The brief peace was shattered.

The lands reclaimed from monsters were now being seized once more, this time by humanity itself. Crest forces had infiltrated key positions with hidden troops, temporarily crippling critical points. That opening was all the massive invading army needed. After several clashes, the border garrisons lost all organized resistance, and the defensive line collapsed.

Without protectors, the fate of the people was always the same: brutal. Those who remained in their villages were swallowed by thousands of ravenous soldiers, consumed like a swarm of locusts.

A farming family of Felius descent had, until now, been among the fortunate. They had survived the Great Rampage. While many lost their families and were scattered, three generations of their kin had endured and made it to Selta. Their homeland had once fallen into the demonic territories, but through the efforts of settlers, it had been reclaimed. The farmer and his family had returned, rebuilding their lives from the soil.

The wheat seeds he had carried while fleeing had taken root. When they finally harvested their first crop, he cherished those stalks as if they were his own children. And now, once again, he ran, carrying both his family and those same seeds.

They passed through a long, endless slope, covered by forests on both sides. The highly dangerous monsters had supposedly been wiped out, but stragglers, lured by the commotion, crept closer. In fact, there were bloodstains leading deep into the gloomy woods, as though something had been dragged inside.

The family had already been walking all night. Clinging exhaustion had drained the color from every face. Realizing they had reached their limit, the farmer stopped for a short rest. His wife rubbed medicinal herbs onto the feet of their children, who were groaning in pain. Their toes were swollen, their heels raw and bleeding. Blisters, formed from relentless friction, had torn open, leaving their small feet in a painful state.

“Want a ride on my back?”

“…No, I’m okay.”
When the farmer offered, his second son shook his head and refused. The quiet kindness of a child not yet ten only made the sight more painful.

“Don’t hold back. Unlike your grandpa, your father’s still got strength.”

Ruffling the boy’s hair, the man crouched down. What kind of parent couldn’t carry one or two of their own children?

“Lucky…”

“It’s your turn next.”

“Okay!”

The eldest lit up with a cheerful reply as the father smiled at them both.

“Maybe… we’ll make it to Selta like this.”

It was a small, fragile hope. Then reality crushed it. From somewhere far off, faint, ragged, but unmistakable sound reached them. Others noticed it too. The scattered line of refugees gradually quickened their pace. The farmer’s family was no exception. Then a stranger’s scream tore through the air, announcing their fate.

“It’s Crest militiaaaaaaahhh!!”

Panic spread instantly. The column of refugees broke into a frenzy. Everyone ran, driven by sheer desperation, but those without strength began to fall behind, one after another. Many abandoned the road altogether, fleeing into the forest.

The man kept running with a child in his arms. His elderly father and his wife were both gasping desperately as they ran, but their lungs were screaming and their legs were stiffening into useless sticks from exhaustion.

The screams were close now. Too close.

When he glanced back, he saw spears thrust forward by Crest militiamen, cutting down a family that had tried to flee off the road. Light infantry, sent ahead, were slaughtering refugees indiscriminately.

What should he do? Run into the forest? But then they would never reach Selta. And it wasn’t just monsters waiting there, stragglers and desperate men hunted refugees like prey.

There was no good choice. Only the manner of death.

“Why… why are they doing this? We’re all Felius…”

“My legs… I can’t run anymore…”

Their cries were mercilessly drowned out by shouts and dying screams. Had their neighbors swallowed by the Great Rampage met the same end?

The thought cut deep. The man, the head of the family and the one meant to protect them, felt nothing but shame. Fear reared its head, baring his cowardice for all to see.

“I’ll scatter those bastards myself.”

“Father-in-law?!”

His father, old and so bent that his spine was permanently curved, drew the short sword he had kept as a keepsake from his days at war.

“Dad, that’s—!”

The old man had never spoken of it himself, but the farmer had heard from others that his father had seen skirmishes against monsters and men alike during his military service. The farmer had always been proud of him as a great father who had done his duty.

But this was madness. There was no way an old man could stand against trained soldiers in full armor.

“You damn fool, shut it,” the old man snapped. “Listen well. Don’t you dare look back. Not once, not ever.”

Despite the harsh tone, the hand that rested on his head was gentle. A memory surfaced in the farmer’s mind. The same eyes his father had shown when his mother died to illness. Eyes filled with unyielding resolve. Back then, his father had held him tight and said, “Even alone, I’ll raise you right.” Again and again, he had stroked his head just like this.

Reluctantly, the old man let go and stepped away from the family. No words came.

“G-grandpa!”

“K-keep… your eyes forward… and run.”

The farmer urged, his voice trembling as he spoke to his child. Crying would only break their breathing, steal what little strength remained.

Then came the sound. A sharp clash of metal, followed by a dull, heavy thud, like a sack striking the ground.

