# Ep24. At the End of the Rebellion.
Turning back time ten days. Krasilov, Pritzenkaya, the Dean's office at St. Yansk University.
*Tap.*
*Crunch.*
The solid gold fountain pen nib crumbled, spilling ink across the desk. The attendant standing beside her flinched but dared not move.
Even if she risked punishment for disrespect, she couldn't approach her sovereign at this moment.
A terrible killing intent overflowed, so intense that even the magical lamps illuminating the royal office dimmed.
After a silence that made breathing difficult, Elizabeta Kirillovna Krasilov turned her dry eyes.
Toward the man kneeling before her with his head bowed.
"Is it true?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Pavel's voice was solemn. Without his usual joking tone, it resembled his voice from those days long ago.
In this moment, he wasn't the man who made frivolous jokes about promotion and honor, but showed the gravity befitting the captain of the Royal Guard.
That's why Elizabeta's fingertips trembled slightly.
The disaster at the Bernini Mountains, Ivan Petrovich Yeremorov's disappearance.
Presumed to be an attack targeting Gil Ber, enemy forces confirmed visually included over forty dragons, with ground troops impossible to count.
Simultaneously, three counts from Tilles attempted a coup. Presumed to be the masterminds behind the attack. Estimated forces at minimum 20,000, considering Tilles' wartime mobilization capacity, maximum estimates reach 100,000.
The Tilles royal family could muster at most 7,000 troops at Saint Matilenne. Realistically, about half that number would be available for combat depending on timing.
'Tilles has fallen.'
The moment she read the report, Elizabeta's cold mind quickly finalized her judgment. Assuming the fall as fact, it was time to calculate the benefits.
Unless she intended to wage war against the next regime, becoming their enemy would be the worst option. Krasilov faced the imminent winter.
During winter, Krasilov couldn't survive without trade. This was especially true after the war with the demon race. The nation's very existence was now at risk.
Given Krasilov's lack of ice-free ports, all trade had to travel by land. And the largest trade railway line of the United Kingdoms began in Tilles.
If conquering Tilles wasn't possible, they couldn't afford to antagonize the next royal family of Tilles. At least not until winter ended.
'Vanka was... caught up in it.'
However.
All the parts of Elizabeta that weren't cold, the remaining portions that reason couldn't control, were deeply dwelling on this fact.
Only that.
"Pavel."
A sovereign's judgment must only serve the nation's security. That was common sense. She had lived by that principle, and consequently, her hands had been stained with hot blood countless times.
However.
At this moment, all of Elizabeta's warmer emotions were sobbing in the thick darkness. The theory of sovereignty was merely text. But human emotions aren't limited to text.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The captain of the Royal Guard, who had lost his last royal guard, answered in a low voice.
The will of sovereign and subject aligned as one.
"We'll mourn at a more appropriate time. Rise."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Pavel raised his head and stood, there were traces of blood at the corner of his mouth. Evidence of biting through his lip. Elizabeta stared at the mark briefly before raising her head.
Even a moment's silence was too precious now. When she lowered her head again, her eyes had quickly dried.
Mourning would come later. That was more important.
"Bring me their heads before Vanka's body grows cold. I must appease his spirit with their blood. This winter will be severe."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Afterward, I will complete my postponed mourning. Will you join me?"
"I would be honored to do so."
"Go. Tell Count Valika to begin preparations immediately. I give you one day to prepare for deployment. Complete mobilization in two days, cross the border before five days pass, and within ten days, I shall personally take their heads."
With each segment of her sentences, the sovereign's wrath reverberated through the office. The cold teacup rattled slightly. As her anger shook the magical energy, her hair rippled gently.
Having received his orders, Pavel bowed deeply and withdrew.
Left alone, Elizabeta finally looked at the report filled with cold sentences. Onto the ink-stained paper, transparent droplets fell one by one.
"Ah, ah..."
The attendant and guard quickly turned to face the wall. The ruler of Krasilov only shows tears before the Lord.
"Ah... ah. Vanka, Vanka..."
Lord.
Isn't this too much?
Do you have more to take from me?
"I will, I will... I certainly will..."
Avenge you.
In the darkness-stained office, only the eyes of Krasilov gleamed alone.
Ten days later, she finally reached Saint Matilenne.
Ep24. At the End of the Rebellion.
*BOOM—!!*
*AAAGH!!*
The military camp shook. Each time artillery fire struck, soldiers scattered in panic.
Tilles is known as the country of knights. This isn't merely a metaphor. It doesn't just describe their politics or system of rule.
Tilles' most powerful military force is its cavalry, and even during the war against the demon army, Tilles' cavalry proved this by charging across battlefields without retreat.
However, as with most feudal manors, the majority of Tilles' infantry consists of conscripts. This means that even their most zealously trained standing army isn't particularly impressive.
Battles in Tilles center around cavalry charges, meaning the cavalry has dominated the battlefield. The cavalry battles determined the course of wars.
But Krasilov is different.
*BOOM—!!*
Krasilov treats soldiers as expendable. This was a similar attitude to Tilles. But beyond that, Krasilov determined victory not by the triumph of a special few, but by the death of the absolute majority.
The survival of a few superhumans isn't important. They established battle doctrine focused on how many enemy infantry they could destroy.
Therefore, in Krasilov, artillery is the god of the battlefield.
