# Horizon
From end to end, a long shadow stretches across.
When viewed from a high tower, this fact becomes even more palpable. The wider field of vision allows for a more realistic assessment of the enemy's scale.
Especially for a transcendent being who can count their numbers with unerring vision.
"Brother, you must retreat."
"Ridiculous."
Einarr snickered at his brothers' faces, as if he'd just heard an absurd joke.
"If I flee, will they stop their advance?"
"This is suicide...! Harald Skarsson never even swore loyalty to you in the first place!"
Here, the Jarl of Findvald, Harald Skarsson, is a count guarding the western border. But unlike the border counts of Tilles, in Droan culture, "border" carries a more dismal meaning.
Further west lies demon territory—not just difficult to plunder, but a treacherous land where survival itself is uncertain. The nearest major city is a fortnight's journey away. This is a fortress guarding the center of an empty plain.
The remotest of frontiers. While its symbolic importance lies in preventing all of Droan from falling if it collapses, no honor accompanies this duty.
The lord of this place had only two choices: to be silently annihilated by demons, or to grow old and die without ever seeing war. Both were miserable ends without a warrior's honor, which is why this region was assigned only to Jarls who hadn't sworn loyalty to the king.
Either fight and die here to prove loyalty...
Or flee and die as a traitor.
All the prosperous territories that everyone desired went to loyalists. After the Droan civil war, other nations believed this country was maintained by Einarr's authority, but Einarr was a man who knew his lifespan was limited.
A country that would surely collapse when he died. How futile is that?
He sent his talented daughter abroad. So that when she returned with connections to foreign dignitaries, she might establish independence with the borrowed authority of other nations.
When he learned of his brother's survival—whom he had long thought dead—he willingly gave up his most precious daughter. With that man's strength, this country could be maintained.
He needed to persuade the many Jarls who were dissatisfied with his reign but dared not challenge him, promising better land, resources, and security.
Though Einarr called himself a berserker, he was actually among the most cunning figures in Droan history. So cunning that he found it more efficient to disguise himself as a foolish berserker.
So now, in this moment, he looks at his brothers.
Huskarls. Blood brothers of the High King. A relationship bound only by loyalty and respect. Not like the "mutually beneficial lord-vassal relationships" of civilized nations, which were unreliable contracts. But brothers bound by sincere hearts and shared destiny.
Each of them was also a transcendent being who could see the army before them with their own eyes. Each of them, having marched together through countless battlefields, could anticipate how fierce the impending battle would be.
That's why they speak of retreat. Not foolish young warriors fighting to die, but Droan huskarls fighting for the honor of victory.
"Brother. If you fall, will this country truly last even a day? Please, you must think coldly, rationally."
"Helgi, you fool. If I flee, will this country last even a week? What difference does it make whether we die overnight or in a week?"
If this were a small border dispute, losing this land wouldn't be a great loss. They could reclaim it later with the help of other great lords from the north and south.
But with a force of this scale—a "great war" scale—it's different.
The existence of other territories to the north and south means the enemy's march could continue in either direction. If they cannot be stopped at this westernmost plain, their advance will spread throughout the entire country.
So he had no choice but to be here. No choice but to defend this position.
"But not everyone needs to die here."
Einarr looked around at his huskarls and said:
"Just one week. If we can hold out that long, the other Jarls who received the summons will respond. If we can defend this castle for that week, if we can keep their attention fixed here, we can stop them."
The High King's summons had been sent to all Jarls. Messengers requesting aid had already been dispatched abroad throughout the Allied Kingdoms.
If they could just buy time, this place need not necessarily become a death trap.
But that week must be endured with just four thousand warriors, of whom only five hundred are "useful." That number includes all the huskarls.
In other words, once they decide to hold out, eight out of ten will die here.
"Now, brothers. Those who will 'handle the aftermath,' raise your hands."
-....
No one raised their hand. The huskarls looked up at their king with sunken eyes.
"Or perhaps, yes. What about my daughter and family? Anyone who will leave now and devote their life to protecting my family, raise your hand."
-....
Men who would normally clamor to be chosen were now silently staring at their king, with no one speaking up.
This was, in effect, a roundabout way of saying "flee and survive."
All the huskarls here were seasoned warriors, not so stupid as to misunderstand such words.
"Well then. Those who want to live, raise your hands."
-....
Einarr laughed heartily and said:
"That's right, brothers. What defines a warrior is not how he lives, but what death he meets. You fools. You idiots. Do you want to die that badly?"
"That's rich coming from you, brother."
"Better this than dying of old age."
Only then did the huskarls burst into laughter, each adding a comment. Einarr nodded vigorously and said:
"Yes, let's go die. With so many ancestors watching us from the heavens, if we die in our beds, they would fall to the ground in shame!"
All religions in the civilized kingdoms share the same roots, but Droan's indigenous religious elements were stronger.
