Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 2

In the aftermath of the fierce battle, those who were unharmed didn’t have a moment’s rest on the battlefield. Scavenging for supplies and belongings left by the enemy was accepted in the Highserk Empire as a way to boost morale. Walm felt uneasy searching through the belongings of an enemy he had killed, but he knew hesitating meant getting nothing.

The loot from a deceased squad leader was substantial. He found a small bag filled with silver and copper coins, hard-baked biscuits, and most notably, knee protectors covering from the shin to the knee. The torso armor didn’t fit Walm, being too big.

“Excuse me,”

Walm muttered, perhaps pointlessly, as he paid his respects to the dead. He forcibly pried open the fingers of the corpse still clutching a two-handed sword. It felt as if the dead soldier’s will lingered in the weapon. Thanks to the presence of military monks, Walm was not worried about any magical afflictions from the corpse. Although the sword was of decent quality, Walm already had a superior longsword.

After pondering for a moment, Walm raised his voice,

“Does anyone want this sword? It’s a fine piece. I’d like to trade it for something else.”

This was a great opportunity for bartering. With so much abandoned loot, there must be someone who would meet Walm’s needs. He would have carried small items himself, but the two-handed sword was too bulky. Without a magic bag, it was just a cumbersome item for Walm. Before he could call out again, one soldier responded.

“Your shield looks pretty beaten up,”

the soldier noted, seeing Walm’s shield heavily damaged, some parts even pierced through. In contrast, the man’s shield was plain but robust.

“Let me see it,” said Walm.

“Sure, take a look. I’m interested in that sword of yours too.”

After a temporary exchange to inspect the items, Walm found the shield lighter than it looked and solid on a knock. The man seemed pleased with the two-handed sword as well. They nodded in agreement, satisfied with the exchange. Walm threaded the sling through the new shield and slung it over his back, continuing to search for more loot.

Suddenly, one of Walm’s squadmates called out from the periphery of his vision,

“Hey, this one’s still breathing!”

He found a Libertoa soldier barely clinging to life. If the soldier had been noble or wealthy, he might have been ransomed, but this one seemed destined for slavery.

“Please, help,”

the soldier begged weakly, his abdomen spilling open with entrails and blood, a deep wound gashed across his shoulder. Even if healing magic were used, he had lost too much blood to be saved.

“This one’s hopeless,”

the soldier who found him muttered, standing up reluctantly. He unsheathed his longsword and plunged it into the throat of the Libertoa soldier lying on the ground. Walm could have stopped him but chose not to. Extending the soldier’s life would only prolong his suffering and waste resources. Though Walm understood this rationally, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of discomfort as he watched the situation unfold.

“Uaghhhh,”

the Libertoa soldier groaned, the sword not hitting a vital spot instantly. He coughed up blood, clutching at the sword embedded in his throat.

“Amateur, get out of the way,”

a new voice interjected. It was Duwey, the squad leader, unable to bear the sight of the suffering soldier. He pushed his men aside and raised the war hammer he carried on his shoulder, bringing it down with a dull thud. The soldier’s skull cracked under the blow, and he finally stopped breathing. Walm averted his gaze from the corpse. Duwey glanced at the dead soldier briefly before turning to another soldier nearby.

“Tibard, if I’m ever dying like that, don’t you dare be the one to finish me off,” he said with a grimace.

The bearded man and Walm’s superior, Duwey, was a man whose body bore the marks of many battles. Though of average height, slightly taller than Walm, his arms were like logs and his chest broad. More importantly, he possessed the skill ‘Strong Strike’.

Unlike the world Walm knew, the differences among people in this world were extreme. Magic users were rare, but those with special skills were even rarer and more powerful. There existed women who could break a man’s arm, scouts more agile than animals, and warrior monks who could deflect sword strikes with bare hands. Squad Leader Duwey was one such individual. His war hammer could crush enemies along with their armor. Walm thought of him as someone he wouldn’t want to face as an enemy.

After the commotion settled, Walm glanced at the lifeless bodies. He offered a silent prayer, though it was not a custom in his culture, and he was unsure about the fallen’s beliefs. It was an act to ease his guilt, one he did despite his rational mind’s criticism.

“What’s up, Walm? Doing that again?” someone asked.

“It’s kind of a habit,” Walm replied.

“Hmm, well, it’s not bad,” responded Duwey, briefly before changing the subject. When the corpses were stripped of valuables, the squad was called to assemble.

“We’re assigned to handle the bodies. Luckily, we have many prisoners. Use them as you see fit, but keep watch,” Duwey instructed.

Walm surveyed the captured prisoners, about twenty in total, none with fatal wounds. Some had bruises or cuts on their heads and arms, but nothing that hindered their work.

Walm was tasked with overseeing four prisoners. Escaping was out of the question, as causing injury or death during work would be a waste of manpower.

The four prisoners were tied together by ropes around their necks and were not wearing anything that posed a threat. If they had skills or magic, they would be dangerous, but if they possessed skills to break free with bare hands, they couldn’t have been captured in the first place. Those with troublesome abilities had only two options: to escape or to be killed.

The prisoners were put to work stripping the bodies of armor and clothes, while Walm chased away insects and birds attracted by the blood. Walm pitied the prisoners trembling with each action, undoubtedly worn from the battle.

As the dead were buried in mass graves dug by other squads, Walm’s attention was drawn to a familiar body – a young man from a neighboring village who was in the same squad. He was close in age and birthplace to Walm, and they used to talk about their hometowns and mutual acquaintances. The young man’s jaw and teeth were shattered, his tongue protruding, his eyes open in an expression of agony. This had been his first battle.

“He too, huh,” Walm wondered.

