Dust rose from the distant horizon. After a moment, a lone rider could be seen approaching. It was a warrior dressed in black clothes, without any military banners or emblems.
Therefore, it would be quite difficult to identify with the naked eye at night. Rather than a messenger sent somewhere, his attire was more suited to a scout.
And this was true. He was actually returning after completing reconnaissance.
"Yarl!!"
The scout came galloping breathlessly and immediately collapsed in the middle of the military camp. He had been riding non-stop for nearly six hours.
At his shout, a large man rose from the center of the camp. A middle-aged man with red hair walked over with heavy steps and gestured.
"You there, bring cold water. Feed it to this fellow."
"Yes, Yarl!"
The scout hastily gulped down the cold water from the leather pouch. Only after coughing several times was he able to regain his senses and stand up.
Baldur Skeggraud, the Yarl of Bloodvarr, who had been patiently looking down at him, scratched his neatly braided beard and asked.
"How is the situation?"
"They're still fighting, Yarl."
"Hmm... still?"
It was impossible to know how many troops the demon army had. That was literally an 'unknowable' domain. The last count he confirmed was around thirty thousand, and even at that moment, demons were continuously pouring in from the demon realm.
Taurus that usually only appeared on the western front, swamp goblins and rock trolls from the northern end, orcs most common in the east—an enormous army of diverse troops was flooding in regardless of region.
And the only one who could command such diversity of troops and scale without internal strife was one of the Seven Dragon Generals. In other words, it meant that one of the Seven Dragon Generals was present in this campaign. Judging from the experience of the Great War, their presence was clear.
Although they hadn't appeared on the front lines, it had already been nine days.
Nine days. A small force of barely five thousand, including about three thousand warriors from Findvalt, had been holding out at a fortress for nine days.
In wars against demons, siege warfare doesn't proceed leisurely like typical human sieges. There's no waiting or prolonged siege where supplies are cut off to starve the defenders.
They fill moats with their bodies, large monsters like trolls and ogres serve as battering rams, and they advance endlessly, making ladders and siege towers from the forests abundant in the demon realm.
They must have abandoned the outer fortress. The numbers were too few to defend the entire outer fortress. So they must be defending from the inner fortress, but they've held out for 9 days?
It's possible for Einarr. Only he in this land could conduct such a war.
A battle that everyone said wouldn't last three days, yet still continuing after more than twice that time.
"Yarl, I wonder if this is a mistake..."
"What?"
Baldur's eyes sharpened. The scout shrank back and stammered as he continued.
"The enemies are truly endless! Even if Einarr falls, could we alone stop them...? There's even one of the Seven Dragon Generals!"
The warriors murmured at the scout's words.
Although the warriors of this land are said not to fear death, that doesn't mean they willingly accept a doomed death that will certainly lead to defeat.
To them, the Seven Dragon Generals meant the same as Einarr. Beings with whom there is no chance of survival if confronted. The Blood Eagle 'might' die, but those who rush at Einarr and the Seven Dragon Generals have no chance of survival.
So their complaints and anxieties were justified. Baldur clicked his tongue and straightened his back. If he showed weakness here, it would be over. The moment his leadership was questioned, the warriors would not hesitate to cut his throat.
"What difference would it make if we went to save Einarr now?"
"What? But..."
"You fool! Have you forgotten what we've endured during these years under Einarr's rule? Listen, all of you!!"
Baldur shouted angrily, scanning the warriors.
"That cursed bastard told us to dig the earth and live! To catch fish and live! To gnaw at the frozen wasteland at the northern end, to fish for minnows between the fjords!! And what happened? Huh? You there!! What's your name?"
"He-Hervik, Yarl!"
"Hervik! Do you have a family?"
"Yes, Yarl. I have, have one son!"
"Any other family?"
"..."
The named warrior hardened his expression and bowed his head. After a moment, the warrior spoke with difficulty.
"My parents starved to death, and my wife died of illness..."
"Was your son your only child?"
"I, I had two more... but, but those ones too..."
"Yes!! This is Einarr's rule!!"
Prohibiting raids between clans and ordering them to live by trade is idealistic. Droan is a barren land, and the most abundant thing in Droan was not resources but humans.
These are warriors. They are a tribe that must struggle to survive. Especially here in the north. Across the northern outer sea, one barely reaches the demon realm, and other human settlements are far away.
In spring and summer it might be manageable, but in winter, many people die. As numbers dwindle, even fewer can survive the next winter.
The four clans classified as the Northern Territory were slowly withering away.
