Ch.72Arrival

December of the 9th year of the Amurtart Calendar.

In the final month concluding the year, the soldiers of Fahrenheit finally laid eyes on the walls of Amurtart.

“Order the troops to rest.”

“There’s a possibility of an ambush, sir…”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll handle it.”

“Understood.”

With battle imminent, the Master ordered rest for his troops, now reduced to 12,000 men, and then expanded his ki-sense to its maximum range.

His widened surveillance net easily detected approaching elves and forest keepers, and the allied forces attempting to cut off their retreat suddenly found themselves gasping for breath under the pressure of the Master’s presence.

“Huk!”

Thud!

Soon, the terrified forest keepers and elves began fleeing without hesitation, while the Master continued his vigilance with closed eyes.

As the Master, he boasted near-perfect resistance to external environments, but his soldiers did not share this trait, and they needed rest above all else.

One by one, tents began to rise, and snow-dampened firewood started burning, giving off acrid smoke.

“Haah… I feel like I can breathe again…”

“Shit… this is really fucked up… I finally feel alive, but tomorrow morning we’re marching to our deaths…”

“Hey, don’t worry too much. We have the Sword Master with us.”

“Even a Sword Master isn’t invincible, you know?”

From inside the tents, the hushed voices of soldiers reached the Master’s ears without fail.

However, what troubled his mind more were the sturdy walls before him and the six massive ballistae mounted atop them.

‘I could actually die here.’

No matter how powerful a Sword Master might be, in the end, he wields but a single sword. This means that even with his body contorting to its limits, he could block only one, perhaps two projectiles at most.

With six ballistae capable of launching projectiles with devastating impact… even a Master would have to prepare for critical injury.

‘Those walls… no weak points. Not made of special materials, but well-constructed… The gate is well-reinforced too… If I use aura, it would take about 10 strikes…’

The intensity of aura a Sword Master could emit was enough to easily cut through steel, but cleaving through densely packed fortress walls in one strike was difficult.

Still, the very fact that he could bring down walls with ten strikes was a testament to the Master’s might.

“Haah…”

The Master tightened his grip on his scabbard.

He could sense killing intent in the eyes of the archers standing on the wall.

Though the Master wasn’t exerting his full power, the fact that they weren’t intimidated by someone whose mere existence instilled overwhelming fear revealed that Amurtart’s army was no ordinary opponent.

“Has Fahrenheit truly reached its time of downfall…?”

Three hundred years is quite an achievement for a nation. If they enjoyed prosperity beyond their due, perhaps paying the corresponding price was only natural.

However, as long as the Master lived, Fahrenheit’s decline would not come to pass.

*

“We must kill that Master for Fahrenheit to fall.”

“That voice…?”

“L-Lord Standard Bearer?!”

While the Master was glaring at the walls, behind those walls, Ignatz, fully armored, emerged with heavy footsteps.

The soldiers momentarily wavered at the Standard Bearer’s sudden appearance but quickly regained their composure. The Standard Bearer climbed onto the wall and began observing the Master with his own eyes.

“…A Sword Master… I had hoped never to see one again…”

To put it simply:

Ignatz had failed to reach the level of Master.

That’s not to say he achieved nothing. His aura had become purer and more robust, and his mental fortitude had matured further through months of extreme training.

He simply hadn’t become a Master.

“Standard Bearer… can you win?”

“That remains to be seen in battle. We’ve made all the preparations we can. Now it depends on whose preparations were more thorough, and which side can fight with gritted teeth until the very end.”

To his knight’s question, the Standard Bearer gave an almost coldly theoretical answer, but no one took offense.

The Master stood before them.

He was there to break down their walls, destroy their ballistae and catapults, slaughter their troops, and intimidate their sovereign.

All that remained was a clash of raw power, but they still had one last chance.

“Send out a messenger!”

“Yes, sir!”

*

Clank!

“…”

The Master stood still, observing the slightly opened gate and the messenger emerging through the gap.

Though carrying a white flag, it was not a sign of surrender.

Clop! Clop!

Soon, the messenger approached the Fahrenheit camp on horseback, stopped right in front of the Master, and called out in a loud voice:

“I am a messenger sent by Ignatz von Jäger, Standard Bearer of Amurtart! Are you willing to negotiate?”

At the resounding voice, the soldiers sleeping soundly in their tents stirred briefly before settling back down.

“Enter.”

Once the Master granted permission, the messenger dismounted and entered the command tent where the commander and his staff were stationed.

Rustle…

To show proper courtesy to the messenger, the staff offered warm tea, and only after the Master took the first sip did the messenger drink as well.

Clack.

The Master set down his empty teacup and began stating Fahrenheit’s conditions.

“I’ll get straight to the point. Immediately lift the embargo against Fahrenheit. And do everything in your power to persuade other nations enforcing embargoes to lift them as well. Those are our terms.”

“These are conditions we of Amurtart cannot accept.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

The Master replied as if unsurprised.

“Then, what are your terms?”

“Withdraw your army immediately. This is Amurtart territory. If you promise to withdraw, we will guarantee safe passage through the Western Forest.”

“Those are conditions we of Fahrenheit cannot accept.”

“I see.”

Clatter…

The messenger also set down his emptied teacup.

Though barely three minutes had passed since they sat at the table, negotiations had already broken down.

“You know as well as I do that this isn’t a matter to be settled through negotiation.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think you can win?”

“I believe there’s a possibility.”

“Such a direct answer. I like that.”

The Master burst into laughter at the messenger’s audacity.

He had been maintaining a serious demeanor, expecting some profound exchange, but how should one respond to such nonchalance?

“Amurtart’s history spans barely nine years… Only the angels know how it will greet the next year.”

“The angels always favor those who strive.”

“Yes. Striving.”

Upon reaching the position of Master, one inevitably becomes entangled in politics, whether one likes it or not.

This means the Master roughly understood Fahrenheit’s current situation.

Whether Amurtart falls or not, now that Fahrenheit’s hegemony has been revealed as a house of cards, peaceful coexistence with its thirty-plus neighboring countries has become impossible.

Amurtart merely brought a match to a body already soaked in oil.

“Whatever the reason, great nations are great because they are strong, and small nations are small because they are weak.”

“…”

The messenger did not respond.

There was no need to.

“Now go and await your end.”

The negotiations had failed.

All that remained was the mercy a victor might bestow upon the vanquished.

*

The cold winter morning dawned.

The tents were neatly arranged, and Fahrenheit’s soldiers, well-rested from a good night’s sleep, gripped their spears, swords, bows, and shields as they stared at Amurtart’s walls.

Before them stood the Sword Master, the very embodiment of Fahrenheit’s military might, his hand resting on his scabbard. Everyone knew that the moment his blade was drawn would mark the beginning of the war.

As tension gripped everyone, a mighty voice rang out:

“To the fools who dare oppose Fahrenheit! Let us show them our power!”

The Master drew his sword and called out to his soldiers, who responded by assuming attack formations at their officers’ commands.

“Long live Fahrenheit! Long, long live His Majesty the Grand Sovereign!”

“Charge!”

The Master pointed his sword at the gate and ordered the advance, while Amurtart’s archers on the wall began nocking arrows and drawing their bowstrings.

The war between Fahrenheit and Amurtart had now begun.