Chapter 162: From Here On, There Is Only War
“Pragmatism…” Hank repeated the word slowly, his expression turning even colder. “So this is the ‘philosophy’ you gained after spending all these years serving as Demont’s watchdog?” He shook his head as though looking at a fool beyond saving. “I’m a rough man. I don’t understand your lofty philosophies. But if philosophy means becoming someone like you, then I’d rather have none of it. Some things matter more than simply staying alive, Pascal. Have you already forgotten what we once swore to protect? A new nation? Following a man like Demont would only create another festering cesspit with a different name. Rot is rot. Mud can’t be shaped into a wall, and shit can’t be carved into a flower. Rather than wag my tail in a cesspit like a dog begging for scraps, I’d rather give my life for the chance to witness a new dawn with my own eyes!”
None of this surprised Pascal. He had already known he would fail.
This man had not changed at all. He was still as stubborn and naive as ever. In truth, if Hank had truly compromised, Pascal would have been disappointed instead. The moment he offered terms of surrender, part of him had already hoped Hank would answer exactly like this.
Pascal himself had chosen to bow before reality, but at least one foolish idealist still remained on the path of conviction. The “Red Lion” of the Mandala War refused to retreat even half a step, just as he always had.
Pascal let out a weary sigh and slowly put his helmet back on, concealing every trace of emotion on his face. “Hank… I regret this.”
Hank did not even spare him another glance. He turned and strode back toward his own lines, the cloak behind him, black on the outside and crimson within, billowing one final time in the river wind.
He put his winged helmet back on, and as the visor lowered, it felt as though two worlds had been completely sealed apart. His final words drifted over with the wind.
“The one who regrets it is me, old friend.”
The negotiations had failed.
From this moment on, there would only be war.
Sir Pascal rode silently back to the northern formation. The moment his officers and knights saw the dark look on his face, they immediately understood the outcome.
“So the old fool refused the toast and chose the punishment instead! Fine by me. Saves us from having to share too much credit under the archduke’s eyes!”
“My lord! Give the order! We’ll crush them beneath our feet!”
In their eyes, the war was already over. Military glory lay directly before them, ready to be seized, and no one intended to abandon such rewards for the sake of one stubborn old veteran. Every man was eager for battle, greed and excitement gleaming in their eyes.
But Pascal could not share their enthusiasm.
He knew Hank too well. The man who fought like a lion on the battlefield also possessed a cunning all his own. The airtight intelligence blockade and the bizarre forest that had appeared overnight both proved it. Hank excelled at using unexpected methods to crush enemy morale and create psychological pressure.
Yet Pascal also believed that, deep down, Hank was still a traditional soldier. Every scheme he devised ultimately served one purpose: a direct and honorable battle.
What Pascal could not understand was why Hank had abandoned the sturdy walls of Coldsteel City and instead chosen to make his stand on this open riverbank.
Probably because he feared urban fighting would drag the civilians into the bloodshed.
That sounded exactly like Hank. Beneath his hard exterior, he had always been softer than anyone else, and that softness was also his greatest weakness.
What kind of true commander allowed compassion to bind his hands?
Pascal sighed again. The reunion with an old friend had become a farewell almost as soon as it began, and to his surprise, he found himself saddened by it.
Age really does catch up to everyone…
He shook his head mockingly at himself and cast away the last traces of unnecessary emotion. When he lifted his eyes again, they had turned cold once more. As commander of the allied army, he could no longer hesitate.
His gaze swept across his impatient subordinates before he finally raised the Faint Glow sword in his hand, its blade pointing toward the opposite bank.
“Begin. For Archduke Demont, claim another victory! Transmit my orders!” His voice rang out loud and clear. “Have the mercenary companies spread out on both flanks and conduct a feigned river crossing to divide the enemy’s attention! Knight Claw’s archers are to maintain suppressive fire! Knight Verdi’s infantry regiment will serve as the first assault wave. Cross directly from the front and coordinate with the mage corps bombardment. Tear apart those spear formations! And tell Fenrir, the Frost Wolf, to keep his eyes on the enemy center. Their commander is there. The moment an opportunity appears, carry out a decapitation strike immediately!”
One order after another was issued with calm precision, and Sir Pascal once more became the steady, decisive veteran commander of countless battlefields.
“Yes, my lord!”
The officers and knights accepted their commands excitedly before scattering in every direction to relay them throughout the army.
Woooo—
The deep, mournful sound of war horns echoed across the entire northern bank of the Somme River.
The frustration and gloom that had hung over the allied forces for days vanished in an instant as thousands of soldiers slowly advanced toward the Rowan Crossing. Their heavy footsteps merged into a torrent of steel, and even the earth trembled faintly beneath them.
In their eyes, victory was already theirs.
***
On the southern bank, Hank returned to the lines and saw Rehanna watching the opposite shore as well. Her officer’s black armor carried flame-shaped engravings she had added herself, and the edges of her cloak were noticeably more ornate.
She wore no helmet. Her flame-colored hair danced in the river wind, while the silver Roman numeral “III” embedded in her shoulder armor gleamed conspicuously.
“So, talks fell apart?” Rehanna asked with a casual shrug.
Hank nodded without speaking. He simply listened to the shouting and war horns coming from across the river while unconsciously tightening his grip on the hilt of Fleshrender.
“You’re starting to react more and more like Nolan,” Hank remarked after glancing at her.
Faced with enemies several times their number and a brutal battle about to begin, this woman showed no trace of nervousness. Instead, she looked as though she were merely watching some unrelated spectacle. That sort of composure, remaining utterly unmoved even when mountains collapsed before one’s eyes, Hank had only ever seen in one person.
“Am I?” Rehanna blinked in surprise, then touched her cheek as the corners of her lips curled upward. “Maybe I’ve just spent too long around him and picked it up without noticing. After all, as long as my lord is here, there’s nothing to worry about. Isn’t that right?”
Her words carried an almost blind faith.
Hank fell silent. He had to admit she was right. That young man seemed to possess a miraculous ability to turn the impossible into reality, making people believe instinctively that no matter how great the difficulty, it would somehow be overcome in his hands.
Just then, the crisp sound of galloping hooves came from behind them.
A warhorse raced toward the front lines carrying another knight clad in black armor. His armor was almost identical to Hank’s, the same officer-exclusive black plate, except the numeral on the shoulder was “IV.”
The knight pulled sharply on the reins and stopped cleanly before the formation before dismounting in one swift motion. The heavy black armor that looked so cumbersome seemed to burden him not at all.
With a metallic click, he raised a hand and lifted his visor, revealing a young face filled with excitement.
It was Little Donnie.