They did not look back, just as promised. For a moment, the battle cries behind them seemed to fade, but only for a moment. The farmer knew without understanding war, that they would be caught at this rate. His father had died without even a final scream. For what? Was it meaningless?

The small hand gripping his trembled. The child on his back breathed unevenly, gripped by fear. They were everything to him. And because of that, he understood his father’s choice so deeply it felt like his chest was being torn apart.

“…Next, it’s my turn.”

“No… no, please don’t! Don’t!”

His children clung to him, refusing to let go. His wife collapsed in tears, begging him to stop, but that only hardened his resolve.

“Run to Selta. Live well.”

He pried them off, pressed the sack of wheat seeds into their hands, and turned to face the death closing in. The weapon he drew with trembling fingers was a small dagger. Compared to the long spears aimed at him, it was pitifully small. His throat tightened, and tears overflowing from his surging emotions crushed his breathing.

“Fuh… huh… huah… aaahhh!”

His old father had fought without making a sound so that the family wouldn’t turn back. And yet he, pathetic as he was, couldn’t stop his voice from breaking.

The spearheads, stained dark red, rushed toward him like a thicket of blood-soaked branches. Now he could see their faces clearly. They were laughing.

The farmer clenched his teeth.

He didn’t know how to fight, but that didn’t matter. Even if he died, he would cling to them until the very end.

◆

The fleeing civilians were struck from behind, coughing up blood as they collapsed to the ground. The militiamen moved with practiced ease. After all, it was far easier to loot targets that didn’t move. There was no need to chase them down or worry about them hiding their belongings. Into this drunken mob, their hunger for plunder sated with blood, an old man bravely stepped forward. His figure caught in Friug’s sight.

“Company commander—”

Quietly, yet clearly, a subordinate called out, seeking the signal to act.

“Not yet. They’re too far. And if we intervene now, it’ll be the people of Mayard who get trampled.”

To save many, a few sacrifices had to be accepted. A premature intervention would only increase the number of dead. He understood that, but that didn’t make it any easier. Many among them had fought at Dandurg. Most owed a debt, large or small, to the Mayard Duchy.

For someone with a bent back, the old man’s swordsmanship was astonishingly sharp. He crushed several spearheads and managed to halt the militia’s advance for a brief moment. But the price for that was his life. Now, the very ones he had sought to protect were in danger.

Not only Friug, but his seasoned soldiers were growing restless as well. Those who had lost their families and homes in the mainland had come to rely on Selta for food, clothing, and shelter, and in doing so they had come to love this new land called Mayard.

As a soldier, Friug suppressed his emotions and waited for the right moment. But as a man, his heart screamed “Don’t give up. Run. Just a little more… faster… just a little more.”

Following the example of the fallen old man, another farmer turned back. In his hand was nothing but a small dagger. The Crest militiamen, already agitated after being stalled by the old man, radiated with killing intent. As if venting their frustration, they pointed their spears in unison, aiming to skewer him all at once.

Even from a distance, the farmer’s panic was obvious. It would have been easy to mock him for it, but how many soldiers could stand their ground before a wall of spears like that? Friug gave the order. It came slightly earlier than usual, his voice just a bit strained.

“Target the lead of the enemy unit. Fire!”

Twelve magic users, the pride of his company, cast aside their concealment and unleashed the spells they had been holding. Magic of all four elements tore into the enemy ranks. If it been a concentrated volley of fire magic, the enemy would have been wiped out instantly, but it wasn’t so simple.

“Ah.. huh, what?!”

“My arm! My arm’s gone!!”

“Mages! If we bunch up, we’re dead!”

“Don’t scatter, you idiots!!”

Through the thinning dust, the results became clear. Some militiamen sat stunned, dazed by the impact. Others flailed wildly, their arms gone along with the spears they once held. Friug’s soldiers, like hounds held on a leash, waited eagerly for the next command. Friug unleashed them.

“All units, charge! Wipe them out! Leave none alive!”

At his command, the warriors surged forward. Soldiers flanked him on both sides, but Friug took the lead, bringing his spear down with the full force of his sprint. The shaft bent under the strain as the tip tore through a militia soldier’s incomplete defenses. The blade scraped across a helmet with a shrill ring before sliding into the soft flesh of the neck.

Blood burst out like a fountain. Within the crimson mist, Friug had already chosen his next target: a Crest officer, desperately trying to restore order with shouted commands. As Friug advanced, the soldiers accompanying him cleared a path with their spears. Friug himself pierced two militiamen who stood in his way.

With no obstacles left, the enemy commander stood exposed before him. Friug’s thrust shot forward. The officer managed to deflect it once with the flat of his blade, but repeated strikes followed in rapid succession. His armor split, and blood began to seep through the gaps.

“S-someone… help—ghk?!”

