# Enhanced Translation
The horizon trembles. Dust rises from the wasteland like a sandstorm in the distant west. Below, military banners waver through the heat haze shimmering under the summer sun.
The Northern Lords of Skaldsholm, Bloodvar, Stormbrak, and Haskarfor.
The Southern Lords of Varnaheim, Midraven, Eldvark, Drekhalt, Heilskrog, and Valkrig.
The banners of each clan, depicting their symbolic beasts, unfurl like curtains in the wind. Flags bearing bears, salmon, eagles, deer, and wolves rise above the dust.
Boom, boom, boom. The distant sounds of war drums and horn trumpets echo across Findvalt, at the eastern edge of the Droan Kingdom.
All of Droan's forces have gathered in one place.
"Those bastards..."
A deep smile formed at the corner of Einar's mouth. The fatigue accumulated over more than ten days of slaughter vanished like it had been washed away. New vigor and excitement coursed through his veins, heating his body.
Yes, he had been right.
Throughout Droan's long history, when had the warriors of this land ever moved with such unity?
Such a thing had never happened. All clans were no different from jackals baring their teeth and growling at each other.
Countless people died of hunger. Since raiding ultimately meant taking from others, it might ensure short-term survival, but from a macroscopic perspective, Droan was slowly withering away.
A nation with no productivity. A culture that considered tilling the land and herding animals shameful. A civilization with an expiration date, where every child aspired only to become a warrior.
When the great war that was destroying all surrounding countries ended, Droan warriors would no longer be able to raid foreign lands. Then the warriors of this wasteland would wither away, devouring each other like poisonous insects in a jar.
Droan needed unity to survive. Now, the east beyond their lands had become demon territory, the west was occupied by a powerful nation they dared not touch, and the remnants in the south had begun forming an alliance.
If they continued their raiding culture after the great war ended and peace returned, death would be Droan's only future. Civilized society would surely want to dismantle these troublesome barbarians.
Before that happened, they needed to become "civilized." The country needed to be united under the authority of a powerful king who could force submission. For that, strength was needed, not cunning.
The young Einar had read the future of this country among fools and decided to become the biggest fool of all. And the result...
The result was here before him.
He had not been wrong. The proof that his choice was right was here. These selfish and greedy jarls, gathered as one and marching for a greater cause.
"Brother..."
"Ah, I got dust in my eye. Anyway, what a noisy bunch."
Einar roughly wiped his eyes and laughed gruffly. At this sight, one of the huskarls burst out laughing.
"Are you getting sentimental with age?"
"Do you want to die?"
"Well, if I'm going to die, it should be at the hands of a demon. I'll go down first."
"Fine."
After chasing away the man with his useless chatter, the noise of the approaching Droan legion grew louder.
-Boom, boom, boom!!
"How are they... marching in step...?"
Only Krasilov Kingdom could operate a legion of that size with such discipline. Droan warriors marching in step? Such a showy display was nothing more than that.
And they weren't just charging recklessly, but maintaining some semblance of marching discipline. How was this possible with warriors from different clans?
-Boom! Boom! Boom!
-...ra! ...hera!!
"...?"
The shouts of countless warriors were becoming more distinct.
It wasn't just marching in step, it was almost like... like drunk warriors keeping time with their feet while a minstrel sang in front of a bonfire (made of burning corpses) during a festival...
-Next song—!! For the Crystal Sword!!
-Waaaaaaaaah—!!!
-This is crazy, crazy!!!
"...???"
A sharp, clear tone that sounded somehow familiar. But the voice was much huskier than he remembered.
As Einar stood bewildered, the melody of the approaching legion began to echo across the wasteland.
-For the king, for the wilderness, for the fjords—!!
-For the blue valleys where dragons fly!!
"Where are there dragons in our country...?"
-For the strength and glory to defeat the Dark Lord!!!
-We shall seek the Crystal Sword!!
-We shall seek the Crystal Sword!!!
-Waaaaaaaaah—!!!
"...what on earth is that...?"
Einar was confused.
With his superhuman vision, he could soon make out Asidis in the distance, singing at the top of her lungs and beating a shield.
The warriors weren't marching.
They were following Asidis as she moved forward. Their feet keeping time with her drum made it look like they were marching.
