Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 1

A stale stench filled Walm’s nostrils. It was a familiar smell, a mix of human excrement and entrails. Though the full clash of both armies was yet to come, the battle had already begun.

Skirmishes between scouts, and long-distance attacks with arrows and magic, scattered the poor soldiers’ innards into the air. Walm’s heart pounded as if it would burst, his feet relentlessly kicking the earth. His crude breastplate jostled noisily, clanging with every move.

Though Walm tried to breathe efficiently, the intensity of battle was imminent. Soldiers on both sides could no longer contain themselves and erupted in war cries.

“Ugh, Ahhh, Ohhh!”

Their words held no meaning, serving only to embolden themselves and intimidate the enemy. In Walm’s hands was a two-and-a-half-meter-long spear, while dented armor protected his torso and head.

This was the formal attire here, the standard dress for battle. The indelible red-black stains seemed like a fashion statement, but they were in fact grim testimonials of previous wearers’ tragedies. The embedded dirt eloquently spoke of what had happened.

Raizou Takakura, now known as Walm, was in a war. Not a modern one with iron and gunpowder like the World Wars, but a medieval melee of iron against iron, flesh against flesh. What made it unique was the addition of magic, skills, and mysterious creatures and magical tools that Walm was experiencing firsthand.

The man who was once Raizou Takakura, reborn as the third son of a farmer in a world unlike Earth, was conscripted after enjoying his youth in the fields. His family received ‘preparation money’, and after a month of training, he was sent to the front lines.

In a nation with resources, professional soldiers would fight after years of training. But in the Empire of Highserk, where Walm and its citizens were constantly at war, a month of training was deemed sufficient for infantry. The rest was on-the-job training. Any failure meant the loss of one’s life.

Walm had survived his first battle and eleven more since joining the army six months ago. The faces he knew from his conscription group were all gone, their bodies exposed, heads crushed, and entire beings scorched by magic. Death came in various forms.

Thankfully, the enemy also provided cremation or burial services. It was like being in an amusement park of death. Walm spat in disgust. He never expected to survive even the first battle, but ironically, he was the only one still alive. Although his future was uncertain, he couldn’t help but laugh.

The number of enemies Walm had killed was no longer just a few but had surpassed dozens. Even with trembling hands and legs, the enemy soldiers didn’t disappear. No one waited for him when he vomited after taking his first life. Occasionally, a comrade would take down an enemy, but Walm learned not to expect it.

His saviors were not his homeland, the Highserk Empire, or any divine guidance, but a 2.5-meter spear loaned by the Empire and a 90-cm longsword he found on the battlefield. The battlefield was fair – everyone, regardless of age or gender, faced death equally.

Lost in thought, Walm found himself close enough to see the enemy’s face clearly. They were light infantry from the rival Libertoa Trade Federation, likely conscripted militia like Walm. They all looked pale, probably due to inexperience.

Without a signal, both sides crossed spears. The enemy’s spear aimed for Walm’s torso but hit the breastplate. Walm deflected it, refusing a mutual defeat. He thrust his spear towards the enemy soldier’s throat, but the soldier tried to deflect it with his spear, so Walm aimed for the unprotected lower body.

Feeling the spear pierce the thigh, Walm grimaced. The wound likely reached the bone, causing intense pain and rapid blood loss.

The enemy soldier, barely holding his spear, couldn’t withstand Walm’s repeated thrusts and fell to the ground. Still breathing, but lying in the front line meant an inevitable death under marching boots. Walm muttered a word of pity and looked away from the soldier being trampled by both armies.

Another soldier filled the gap. This one looked less pale, but the fight remained undecided. Walm thought it would be a battle of expendables, but the enemy seemed experienced.

Their spears clashed fiercely. As the enemy soldier lunged with a confident smile, Walm ducked under, protected by his headgear, the Saverlia. The spear slid off his temple guard, thanks to the round bowl-shaped helmet covering his forehead to the crown and the chain draping protecting his neck and cheeks.