In their culture, warriors who die fighting valiantly are believed to become stars in the night sky.
Stars are like sword points piercing the night. Their ancestors, even after death, are eternally fighting against darkness.
Beyond the daylight touched by the Lord's glory, they continue their battle in the dark night sky ruled by evil.
A falling star represents the death of an ancestor ashamed of their descendants. Shouldn't one fight without regret to stand proud before the spirits of their ancestors?
Einarr stretched out his hand and shouted:
"Gelmir! Bring my axe. Vigmund! Sound the horn! Storr, open the gates!!"
"Yes, brother!" they responded in unison.
"Asladr, stop those on the battlements from pissing themselves. I'll forgive those who are afraid, but I won't forgive those who run away now!"
"Yes, brother!"
"Let's go become stars, you fools!"
"Yes!! Brother!!"
Einarr and the huskarls set out for the initial battle. All warriors gathered below the castle were assembled inside, and only Einarr, accompanied by a few huskarls, rode toward the enemy lines.
There was one engagement. While only five huskarls died, hundreds of demons were crushed. Einarr returned laughing after personally beheading the enemy's commanding officer.
The warriors of Findvald praised their king and were greatly encouraged.
The next day, full-scale combat began. The demons gathered below the castle were endless in number and came in waves regardless of day or night.
Of the 300 remaining huskarls, 50 were killed or too wounded to continue fighting.
Five days later, demon corpses were piled up to just below the battlements. Before they could burn the bodies, more demons swarmed in.
A week later, the king climbed the tower to encourage his exhausted soldiers. It was where he went every morning and every night, during all times without battle.
He spent a long time scanning the distant north and south.
Silently, until he could see friendly banners. Then when the enemy offensive began again, he would descend to the battlements and continue the slaughter.
"Mountain of corpses, sea of blood, Einarr."
After that week of battle, the demons began to whisper the king's name.
"Blood-shedder Einarr."
Seeing the face of the barbarian warrior looking down at them with the rising sun at his back, standing above mountains of their kinsmen's corpses and seas of their blood.
"Mountain-breaker Einarr...!!"
On the eighth day, a change came over the demons who had been charging fearlessly. Notably fewer demons approached the castle wall where Einarr stood.
This was natural.
As the old Droan saying goes, "You might survive a rain of blood, but you cannot survive Einarr's axe."
Demons are not emotionless puppets. Though their culture differs, they are fundamentally intelligent beings.
Only those with a death wish advance toward certain death. There is no honor for those who die in that place. There were simply too many to speak of each one dying honorably.
"Mountain Tumor-breaker, Slaughterer of Sea Evil Pernich, Demon King-slayer, Einarr!!"
Nine days.
Half of Findvald's warriors had died. A miraculous calculation. Created by the power of just one man.
The Hero Party was an execution squad. A special operations team created to assassinate high-value targets. But even such a Hero Party needed the military might to face an "army."
That was Einarr. A mythical warrior believed to be unbreakable by anything except "time."
Mountains of corpses pile where he goes, seas of blood flow where he treads—thus "mountain of corpses, sea of blood."
"Mountain-splitter" because his swung axe carved through mountains and valleys, leaving marks that remain in the north even after more than a decade.
"Blood-shedder" because he would come running covered in blood, laughing, and only stop after adding more flesh and blood to his already bloodied body.
With just one man's strength and authority, he suppressed numerous ambitious men and established a country. The founder of Droan as a "kingdom," unified for the first time in hundreds of years.
The Berserker King stood on the battlements looking down at the demons. His killing intent was so sharp it cut through flesh with just a glance, causing fractures among the demon ranks.
"I'm dying of sleepiness. If I die like this, I won't go to a good place, you incompetent vermin!! Come, where are the Seven Dragon Generals? What, did they go to take a piss?!"
Einarr looked down at the stirring demons, commanding them with dry lips.
Ten days. Now past the initially promised week.
Still no reinforcements had arrived from the south, north, or from foreign countries in the distant east.
None of his surviving brothers were uninjured. It was unclear how much longer they could hold out.
But they had succeeded in binding the enemy here. The demons dared not turn their backs on Einarr to head toward other regions.
So in this campaign, he was essentially holding an entire front line alone.
"I'm really dying of sleepiness..."
Dismissing all his accumulated fatigue and injuries as mere "lack of sleep," he picked up his axe again.
"Brother."
"Ulfrik. You're alive."
"Yes, brother."
The huskarl knelt and said:
"Ascend the tower."
The tower? At this moment when the enemy offensive is starting again?
Einarr tilted his head and climbed the tower. After briefly shielding his eyes from the dazzling eastern sunlight, he could see beyond the horizon.
Military banners were lined up.
Skaldhölm, Bloodvar, Varnaheim, Haskarfor, Midraven....
"Sluggish creatures."
Einarr grinned and lowered his axe.
"I called ages ago, and only now they crawl here."