Unable to overcome the shock of his first combat, he had ended up becoming a corpse on a distant land. As Walm reflected on what set them apart—memories from a past life, lack of luck, or an aptitude for killing—he couldn’t find an answer. While he gazed silently, a restless prisoner twitched slightly, quickly caught by Walm’s keen eyes. Without exchanging words, he stared at them expressionlessly.

“I didn’t do it,” one said.

“Me neither. I was too scared to even thrust my spear,” another added.

The prisoners spoke as if offering an excuse. Walm was surprised by their behavior. They seemed petrified as if they would be killed out of personal vendetta, but that was impossible. Although he had considered it, this was war. Just war. They were only working in accordance with the will of the nation they belonged to.

They didn’t commit murder out of malice. It was just killing the enemy in war, applicable to Walm himself too. If he let personal feelings interfere and killed these prisoners, that would make him no better than a murderer. A soldier’s duty was to follow the orders, and killing was permissible only as a soldier. That line he would not cross. Otherwise, as Raizou Takakura, as Walm, as a person… his very foundation would crumble.
Walm wondered if he was a monster for not hesitating to kill for self-preservation, and if those who couldn’t kill were more humane. After a moment of deep thought, he returned to reality, closing the eyelids of his former comrade, and pushing his tongue back into his mouth.

“Carry him,” he ordered.

The four men, understanding his intent with just two words, began to carry the body, handling it more carefully than the others, as if dealing with explosive material. The corpses, friend and foe alike, were stacked on top of each other.

A military monk sprinkled holy water to prevent the appearance of ghouls and skeletons, common in battlefields, continuously reciting prayers. There must’ve been more than 1500 bodies. Walm grew melancholic knowing more would die from their wounds that night. The deaths in the Highserk Empire were about 300, indicating how badly the Libertoa Trade Federation had lost.

After dealing with the bodies, as the sun began to set and smoke from cooking rose simultaneously, Walm thought about food. Though they had personal rations for emergencies, he preferred not to use them as long as supplies were distributed. Plus, today they had plenty of spoils of war. The Dewey squad, despite losing two members, had achieved excellent results and was rewarded with food, wine, and ale. Wine doesn’t come from nowhere; it had to be leftovers from the enemy camp, Walm guessed.

Libertoa had weak soldiers but excelled economically. Their land faced the sea, encompassing mines and labyrinths, with rivers flowing from giant lakes across the country. An unfairly advantageous enemy, Walm mused. Pushing aside unnecessary thoughts, he focused on the meal before him.

The menu included two hard-baked breads, salted herring and cod, even sauerkraut. The highlight was fresh horse meat, hung from trees for bloodletting, untainted. It was muscular but the best source of protein available on the frontlines, and no soldier, including Walm, disliked it.

In a large pot, horse meat and potatoes were stewed, with wild herbs added. The horse meat was flavorful and chewy, while the potatoes remained firm, offering a satisfying meal. Walm ate voraciously.

Some soldiers, unaccustomed to the stench of death and battle, struggled to eat. It was understandable for their first battle. Walm recalled his own bitter memories. He had once felt disgusted eating meat amidst the smell of death, but with each battle, his senses dulled. Whether it was a happy thing for a person, he didn’t know, but for now, focusing on the meal was enough for him.

“Walm, I heard you took down nine enemy soldiers. I killed fifteen, so I win, but you show promise,” said Dewey, wrapping an arm around Walm’s neck without turning to face him, holding two bottles of wine.

“I can’t beat you, Squad Leader Duwey,” Walm replied sincerely. He was recognized by his comrades for his talent in battle and killing, but the squad leader was in a different league.

“Drink up,” said Duwey cheerfully, pouring wine to the brim in Walm’s cup. Walm grinned wryly, raising his cup as the squad leader clinked his half-empty bottle against it and downed it in one go. Walm was impressed by his drinking but worried whether there would be enough for the other squad members. Looking around to check, he noticed the other squad members also holding their drinks.

“Walm, you look puzzled,” said Jose, sitting to his right, smiling while holding a beer keg. His dark skin made it difficult to see his face in the dim light. Jose had been Walm’s partner since he joined the army. He was a well-informed soldier, reliable in securing supplies, with curly hair. Despite his cheerful appearance, he had a rather harsh side.

“I was just wondering how we ended up with so much alcohol.”

“We captured a ‘Magic Bag’ from one of the enemy commanders. It seems it was filled with celebratory drinks for their victory.”

Magic Bags were central to the logistics and supply lines of this world. They ranged in size from small pouches to large backpacks, even capable of holding warehouse-scale supplies. Walm had always wanted to see one, but they were notoriously difficult to acquire. The primary sources were either as relics from labyrinths and ruins or produced in small quantities by the Aleynard Forest Alliance, which harbored the World Tree.

Since Aleynard kept the production methods secret, only the military, nobility, and major merchants owned them. According to Jose, adventurers who frequently explored labyrinths and ruins were the exception to this rule. It was also said that the naturally occurring had larger capacities than the produced ones.

“That’s why we’re enjoying this toast so deliciously. We have the riches of Libertoa to thank for that.”

Now, instead of the wine he had just finished, beer was poured. Despite the lack of ice or refrigerators, making it room temperature, the beer’s unique sweetness and acidity, followed by its bitterness, was not bad to Walm. He ate salted herring in between sips. The herring was quite salty due to the pickling, but it didn’t taste overly salty to Walm, perhaps due to the sweat shed during battle. Eating it with beer, it was just right.

Raising a toast with his comrades beside sleeping corpses, Walm realized that he was adapting to the harsh world with different values and rules. Nevertheless, for Walm, this was the only way to survive.