Gritting his teeth from the dull pain, Walm quickly stabbed the enemy’s face twice – first in the cheek, then the eye, the spear sliding into the brain. The enemy soldier lost strength instantly and collapsed.

“Crap,” Walm cursed softly. Killing just two didn’t end the battle. More enemy soldiers charged at him like ravenous wolves. Walm met them with his spear, but it was deflected by their armor.

A heavily armored soldier blocked Walm’s path, a formidable foe likely a squad or platoon leader. He thrust his two-handed sword towards Walm’s throat.

Abandoning his spear, Walm blocked the sword with his round shield, feeling the enemy’s skill in the heavy blow. The shield bore a new scar, and Walm’s palm tingled from the impact.

Walm knew he couldn’t let the enemy take control. He drew his longsword and struck at the throat, but it was deflected. He diverted the enemy’s downward sword strike with his shield, the blade leaving another intersecting scar.

Walm felt he couldn’t withstand a third strike. A direct exchange would put him at a disadvantage.

Determined, Walm braced his feet, leaned forward, and pushed with his shield. The enemy stumbled backward, momentarily off-balance. Walm used the shield to obscure the enemy’s view and thrust his longsword at the enemy’s feet.

The blade penetrated the chain protecting the thigh. The enemy soldier yelped and swung his sword while retreating, but his balance was off. Walm didn’t miss the opportunity.

The enemy’s slower sword speed allowed Walm to close the distance and thrust his sword upwards.

“Ugh, Ahh!”

The blade entered the enemy’s jaw, breaking through the palate to the brain. The enemy’s weight further impaled himself on the sword. Walm tossed the body aside, knowing the fight was over. But then, an enemy noticed.

“The squad leader’s down?!”

Panic spread among the enemy ranks, and the assault intensified. Then, a scream-like shout rang out.

“A magic user!”

From the enemy group, magical energy swirled, and a fireball was launched. Walm instinctively raised his shield and crouched to the ground. The explosion landed meters away, hair fluttering and skin heating from the blast. Walm grimaced bitterly, spared from direct impact thanks to his shield and comrades. Two soldiers weren’t so lucky.

Walm’s weary eyes saw the tragic state of his comrades. One’s arm was burnt and hanging, the other’s head completely gone, with raw flesh stuck to the helmet and charred blood remaining.

Cursing the magic user, soldiers threw spears, but the enemy mage slipped back into formation, protected by surrounding troops. Walm envied the enemy’s magical forces, a rarity even in a world where one in ten had magical aptitude.

Usually, magic users stayed back, supporting with spells, but Walm guessed the desperate Libertoa Trade Federation had deployed theirs. Amidst the chaos, he heard the sounds of explosions and wind magic. An ice spear from his own side pierced an enemy’s shoulder, giving Walm the chance to strike.

His longsword ripped through the enemy’s defense, severing the throat like a burst water pipe. Blood gushed, but the enemy soldier’s attempt to stop it only prolonged life by seconds. After taking down a third enemy, Walm heard the decisive call.

“Our forces have broken through the flank!”

While the infantry held the front, light infantry had flanked and ambushed the main enemy force. The Libertoa commander’s bad decision to redirect reserve or flank forces to the front had backfired.

“Press on. The enemy’s formation is breaking!”

The squad leader’s voice, raising a bloodied sword, was met with roars from the troops. Assaulted from the front and side, the disoriented enemy tried to regroup, but their broken units started retreating, their formation shredded.

The half-surround that Walm had experienced numerous times was forming. It was a tactic favored by the Highserk Empire. The enemy’s left side, lacking command, lost half its forces, fleeing in disarray.

Soldiers throwing away weapons and fleeing were hit by arrows and spears, with infantry finishing them off with war hammers to the back of the head. Some veterans fought back, but they were beaten to death over their armor or impaled by grouped spears, dying in vain. In a two-hour battle, the Libertoa Trade Federation lost sixty percent of its soldiers, and the contested border area heavily favored the Highserk Empire.