his horse to gallop, but the steed, injured and exhausted, slowed noticeably.

Soon, a white-armored bear charged alongside; its massive paw swung at Shaya, who raised his fire fork to block. With a clang, the bear’s limb broke, but Shaya was shaken to his core, feeling the brute strength of his foe. The warrior leapt from the bear in pain, trident sweeping toward Shaya’s face—Shaya parried desperately.

A dull thud sounded; Shaya’s arm vibrated violently. Though the trident broke, its force left him breathless, his chest tight. The Odin warrior landed, roaring madly.

(Beast-soul warrior!)

The realization struck Shaya instantly.

This brief delay allowed two more white-armored berserkers to close in. Shaya fended off their tridents, but his fire fork was too short to guard his flanks. Their long weapons swept in, forcing him to take the blows head-on.

Bang! A heavy impact—Shaya’s shoulder bore the brunt, bones cracking, flesh split. His vision darkened as he chopped through a trident, blood spewing from his mouth. The fire fork, glowing red, severed a beast-soul warrior’s arm; the man showed no pain, his eyes wild and ferocious, lunging forward to ram Shaya from his horse.

Beast-soul warriors! Powerful beast-soul warriors!

Shaya was knocked askew; as his fire fork pierced the enemy’s skull, splitting it open, he was finally thrown from his mount. He rolled across the ground, barely upright when he heard a whistling attack from behind. He bellowed, eyes blazing red, fire fork glowing faintly, streaking a bright line that cut through everything in its path.

A few berserk bears were instantly dismembered.

Several beast-soul warriors landed, immediately pouncing at him. Shaya, pursued by enemies behind and surrounded by strong foes, felt despair settle in his heart…

Just then, his horse neighed—ahead, it had turned back, with Kevin, the bald man, shouting as he clung to the reins, forcing the horse forward and grabbing Shaya’s hair, hauling him up. Shaya mounted, a beast-soul warrior’s lance thrust at them; he blocked with the fire fork, then kicked the horse’s belly, shoving aside the attacker.

The beast-soul warriors roared in fury, chasing after him, but without their bears, their speed lagged behind, and soon they were left far behind.

Shaya was the last to leap out of the enemy camp. As his horse crossed the threshold, the open battlefield and distant walls came into view, and a sense of survival surged within him, prompting wild laughter as he clung to the reins and embraced the bald man. “We survived! Baldy, we made it!”

Kevin gave only a weak grunt, his body trembling faintly.

The pursuers drew near, but as Shaya reached the camp gates, a volley of arrows forced them back. Shaya’s horse burst through the gate, which was immediately shut and barricaded with wood, sealing it tight.

Shaya’s horse advanced a few more steps before halting, the rider so exhausted he could barely breathe. Leaning against Kevin’s back, tongue lolling, Shaya laughed wildly, “I’m alive! We made it back! Hahaha! Kevin, you owe me another life, damn it! Hahaha…”

As he laughed, Shaya suddenly felt moisture on his arm. Looking down, he saw his arm around Kevin’s waist drenched in blood. The crimson soaked his clothing and pants, and Kevin’s body slumped against him, unmoving.

A broken lance tip was lodged in the bald man’s waist, piercing just beneath the edge of his armor. Blood had already saturated his clothes, the sight shocking.

Shaya’s mind exploded; with a cry, he jumped down and frantically lifted Kevin from the horse.

The bald man’s face was pale as paper, his once-bright eyes now dull. Blood flowed endlessly from his waist, quickly staining the ground beneath him. Shaya gently placed his hand on Kevin’s wound but dared not pull out the lance tip, knowing full well that doing so would trigger fatal bleeding.

Kevin’s breathing was faint, lying there as Shaya cradled his head in his lap, a twisted, indescribable pain tearing through his heart.

“Kevin! Damn it! You bastard, don’t you dare scare me! You still owe me a life! Breathe, damn it! Say something!”

Kevin’s lips were pale, his body convulsing from agony. He struggled to move his lips, lifted a finger to point at the broken lance in his waist, and forced a wan smile.

“Nonsense… owing you a life… I’ve repaid it.”

Shaya suddenly recalled how, moments ago, he’d been thrown from his horse, and this bastard had charged into the fray to drag him out. The earth trembled as Shaya roared, spitting in Kevin’s face.

“Who told you to repay it? Who told you? Don’t repay it! You owe me, damn it! You’re not allowed to pay now!”

Kevin’s mouth twitched; he shook his head, the smile fading, then drew a deep breath, pointing to his chest. “Brother… do me a favor… take me… take me back…”

Before the words were finished, Kevin’s eyes grew vacant, his mouth expelling one last breath.

People gathered around, seeing Shaya cradling Kevin, both seated on the ground. As Kevin died, the Byzantine soldiers stopped, forming a circle around them.

No one stepped forward. No one knew what to say or do.

Shaya sat there, utterly stunned, holding Kevin tightly, unable to utter a word for a long time…

No one had the heart to disturb him; all eyes watched quietly.

After a long while, Shaya finally stirred. His expression was eerily calm, frighteningly somber.

He gently unfastened Kevin’s armor, reaching into his chest to retrieve something.

Unfolded, it was a piece of sheepskin, stained red with blood.

The sheepskin bore bloody marks, but beneath the crimson, lines of blurred writing appeared, written in charcoal. The sheepskin itself was battered and scarred.

Shaya knew it was a letter—Kevin’s letter to his family.

…

……

“We soldiers don’t have money to buy paper, and paper wears out too easily. So we write home on sheepskin, using charcoal. After reading, the words can be scraped off and the skin reused.”

“This is a letter from my wife. Haha! I’m a married man—her name is Yulia, a pure-blooded Rodria woman!”

“She makes excellent roast ribs. If you get the chance, come to my home and taste her cooking! You’re a good guy; we could be great friends.”

“I owe you a life!”

“Nonsense… owing you a life… I’ve repaid it.”

…

Shaya held the sheepskin in his hands, carefully folding it and tucking it close to his chest, every action gentle, as if afraid to damage even a corner.

When finished, he released Kevin’s corpse and rose. He stood there, arms trembling, then his body, until he was overtaken by uncontrollable shivering. At last, Shaya let out a great howl.

Within his cry was infinite grief and rage, like a beast wailing in the darkness.