And that was what Einarr wanted. Unlike the clans that occupied the Southern Territory, the northern clans were rebellious territories that had most fiercely opposed and fought against Einarr's unification.
So even if Einarr returned alive, would there truly be a future? No, there certainly wouldn't be. Their only remaining choices were betrayal and struggle.
"The four clans combined have twelve thousand warriors here!! Rarely in Droan's history have so many warriors gathered in one place! Each of you is better than five eastern weaklings. So our number is equivalent to 60,000 men!!"
If one Droan warrior equals five easterners, then a legion of twelve thousand Droan warriors can be considered equivalent to a great army of sixty thousand easterners.
Indeed, all warriors couldn't help but tremble at this clear arithmetic. Yes, this is an obvious fact... a 'truth' that no one can refute.
And there hasn't been a single large-scale battlefield with sixty thousand easterners since the last Great War. So, even with just this number, they are equivalent to a legion from the Great War era, even one that directly confronted the Seven Dragon Generals!
They're going to die either way, but if they defeat the demons after Einarr's death, they could divide all of Droan, the best lands and wealth of Droan.
It's a fight where they either lose everything or gain everything. And that wasn't so uncommon in the lives of Droan warriors.
Only struggle can guarantee life.
The next day came again.
The sun rose on the tenth morning since the engagement began. At the fortress at the eastern end, six hours away, Einarr would still be fighting with his life to hold back the demons.
How many more days could he hold out? What he had accomplished so far was already legendary, but how much longer could it continue?
When the number of surviving warriors becomes too few to even take minimal rest, when supplies become too scarce to feed even those few, when there are no more iron weapons to replace broken ones.
Then the eastern front will open. Yes, that would happen. And it probably wouldn't take very long.
Baldur, Ulrik, Sven, Bjorn.
The four Northern Lords sat quietly waiting for the results of the next reconnaissance. By now, they were so tense they no longer even spoke to each other.
Apart from past grudges and future hopes, their king fighting six hours away was undoubtedly the greatest warrior in Droan's history.
At this moment, as they left such a warrior to die, they were, before being Yarls, chewing on fragments of guilt as individual warriors.
And, in the distance, a warrior was running toward them.
"Is the reconnaissance already over? Are the demons coming?"
Baldur jumped up, his eyes gleaming. If the battle continued, distracting thoughts would disappear.
But the warrior shook his head and spoke urgently.
"Soldiers are coming!!"
"What? Not demons?"
"Yes, Yarl!! Not demons but warriors! Droan warriors!"
"From where? Who on earth?"
This is the northeastern plain. To the east is the eastern front, to the north are their territories, and the west is too far from here.
So it should be a position where no large legion could emerge—
"They're coming from the north...!! From the north!! Eldvark's military banner has been spotted! Angvar is coming!!"
"How did that crazy old man—!!"
Baldur exclaimed and hurriedly ran toward the north of the camp.
Beyond the horizon on the hills, a gleaming mass of weapons could be seen. Weapons shining brilliantly in the morning sun, and soldiers filling an entire hill.
Three to four thousand. A number only possible if a territory gathers all warriors regardless of gender or age. That much is understandable, but... from the north?
"They've... trodden... on our land...!!"
Baldur gnashed his teeth and shouted. The Northern Territory is now empty. Except for young children, the elderly, and women, there are no defensive forces worth mentioning.
It's natural. At a time when the demon army was imminent, they had to gather their forces.
Beyond the north is the outer sea. If they could just defend the plains in front, their territory wouldn't be threatened, so they could march out without worrying about the rear.
The price for that is now before their eyes.
An old man at the front bit into an apple with a crunch and shouted.
"Have you all been well—!!"
The thunderous shout echoed across the plain. Baldur ran out with his face contorted. Behind him followed the lords and their vassals.
"Tell the warriors! Tell them to prepare for battle!! They've swept through our lands to get here!!"
"Yes, Yarl!!"
The warriors scattered to relay the military orders. It wouldn't be possible to instantly redirect spears that were meant for the east.
If they charged now, they would start the battle at a great disadvantage. To prevent this, they needed to buy at least some time.
Baldur and the Yarls quickly mounted their horses and rode toward the northern raiders.
"Angvar—!! Have you lost your mind?!"
"Look at that voice, you must be living well. I'm glad to see you too, Baldur."
Angvar spat out the apple core on the ground and grinned. The Yarls were glaring at him, each gripping their weapons tightly.
In the distance at the foot of the hills, warriors were hurriedly moving toward them. They hadn't yet organized their forces, but it wouldn't take long.
