episode_0103

103. The Battle of Ternova

At the border of Jarmarck.

There stood a man of enormous stature.

General of Ternova—a one-armed warrior.

Yet despite that, an A-rank general of considerable skill.

Though lacking in military genius, he was a talent handpicked from among the common folk.

The man pressed forward, launching attacks on Jarmarck while slowly tightening the siege.

**“The mage-sirs are holding out longer than expected.”**

**“Surely, they must have some powerful backer they believe in.”**

Then, the one-armed general’s subordinate offered his commentary.

Mages were intellectuals, but when it came to war, they were ultimately just dilettantes.

Take old Sebastian—once unmatched, a military genius who wielded overwhelming might. What became of him?

Even that esteemed scholar Sebastian stumbled blindly in war, kicking nothing but weak shots until he was crushed in the end.

Unable to deploy his forces where they mattered, he trapped himself in a dead end.

Humans learn from history.

The one-armed general tapped his finger against the table as he studied the map.

**“True. They wouldn’t just stiffen up and endure without good reason.”**

In any case, Jarmarck lacked military prowess.

Not that they were lacking like Ternova—they had *none* at all.

In a land where magic and scholarship reigned supreme, martial figures were thoroughly shunned.

Excluding the nuisance that was magic, it was easy prey.

Wedged between three major regions, they survived on trade—far from self-sufficient.

Their land was too small to sustain their own food production.

The longer they dragged it out, the greater their losses.

Yet they persisted—meaning they *must* have some hidden backing….

The one-armed general pointed at the map.

**“They couldn’t possibly expect aid from Niglem or Oldrak.”**

Niglem was now under Albarn, the White Horse General.

Rumors said he was busy consolidating his hold on the north, prioritizing unification over all else.

With so much to handle, he wouldn’t divert his forces just for some stubborn old men.

On the other hand… Erica of Redmain…

**“So *that’s* why the old geezers cling on.”**

**“Exactly. There’s nowhere left to strike Redmain now.”**

Just beside them, Arcadia was embroiled in civil war between the twin siblings.

Even Albarn, still in the process of unifying the north, had no reason to move against Redmain yet.

The only ones who could intervene were Raikh and Targon, currently occupying the emperor’s lands, but….

**“After their clash with the allied forces, they immediately faced off against the Unrivaled. They won’t be in fighting shape.”**

Right.

Anyone could see it—this had to be Redmain’s doing.

Erica would undoubtedly come to aid those stubborn old men.

**“Troublesome…”**

**“Especially with our liege being…”**

To break this stalemate, they’d need reinforcements from another region.

But where?

Albarn and Cecilia were out of the question.

The closest option was Silvania below them, but…

**“Since our lord has openly eyed their lands, the chance of aid is nonexistent.”**

**“Damn it all…”**

They had dared provoke Erica the Terrifying.

But against weaker targets like Jarmarck above and Silvania below, they had moved in for the kill.

Balduin de Montfort, compensating for his poor military sense, had rushed recklessly early on—only to ruin his own diplomacy.

A damned warlord.

But it wasn’t hard to understand.

While other powerful warlords were busy consolidating their own domains…

If not now, Balduin would never get another chance to stretch his legs.

The real problem was that the one-armed general now had to clean up Balduin’s mess.

After pondering, his aide cautiously voiced his opinion.

**“What if we withdraw?”**

**“That might be wise.”**

The old men of Jarmarck would grow bolder, lashing out in high spirits.

Even though seizing this land had already cost them dearly in numbers…

If they were wiped out entirely, it would all be for nothing.

The one-armed general considered retreating…

**“General—!!”**

**“What’s this commotion?!”**

A soldier burst into the tent in a panic.

He didn’t even salute, sweat pouring down his face.

**“Th-The Grace army has arrived!!”**

**“What?! Already?!”**

Too fast.

Far too fast.

Keeping his composure, the one-armed general asked,

**“How many troops? 500,000? A million?”**

**“Well… About 6,000.”**

**“…Hah?”**

Far too few.

The one-armed general commanded 370,000 soldiers.

A 60-fold difference—what could those 6,000 possibly hope to achieve?

**“A trap, then?”**

**“No! It’s a cavalry force led by Zett.”**

**“Zett Grace…”**

The one-armed general fell into thought.

Zett Grace—one of the empire’s top cavalry commanders.

Would they really sacrifice such priceless talent as mere bait?

In scheming, the norm was to use expendable pieces—those whose deaths wouldn’t matter….

His aide stepped forward with counsel.

**“They’re slowly advancing. We should prepare…”**

**“Agreed.”**

Overthinking would get them nowhere.

For now, they’d ready for battle, aiming to encircle the enemy with sheer numbers.

Victory here would send the one-armed general’s name echoing across the empire.

