Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest
Chapter 411 - 15: A Worthy Death

Chapter 411: Chapter 15: A Worthy Death

This blocking battle is not like an egg against a rock. It’s an endless quagmire.

The deeper you fall into it, the more you struggle, the more powerless you feel, and the more powerless you feel, the more you struggle.

It is a war that can be described as torture, simply because after a long-distance assault and a bloody struggle, everyone’s body and willpower have been exhausted to the extreme.

...

Ed felt dizzy.

"Captain, you’re not dead!"

"Help me up, how long was I out?" Ed spoke with a voice like a parched riverbed.

"The time it takes for three meals."

One meal is ten minutes, so three meals is half an hour, yet it seemed like something that happened in a past life. Ed was brave and charged ahead, but the intense fighting overstrained his body to the point of collapse. Upon waking, his body still felt heavy, and the pervasive pain continued to torture his nerves.

Ed took a moment to regain his composure and said, "Explain the situation..."

"Captain, the mercenaries besieging us retreated, but we were also scattered."

Two soldiers supported Ed’s arms with their shoulders, barely allowing him to stand.

Ed surveyed the surroundings.

He saw about twenty or so soldiers sitting or lying around him. The horizon was slightly dim, the sunlight not glaring, the spring breeze unable to dispel the lingering smoke, and the wilderness lay with over a hundred corpses.

Some were enemies, some were comrades.

Was the war seemingly over?

They had departed Fertile City in the morning, marched over fifty miles, and after noon, began arranging for battle. In total, about a thousand reinforcements from the River Valley successively joined the battlefield.

Otherwise, just the three hundred of them would have never held out until now.

Thus, several thousand of them fought a complete and chaotic battle against the mercenaries on this expanse of wilderness.

This chaotic battle lasted from noon to afternoon.

Ed previously gave orders for each squad to fight individually, aiming to delay more enemies while preserving their own safety.

Almost every squad opted to fight while retreating.

However, amidst the chaotic battlefield, many couldn’t distinguish east from west or north from south.

The Thirteenth Battalion was therefore completely scattered.

Ed could only pray to Lord Roman for his soldiers’ safety and that they would all find their way home.

"Those who can still move, line up and report your number!"

Ed planted his steel knife into the ground, using it as a crutch for support. Under his gaze, about a dozen warriors from different squads quickly lined up in a row.

The basic training over the past two years gave them a high level of discipline.

"1!" "2!" "3!"... "11!" "12!"

With the smooth counting, Ed observed each face.

He noticed these soldiers weren’t all from the Thirteenth Battalion. He had spent every day with his soldiers and had some impression of everyone. Now, he found some faces unfamiliar.

Ed quickly understood the situation.

Due to the prolonged chaos of the battle, all units were scattered, but they regrouped of their own accord, leading to soldiers from other battalions mingling with his.

"I am Ed, captain of the Thirteenth Battalion. State your number!"

One unfamiliar face saluted first and then said, "I am Emmon, the leader of the Third Squadron of the Seventh Heavy Equipment Battalion! Captain Ed, you are now the highest-ranking officer, and I will follow your orders!"

"I am a member of the Twenty-fourth Squad, Fourth Squadron, Thirty-sixth Battalion, and my name is Abby!"

"I am a member of the Eighth Guard Battalion, Barry..."

A few spoke in turn. Ed eyed the self-proclaimed squad leader, Emmon, and asked, "You’re from the Seventh Heavy Equipment Battalion?"

"Yes! My captain is Wima... He mentioned you to us."

"How is he now?"

Ed initially didn’t expect an answer from Emmon.

After all, it was too chaotic back then, with several thousand people fighting across tens of square kilometers, and the battlefield was rapidly shifting and expanding.

They were thoroughly divided by the vast space.

But unexpectedly, he got an answer.

A trace of sadness appeared on Emmon’s stiff face: "Captain Wima... fell in battle."

He had been right there, witnessing seven mercenary corpses at Wima’s feet, one playing dead, miraculously recovering enough to grab Wima’s right leg and trip him, and then a mercenary with a heavy axe rushed in from the side, splitting Wima’s head open...

Wima was stronger than him, Ed thought. A third-rank foot battle knight, holding the position of captain of the Heavy Equipment Battalion, and he died on the battlefield.

This is war...

Ed felt a suffocating sadness.

But facing this dire situation, he forced himself to remain calm and analyze the present condition.

They had twelve slightly injured but mobile soldiers, four severely wounded who couldn’t stand, and he himself was physically drained, his combat ability greatly reduced—he must bring them all back! Ed told himself.

Because in this region, at least several thousand persistent mercenaries still roamed, and they were isolated; once engaged by those above, a new battle would inevitably erupt.

Of course, the current situation was that both sides had fought all afternoon, neither wanting to continue because both were exhausted.

But everyone knew that once those greedy wolves finished licking their wounds, they would launch a second attack.

Ed felt sorrow, but unexpectedly calm, for quite some time before he said, "It’s getting dark. We must quickly find a campsite for rest. Make some stretchers and let’s get our wounded brothers away from here quickly."

Emmon answered, "As you command, Captain Ed."

Emmon’s face remained stiff as he dragged his weary body to assess the wounded soldiers and relieve them of their armor burdens.

The sunset light shone directly, illuminating this desolate wilderness.

The evening breeze, tender green wild grass, two solitary small trees, about a dozen lost soldiers, and over a hundred corpses lay silently in the gravel wasteland, some being enemies, others comrades.

Crows began to fly across the sky, more and more frequently.

They were definitely not from a flock raised by a Beast Witch but a group of wild scavengers, indifferent to whose remains they consumed, much like those mercenaries would greedily strip the armor and shirts off their fallen comrades, leaving them naked in the face of nature until they decayed.

This was the way of these times. Many mercenaries wouldn’t bury their companions nor their enemies. They lived like a group of restless wandering ghosts without belonging or sentiment, only profiting from the dead.

He was a battle-hardened veteran and was already aware of this.

But it didn’t matter how many mercenaries died, for mercenaries were unrighteous, as lowly as muck, scorned in life and unrestful in death.

But what about his comrades? His comrades were noble warriors chosen by Roman, victorious in a hundred battles before sacrificing too many in this one.

Was it three hundred dead or five hundred? Impossible to calculate.

How could his fallen comrades end up with the same fate as those wandering ghosts?

Ed felt sorrow in his heart as he looked at the scattered troops before him and suddenly said, "We will return..."

The soldiers’ faces were filled with fatigue and blood, and upon hearing this, all turned to look at him.

Ed spoke firmly, "His Highness will lead us back.

"His Highness said, ’Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.’

"He will never let us be like stray dogs exposed to the wilderness.

"Someday, we will all find a noble death.

"Our sacrifices will hold value!"

Ed’s body was weak, but in his heart, there was pure conviction.

As he spoke these words, he felt a heartfelt peace, as if already decided in his heart.

...