Listening to Asidis's song booming across the battlefield through sound amplification magic, Einar thought slowly. Very slowly.
'Perhaps I was wrong?'
People whose life choices are invalidated usually look to blame others. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the Droan warriors who had fallen into frenzy.
Soon, he discovered a man beating a drum alongside Asidis.
-Crack.
The stone railing of the tower crumbled to dust under his grip.
The man was beating the drum in time with the rhythm, expressionless, taciturn, yet passionate and sweating.
The kind of man who would calmly engage in such behavior and nod in acknowledgment that it was necessary.
"Ivan—!! That bastard...?!"
Ivan Petrovich. His most cherished younger brother was standing next to his daughter.
EP46. Attack from East and West.
"There are so damn many..."
When Ingvar grumbled, Ulfric laughed and said:
"What, are you scared? If you think you're going to die, hide behind us, old man."
"Scared? Is that some new slang you young people use? We didn't have such words in our day."
"You really are an ignorant old man..."
Ulfric snickered and turned his head. In the distance, he could see Findvalt Fortress.
There hadn't been a battle like this since the Great War. Wasn't it supposed to be a peaceful time with only small-scale conflicts?
The moat was filled with demon corpses. Smoke from burning bodies rose all the way to the distant fields. The demons must have breached the outer wall, as flames were rising from within the walls.
However, at the highest point of the inner fortress, Einar's banner remained unbroken.
The massive clan banner with a roaring lion slowly waved in the wind. Unless they fell to the very last person, that banner would never be lowered.
A sense of awe welled up anew. Had there ever been a greater warrior in Droan's history?
People of the world often say that "the age where individual valor dominates the majority" has ended. The scope of battlefields continues to expand, the nature of war grows increasingly treacherous, and the structure of the world becomes ever more complex.
But that's not true. The age where individual valor and achievements surpass the absolute majority has not yet faded. As that giant standing on the inner fortress wall is proving even now.
Looking down at the approaching warriors, a battle cry full of killing intent echoed across the battlefield.
"Warriors of Droan—!!"
The king of warriors was commanding his people.
"You who are born in struggle, live for struggle, and die in struggle—!!"
There was no trace of fatigue or injury in the king's voice. He laughed heartily as he split the head of an approaching demon and concluded:
"Come, fight, prove yourselves, and die—! Live and die on the battlefield, and be eternal!!"
At the king's cry, the song that had been stirring the warriors ceased. In this strange silence, the warriors' hearts were burning not with mere rhythm, but with something else.
Snorting, eyes bloodshot and gleaming, muscles swollen with tension.
The warriors of Droan, without music, stomped the ground in unison and shouted:
-Droan—! Droan—!! Droan—!!!
-Fight, live, die—!
-And be eternal!!
The jarls simultaneously struck their horses' flanks. Generally, in war, commanders should not display bravado. The most necessary virtue for a commander is not the strength of a common man, but the vision to oversee the entire battlefield and leadership.
But in Droan, this is more worthless than anything.
In this land where only brute strength matters, warriors do not listen to those weaker than themselves. To lead others, one must be stronger than all others and prove it throughout one's life.
The jarls do not command. They charge toward the battlefield with roars. There are no clever tactics of dividing troops into complex formations.
Like wildfire on barren land, like a starving rhinoceros set loose, like a tidal wave and storm raging between fjords.
All Droan warriors began to charge, following their leaders.
All twenty-four thousand warriors capable of bearing arms in Droan collided with the demons on the Findvalt plains.
The battle ended in less than two days.
Before the mountain of demon corpses, Droan's banner would never fall, not today, not tomorrow, perhaps not even in the distant future.
The crackling sound of burning corpses continued into the night.
As excited warriors roughly cooked and devoured demon corpses by the fire, Ivan was massaging the back of his neck, feeling the fatigue from the fierce battle.
"Hey."
Until the appearance of the murderous giant madman.
"I need to talk to you."
The warrior king of Droan, accompanied by his huskarls, was growling at Ivan.
Ivan nodded expressionlessly and rose from his seat.
"Perfect timing."
He casually dusted off his hands, which were smeared with lightly roasted jerky, and walked toward Einar.
"I have much to say as well."