Chapter 161: The Reunion of Old Friends

Hank’s voice carried across the surging waters of the Somme River and crashed into the allied formatThen the knights and officers behind Sir Pascal erupted into roaring laughter.

“Ha! Did I hear that right? Surrender?” Knight Claw laughed so hard he nearly doubled over. “With those broken spears of theirs?”

“I thought it was some great commander,” another officer sneered. “Turns out it’s Hank Corot. I’ve heard of him, an old veteran from the Mandala War who got lucky enough to pick up a medal. Looks like his brain’s gone bad with age.”

For days, the allied army had been harassed relentlessly by elusive scouts appearing and vanishing like ghosts, leaving morale tense and frayed. Fear of the unknown was often more tormenting than facing an enemy head-on.

Now, at last, the enemy had revealed themselves.

But instead of the elite, well-equipped mysterious force they had imagined, what stood before them were merely a few formations of light infantry.

The soldiers wore matching uniforms and maintained decent discipline, but their weapons were nothing more than ordinary spears, and hardly any of them possessed proper armor.

Their scouts were certainly impressive, but that alone meant little. The main force consisted of light infantry, the kind that stood no chance against cavalry charges or the advance of heavy infantry. Anyone with even basic military knowledge understood that.

The allied officers were hardened veterans who had survived countless battles, and their eyes were sharp. At a glance, they judged the opposing formations to be no more than Bronze-tier troops, roughly equivalent to provincial garrison guards.

Spear formations did have some effectiveness against cavalry, but only when they were made up of numerous, highly trained heavy infantry. The rebels on the southern bank were too few and too weak to pose any real threat.

“My lord, enough talking!” Grand Knight Verdi rode forward and shouted in his rough voice. “Give me the cavalry and I’ll smash their formation to pieces in one charge!”

“Why are you in such a hurry, Verdi?” Knight Claw replied lazily. “Against infantry like this, there’s no need for cavalry at all. A few volleys from my longbowmen will have them screaming for mercy.”

“Hmph. Just as I thought, a mob of rabble.” A middle-aged man in dark robes stepped forward. He was the commander of the allied mage corps, a Silver-tier evocation mage. “My lord, with a single order from you, we can stand right here on the northern bank and scour their entire position with spells. They won’t even be able to keep their footing by the river.”

After that, the infantry would cross the river, the cavalry would sweep through the gaps, and it would become nothing more than an effortless slaughter.

Military merit was practically within reach.

The officers all began speaking over one another, eager to claim credit before the battle had even begun, as though the enemy across the river had already surrendered and whoever spoke first would receive the larger share of glory.

But Sir Pascal did not laugh. He listened silently to the boasts of his subordinates while the unease in his heart only grew heavier.

He knew Hank. Hank Corot was not a man who fought unprepared battles. He was brave, intelligent, and absolutely not the sort of fool who made empty threats. If he dared to stand there openly, then he must have confidence in something.

But where did that confidence come from? Those fragile infantry formations? Or the strange forest behind them?

Pascal raised a hand, silencing the increasingly noisy discussion behind him. “Enough.”

His authority within the allied army was considerable, and the officers immediately fell quiet.

Without consulting anyone further, Pascal urged his warhorse forward alone until he reached the river’s edge.

The cold wind blowing across the water stirred the gray at his temples. He removed his helmet, revealing a face equally weathered by time and war.

Across the river, dozens of paces away, stood a solitary figure clad in black armor.

Pascal had never seen that black armor before, but the face beneath it was one he knew all too well. His gaze also fell upon the sword hanging at Hank’s waist. Its hilt was made from savage beast bone, and its broad guard carried a crude, brutal style. It was Yuri the Executioner’s sword, the Fleshrender.

Yuri had been the strongest of the archduke’s three Gold-tier champions. He had been sent to Coldsteel City to secure the province’s vital mineral supply, a force that should have been invincible. He should have been. Yet Yuri had died at the hands of an unknown band of rebels, shocking everyone.

But now, seeing Hank again, Pascal suddenly felt as though it all made perfect sense.

Because this was Hank Corot.

So it really was you, Hank.

The last trace of hope in Pascal’s heart vanished. Hank had orchestrated everything. He had killed Yuri. He was the mastermind behind this rebellion, and the sword at his waist was proof enough.

“When we parted that day, I never imagined we would meet again like this, Hank.” Pascal’s voice was hoarse, nearly swallowed by the sound of the Somme River.

Once, they had been comrades who entrusted each other with their backs amid the meat grinder of the Mandala War. Now they stood as mortal enemies.

Hank looked at Pascal’s visibly aged face without the slightest ripple in his expression. He simply returned the gaze calmly.

“Neither did I,” Hank said flatly. “I thought you’d die on the southern battlefield like a true Elfin soldier, not here serving as a watchdog for a traitor to the kingdom.”

Pascal’s expression darkened instantly, as though struck in the chest by those words. “Hank! Watch your tongue! Archduke Demont is a hereditary provincial ruler recognized by the royal family. What you’re saying is outright treason!”

“Treason?” Hank let out a cold laugh, as though hearing the greatest joke in the world. “Who exactly is the traitor? The archduke who colluded with the undead for his own selfish ambitions and intends to sell out the people of the entire province? Or those of us trying to protect this land?”

Pascal found himself speechless.

As one of the archduke’s retainers, he had never directly participated in the dealings with the undead, but he had sensed fragments of the truth. Even so, he had always convinced himself that these were necessary measures to preserve Demont Province in an age of chaos, the sort of political pragmatism required to achieve great ambitions.

He drew a deep breath and forcibly suppressed the turmoil in his heart. “Twenty years,” Pascal said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Even back then, you couldn’t tolerate evil or injustice. Time still hasn’t taught you how the world truly works.”

He looked at Hank, then at the young soldiers standing ramrod straight behind him.

“So what if you killed Haus? The royal family is incompetent, the nobility is rotten, and this kingdom is decaying from the roots upward. Rather than sink together with this broken ship, it’s better to carve out a new nation with our own hands.”

He tried to persuade Hank with the ruthless realism he believed in.

“Listen to me, old friend.” Pascal’s tone softened considerably. “Is it really worth sacrificing thousands of soldiers just to satisfy your pride? Most of them only took up arms to feed their families. For the sake of our years fighting side by side, I can plead with the archduke on your behalf. Give up that so-called Pioneer Knight you’ve pushed to the forefront. Hand him over. His head, combined with your abilities, will be enough to calm the archduke’s anger. Join us. Your talents shouldn’t be buried in a meaningless rebellion like this.”

Pascal stared fixedly into Hank’s eyes, hoping to find even the slightest trace of hesitation.

As long as Hank wavered even a little, Pascal was confident he could persuade him. Faced with the overwhelming superiority of the allied forces, any rational commander should know which choice to make.

In Pascal’s eyes, the offer he had made was hardly a difficult decision for Hank. If anything, it was a comfortable way out.

But he was disappointed.

Hank’s gaze remained as cold and resolute as ever. And within it, there even seemed to be a trace of… sorrow? Was it because, faced with an army he knew he could never defeat, he had already accepted death in his heart?