"The Reaper Battery. The 2nd Corps. Count Valika has chosen a side."
Ivan muttered as he watched the artillery fire pouring from beyond the hill. He glanced once at his lord who was overlooking the camp from the hilltop, then steadied himself on weakened legs.
Chaos had already engulfed his surroundings. The command center had collapsed in this situation, and soldiers were scattering with screams.
They needed to send cavalry. They needed to retreat. They needed to stand their ground. They needed to return to Saint Matilenne and resist. Numerous arguments flew back and forth in the command center.
But it was too late. Unlike knights with line-of-fire detection, for infantry, artillery fire was divine punishment from the sky. They couldn't notice it, they died the moment they realized it, and the manner of death was horrific enough to be visible to allied eyes.
It was death on display. Similar to a cavalry charge. Since deaths from artillery fire were concentrated solely among infantry, their morale was utterly shattered.
"Will the city walls protect us from their cannons? How foolish!"
"But we can minimize casualties!"
"You fools! Since Jean Beltuwa cut off our supplies, if we're attacked from behind, we'll be completely isolated! We must end this in a cavalry charge!"
"Your Majesty!! The rear's morale has collapsed! Our military banner has fallen to the ground. If we engage in a charge now, we can never stand against that witch!"
"I know! That's why we must retreat now!"
Saint Matilenne is right before their eyes. The throne and the beginning of a great dynasty are within reach.
But why did Krasilov have to interfere at this moment? All their corps should have been bogged down on the northern front.
Etoile gritted his teeth and turned his horse.
"Gather the soldiers as best you can. Winter is almost upon us! If we raise an army once more and begin a charge, they will starve to death throughout the winter!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!!"
Etoile and the command center mounted their horses and left their positions.
Or rather, they attempted to leave.
That was until a flying dagger precisely struck one of the nobles in the command center. The noble with a dagger in his chest fell from his horse with a choking sound.
"What...?"
Etoile suddenly stopped. A chilling killing intent constricted his heart. The stiffened Etoile turned his gaze.
There, death was staggering to its feet.
"How...? How can you still move...?"
"You should have killed me better."
Bleeding, with multiple arrows and spears embedded in his body, having lost so much blood that barely enough remained for a person to survive.
Yet still standing, raising one arm to aim at the man facing him. Etoile unconsciously stepped back.
*Don't move any further or you'll die.*
Ivan ignored Kim Seon-woo's words. The guy had become talkative since hope appeared before them. But Ivan was a sensible person, so he didn't listen to the whispers of trauma.
*You need to live. Don't risk your life. If you're prepared to die, at least do it for our fight. Not for complete strangers or foreign countries.*
Did demons classify humans by nationality?
*What?*
Or did heroes save humans based on nationality?
*Are you saying we're going to be heroes? Us?*
Not us, me. Because I promised.
I promised that bastard Gil Ber.
"Kill him. Kill that man!! Now!!"
"I've heard that often."
Ivan raised his sword straight before him.
"And I'm still alive."
From behind the sword blade covering half his face, from the bloodied side of the clean blade, Kim Seon-woo muttered.
*That wasn't your story.*
Enrique told me. That I could only return home after unfolding my own story.
*That story...*
I always told it. Not you, but me. From the moment Kim Seon-woo no longer wanted to turn the pages, it was always my hands that saw blood, touched corpses, killed people, cut down demons, and slew gods.
And if I've only realized it at this moment.
*The prologue...*
Ended 30 years ago. More than half my pages have already turned, and my story has unfolded anew.
The story of the Hero Party wasn't my long prologue; all the stories I shared with them were my story.
Kim Seon-woo remained silent. Neither affirming nor denying. As always.
Ivan was a sensible person, so he didn't feel a sense of achievement for winning an argument with himself.
He simply raised his sword.
He cut down the approaching knights. It was possible even with his remaining scrap of magical power. Fortunately, he wasn't dead yet.
"Don't run away. Etoile de Grandmartel."
"You cannot escape from here alive!!"
Etoile spurred his horse. Ivan's legs weren't suitable for running now. He couldn't chase a galloping horse. He raised his sword and said:
"At least your son faced death with dignity."
"...What?"
The galloping Etoile stopped. He stared blankly at Ivan.
*BOOM—!!*
Artillery fire landed and exploded near them, glowing red.
"Haven't you heard about your son's death?"
"That boy is now in Krasilov... at St. Yansk University..."
"I haven't introduced myself yet, have I?"
Ivan pointed his sword and gave a small salute. It was the perfect etiquette that Tilles knights would display. Deeply imbued with mockery.
"Krasilov Counterintelligence Command, Colonel Ivan Petrovich Yeremorov. I'm in charge of domestic intelligence and personally directed the spy hunt at St. Yansk University. Your son is indeed still at the university."
Because he couldn't return home even in death.
At Ivan's words, Etoile gripped his sword with trembling hands. Shock, disbelief, anger, sorrow. Numerous emotions scattered like fragments across his face.
"I'll kill you."
What remained at the end of his emotions wasn't the face of a retreating rebel leader. Only the appearance of a father who had lost his son remained, growling as he gripped his sword.
Ivan nodded and raised his sword in response.
"This time, you'd better do it right."
*BOOM—!!*
Another artillery shell landed beside them.
Using this as a signal, Etoile and Ivan rushed toward each other.