Just as he donned his helmet and stepped outside the tent—

**“An ambush!!”**

Zett Grace and his cavalry charged.

A mere 6,000 soldiers—against an overwhelming force of 370,000!

The sudden assault forced both the general and his aide outside…

**“Pleasure to meet you!”**

A towering figure over 180 cm in height.

A dazzling spear forged of black steel.

A dashing warrior astride a sturdy, muscular black steed.

Zett Grace stood before them.

His 6,000 troops had pierced straight into the heart of their 370,000-strong army.

Each cavalryman was knight-tier—common foot soldiers couldn’t even put up decent resistance before being slaughtered.

Amidst his spear swings, Zett’s eyes met the one-armed general’s.

But whether from exhilaration or deeper cunning—

**“Had our fun! Break through!!”**

They forced their way out.

Zett Grace swung his spear, cutting through enemy lines and escaping unscathed.

In the chaos that unfolded in an instant, the Ternovan soldiers barely grasped what had happened.

The one-armed general demanded reports.

**“Damage report!”**

**“Report! 9,300 foot soldiers dead! 4,400 critically wounded! 6,350 minor injuries! End of report!”**

**“Enemy casualties?”**

**“Barely 14 enemy soldiers killed! 37 unhorsed and captured! Report ends!”**

Even knight-tier cavalry stood no chance against sheer numbers.

Out of 6,000, they had killed 14 and taken 37 prisoners.

Ternovan losses numbered roughly 20,000, but…

The one-armed general calmly assessed the situation.

**“Considering their knight-tier strength, this isn’t a bad outcome.”**

**“True. But…”**

**“Right. Would a heavyweight like Zett Grace really play bait?”**

**“…….”**

The one-armed general weighed their options.

Two choices lay before Ternova’s army now.

Pursue the tantalizing prey that was Zett Grace…

Or stay put like fools, passively taking hits.

**“Split the forces.”**

**“Sir?”**

**“40,000 to oversee wounded and supplies, maintaining the siege on Jarmarck.”**

The remaining 300,000 troops would chase Zett Grace.

The one-armed general spurred his horse to the forefront.

His aide rode beside him, voicing his concern.

**“Could be a trap…”**

**“It is.”**

**“Still…!”**

The one-armed general cut him off.

He had his reasons for knowingly walking into the trap.

**“If we stay and take hits, morale will plummet….”**

**“You’re worried about the Graces’ main force.”**

Zett Grace had severed their logistical lifeline with just 6,000 cavalry.

If they fled, his forces could persistently harass them—a nightmare to disengage from.

With 360,000 troops including the wounded, retreat would take far too long.

And the second reason…

**“Our soldiers are low-quality.”**

**“That grates.”**

Ternova was called the empire’s breadbasket—abundant in food.

Population-wise, it rivaled Arcadia, blessed with nature’s bounty.

Yet inversely, warlord Balduin lacked military genius.

He deemed proper training a waste, unwilling to spend on it.

**“I understand our lord.”**

Not an idiotic perspective.

To raise military strength and soldier quality, iron and ore were essential.

But Ternova had little of either to begin with—leaving them no choice.

They barely maintained imports from Redmain… until they bit the hand that fed them.

Naturally, equipment and soldier quality decayed, while talents fled to other lands.

Thus, Ternova lacked skilled generals—its soldiers now second-rate.

**“Can’t expect low-quality troops to execute complex tactics.”**

**“But with numbers, we can overwhelm them if cautious.”**

**“Right. That’s why we’ll proceed.”**

Retreat spelled certain death.

Their troops lacked the training for sophisticated strategy.

For Ternovan soldiers, the only way to survive was a headlong charge.

Their best hope lay in capturing Zett Grace—or at least some well-trained knight-tier soldiers.

**“We’ll do our utmost for our lord.”**

So forward they rode.

After a long pursuit, Zett Grace came into view.

Though wary of a trap, he seemed oddly frantic.

**“Making camp *here*…! They truly underestimated us!”**

Zett Grace’s cavalry seemed poised to rest for the night.

But most of theirs were slow-footed infantry—no chance for stealth.

The one blessing…

**“Plenty of supplies here!”**

Perhaps *not* a trap—they found ample provisions.

Enough to feed 300,000 troops comfortably.

This only cemented his certainty—his choice had been right.

**“Pursue!!”**

Zett Grace fled with only weapons and horses, abandoning the food.

The glory of the one-armed general defeating the famed cavalry of the empire.

And the trivial spoils goading him onward, as if affirming his judgment.

They lashed at him like whips, driving him forward.

**“Halt!!”**

Then, halfway through pursuit, he stopped.

Zett Grace had fled into a canyon.

At first glance, even 300,000 troops could fit comfortably within its spacious confines, shielded by towering cliffs.

His aide offered a plausible deduction.