The officer called for aid but the difference in skill was undeniable. No matter how many monsters they had slain, they had never faced a force honed for killing that was disciplined, armed, and driven by intent.

A spear slipped in from the side and pierced his knee. It was a strike from one of Friug’s men, seizing the opening. This was no duel, and Friug had no interest in fighting one-on-one. If anything, overwhelming the enemy with numbers was the usual way of war.

“S-stop! Ah… guh…!”

There was no mercy for those who fell to the ground on the battlefield. No hand reached out to help, only the butt of spears and the soles of boots.

“The captain’s been killed?!”

“Are we retreating or what?!”

Panic spread like wildfire. Fragments of words, only the most convenient ones, were picked up and passed along, distorting into something else entirely. A force without a clear chain of command was fragile.

“Retreat? Was that the order?!”

“Fall back!”

“Pull back! Pull baaack!”

Even with an unscathed company of light infantry standing before them, the militia, gripped by phantom orders echoing in their minds, turned their backs and fled.

“They’re breaking! Drive them down! Kill them all!”

The captain’s command was echoed by his officers, ensuring the intent spread clearly through the ranks. Skilled units could fight in silence, but no commander would deliberately silence his troops in combat.

“…Fools.”

Had they stood and fought, they wouldn’t have been slaughtered so one-sidedly. Instead, as they fled, spears pierced their backs. Blades struck their legs, sending them crashing to the ground. There was no more difficult maneuver in battle than a retreat, and without a rearguard, escape was impossible. What followed was less a pursuit and more like a massacre. Not a single one was spared.

“They died clutching to their loot.”

The reason their escape had been so slow was the plunder they carried. Even at the brink of death, they discarded their weapons, but not what they had stolen. In wars where supply lines were unreliable, looting was often tolerated, sometimes even sanctioned, as a means of sustenance. A soldier could only carry so much food, after all. And beyond necessity, it was also a way to boost the morale. The Highserk imperial army had done the same in the past as well.

“The resentment among the former Felius militia must’ve been stronger than expected. Field units running wild, and an example being made. It must’ve been a way to let off steam, that’s the most likely explanation.”

An army couldn’t function on ideals alone, but even so, there were limits. If an occupied region, meant to serve as a production base, was destroyed along with its people, all that remained was the burden of rebuilding. In critical areas, Highserk imposed strict regulations on looting through military law. Seen from a humanitarian perspective, a smaller nation like Highserk could even be said to value its human resources. People killed and were killed, but they weren’t wasted.

“Numbers may grow, but officers and commanders aren’t so easily made. Even Crest seems to be choking on the people it’s taken in.”

It was the consequence of expanding too quickly, and absorbing land and population without proper stages of integration. Their control had reached its limits. Friug walked among the fallen, poking the corpses with the butt of his spear. If even one of them was playing dead and escaped, their tactics would be exposed, and then this slaughter would become meaningless.

“Commander! Report on casualties!”

The one calling out was the oldest among the platoon leaders under Friug’s command.

“…So?”

“23 dead. 35 wounded, light and severe, but most can return to the line after treatment by the frontline mages. Two… couldn’t be saved. We gave them a merciful end.”

“…I see. Understood. You’ve carried a heavy burden in my place.”

The senior platoon leader, having compiled reports from each unit, delivered his summary. Around them lay the bodies of Crest militiamen, scattered across the ground. By simple count, the kill ratio exceeded ten to one. Considering the enemy had been equal or greater in number, it was a solid result.

“Send the wounded back with the most heavily hit platoons. We’ve got a long road ahead, so we can’t afford to exhaust ourselves here.”

The order from brigade commander Justus wasn’t defense or recapture, it was to buy time to gather conscripts and assemble the scattered forces.

“Understood. What about the bodies?”

“Leave them. Even if the militia had been distracted by looting, the loss of an entire company won’t go unnoticed. They’ll be forced to think about counterattacks and ambushes.”

It might’ve looked like a victory, but in the grand scheme they were still at a disadvantage. No matter how hard individual units fought, it wouldn’t overturn the war. And while these were just former Felius militiamen now, they were survivors. Men who had endured the meat grinder of the demonic territories. People adapted. They learned, whether they wanted to or not, through the deaths of those beside them.

Friug lifted his head, forcing his thoughts to shift. The field in front of him was filled with corpses and gathered soldiers. And among them, something out of place. It was the family of the farmer who had nearly been attacked when Friug gave the order.

“The grandfather is dead… but the father survived. If it had been the Guardian Chief, could that entire family have been saved? Would fewer soldiers have died?”

He let out a quiet breath.

“…What a foolish question.”

Discarding the meaningless thought, Friug prepared for what came next. There would be no shortage of enemies to meet his spear.

Translator – Lyxxna