Despite observing this, Angvar didn't rush. He sat leisurely on his horse, looking down at the Yarls.
"I heard Einarr issued a call to arms, were you all on your way together?"
"How on earth did you hear about it?"
All dispatches coming from Findvalt were already captured by their hands and buried underground. From the point when the engagement intensified, Findvalt fortress was surrounded by demons, leaving no capacity to send dispatches externally.
In other words, the disturbance on the eastern front couldn't be known to the outside world for the time being. Yet Ingvar appears leading an army?
Moreover, Ingvar's lands are at the western end. Considering the time it takes to cross Droan to reach the eastern front, and especially considering that they came after scorching the northern territories...
'It's impossible.'
The timing simply doesn't add up. It means they must have started marching even before Einarr began engagement, that is, before the demons formally appeared on the eastern front.
Einarr's call to arms was sent just a week ago. That means he sent dispatches two days into the engagement. Even if there was a missed dispatch, it would take at least fifteen to twenty days for that dispatch to reach the western end, gather forces, and arrive here.
It's physically impossible.
Except for one case.
"You started raiding as soon as Einarr left for the east...!! Did you perhaps contact the demon army before us?"
It's known that demons tried to recruit Yarls. They too are a coalition of warlords after all. But if they were 'already' recruited before the demons' full-scale invasion...
Only in that case would such a rapid march be possible.
If they predicted 'in advance' that the demon army and Einarr would engage, and that the northern lords who had joined hands with them would lead their forces away, and planned to raid the Northern Territory.
It would be an extremely bold and clever judgment. Baldur gnashed his teeth and shouted.
"You vile old man! If you joined hands with them, why would you...?"
"You have quite an imagination. Maybe you should have been a minstrel instead of a warrior?"
"What...? You bastard...!!"
"I'm honestly puzzled too. I checked on the way, and there's no way Krasilov could have known this information first. This isn't an issue of intelligence capabilities..."
Angvar chuckled and turned his horse.
He knew how implausible it was that Krasilov, beyond the west, had already detected the situation at the eastern end before it even occurred and dispatched personnel to respond to it.
This is a separate issue from war-fighting capability. It's not even an issue of intelligence capabilities.
All types of information have an expiration date. Even if they detected the eastern situation in advance, it's impossible for the information to be transmitted to the center, for the implications to be analyzed, countermeasures to be established, and for those countermeasures to arrive at the site so quickly.
However, with a successful case right before his eyes, he couldn't deny the evident reality.
Ingvar asked with a smiling face to the man passing by him.
"How did you really do it?"
"Situation assessment based on common sense."
He didn't elaborate further and rode his horse. Clop, clop. The horse smoothly moved forward to the front.
The mouths of the grumbling Yarls all closed at once.
Under the rising eastern sun, a man was looking down at them. Neither his beard nor his features were those of Droan.
With a haggard complexion, thin cheeks, ash-gray hair, and beneath them, piercing blue eyes burning like will-o'-the-wisps. Not a trace of emotion could be felt in them.
The eyes of Droan warriors, who worship death itself and march to the battlefield, are always burning with passion and religious fervor. But in the gaze of the man before them now, no such heat was visible.
Only a cold gaze, as if examining the soul. In the sharp gaze that swept over them, a mineral-like emotion was revealed.
It's a gaze that mechanically analyzes the combat capabilities of the opponent. And the experienced warriors present already knew the kind of group with such a gaze.
The man before them was not a stranger. He was one of those who had once marched alongside legends, writing their own epics, emerging from the deepest hells of the world to announce victory.
"...It's been..."
Baldur forcibly lifted his dry lips, but inadvertently bit his tongue.
He barely continued with the next words.
"It's been a while... Little Ivan."
"Red Beard Baldur."
Ivan's gaze brushed past him. Only then could Baldur take a deep breath.
"One-eyed Ulrik, Giant Slayer Sven, Wolf Skin Bjorn."
The named Yarls could be felt flinching. Baldur stepped forward in front of the stiffened Yarls and spoke.
"Is this Krasilov's will...?"
"No, I didn't come today to represent Krasilov."
"Then?"
Ivan drew his axe and said.
"I came here as Einarr's son-in-law. Baldur. On behalf of the King of Droan, I ask only one thing."
"...?"
The extended axe points straight at him. Before that sharp killing intent, Baldur clenched his molars and puffed out his chest.
A voice resonated deeply toward him.
"Where does your loyalty lie?"
EP44. The Strongest Son-in-Law in History.