**“Spacious inside, shielded from wind. Likely where they planned to establish their main base.”**

A sound theory.

Would Jarmarck’s gates swing open cheerfully for the Grace army?

Unless they welcomed invaders gladly, establishing a forward base was inevitable.

From that angle, this place was ideal.

**“Your orders, sir?”**

His aide sought his decision.

After deliberation, the choice was made.

**“Dispatch 10,000 as a vanguard team to scout ahead.”**

He’d send expendable scouts to confirm the trap.

The bulk would fortify within the cliffs encircling the vast canyon.

**“May I ask why?”**

**“Simple.”**

What of the spacious canyon?

Even 300,000 troops could lie down with room to spare.

Ambushes from above would deal minimal damage.

Such traps thrived in tight alleys, not open expanses.

And if it *was* a trap?

The logical play was encirclement—hammer-and-anvil tactics.

Deploying forces half-heartedly outside would invite…

**“We’d be surrounded.”**

**“The canyon’s narrow entry and exit points make containment easier.”**

Exactly.

Let them try to encircle.

Trapped like frenzied beasts, yes—but intruders would struggle against the steel bars keeping them out.

Though they might starve, the abandoned supplies would sustain them.

Given time, negotiation or escape routes *would* emerge.

Thus, the 10,000 vanguard marched into the canyon.

He had made the optimal choice.

Only history would judge its merit.

**“Anyone else smell that?”**

**“Probably the food.”**

**“Smells like oil…”**

**“Nobles eat greasy, don’t they? Probably that.”**

Soldiers muttered among themselves.

A sudden chill gripped him.

Though he couldn’t place why, something was *wrong*.

A creeping unease struck him just then—

**“Welcome!”**

A woman appeared atop the cliffs.

Short in stature, with dark-blue hair and piercing eyes.

That unique coloring and petite frame could only mean…

**“Erica Grace…”**

**“Bingo!”**

Erica Grace leaned lazily against the cliffs.

Pretending to admire her nails theatrically, she called down:

**“Say, isn’t it rude to steal someone’s precious food?”**

**“…What did you do to it?”**

She shrugged at his question—

Then dramatically spread her arms, as if performing.

**“It *is* real food. Expiry date’s iffy, but still edible.”**

Something was very off.

His eyes darted, scanning their surroundings.

The canyon entrance behind them was now blocked by Grace soldiers.

No escape remained.

But *why*?

In such a vast canyon, arrows or falling stones wouldn’t be effective.

Arrows were precious—just raise shields skyward and endure.

Their losses would be heavy, but Erica Grace’s forces wouldn’t walk away unscathed.

Why?

*Why?!*

His thoughts spiraled into chaos.

Then—Erica snapped her fingers.

**“Eh, keep the food.”**

**“…What are you—”**

**“Can’t spare some pocket change for the condemned?”**

With that snap, strange contraptions rolled forward.

They resembled oversized chariots—impossible for humans to ride—loaded with volleys of arrows.

The oddity lay in the bamboo-like tubes attached to each arrowhead….

He didn’t understand.

Yet that *lack* of understanding screamed *danger*.

No escape. They had fallen into a flawless trap.

Erica Grace raised her hand, smiling.

**“Goodbye.”**

Her hand fell—

And with a deafening shriek like a giant’s whistle, the world burned white.

────────────────────

Blinding light.

Thunder tore through eardrums.

A startled horse bucked the one-armed general off.

Colliding with the ground, he blacked out briefly.

**“Ughh….”**

Regaining consciousness, he beheld hell itself.

The strange chariots unleashed volley after volley.

Arrows embedded into the earth—only to explode moments later, scattering shrapnel in all directions.

And the provisions they had handed out.

Soaked through with oil and a black, peppercorn-like powder.

Upon contact with flame—*BOOM*—they erupted violently.

A canyon spacious enough for 300,000 was now a charnel ground.

Twisted into a fiery hellscape beyond recognition.

Burned alive. Shredded by shrapnel. Impaled by arrows.

**“Ah… Aah….”**

The one-armed general—who had struggled to make the right choices.

A nameless footnote in future histories.

Wounded, kneeling, he gazed up at the sky.

From atop the cliffs—

The chariots took aim at him, as if glaring.

A soldier behind them callously lit the fuse—igniting a trail of sparks.

In his despair, the general smiled faintly—as if unhinged.

Then, unafraid of death, he spread his arms wide in welcome.

Even *he* didn’t know why.

Only instinct moved him now.

His final words were simple.

**“Such are the weapons of gods.”**

The Uldarion Canyon—Ternova’s rocky expanse.

Erica Grace’s first strike had annihilated the 10,000 vanguard.

10,000 versus 300,000—yet the canyon’s sole casualties were two soldiers who slipped off the cliffs.

Not a battle—but a night’s revelry of slaughter.