Tower of Karma
Vol. 1 - Ch. 23 - The Battle of Flanders (4): The Rising Stars

Gilbert took a deep breath.

The enemy had already arrived at the main camp before he could make a move. They had reached the main camp swiftly and silently, the dark group launching a surprise attack.

"Lord Gilbert! What shall we do?!"

This was a moment of indecision. While the main camp was certain to fall, rushing there now would allow them to engage the attacking force. If they could manage to defeat the mysterious enemy commander, it might turn the tide of the situation.

But would such a formidable foe think I would not move at this juncture? If I leave this place undefended and they advance this far, it will be a complete disaster. To move or not to move, that is the question.

Gilbert was forced to make a swift decision. Time was of the essence. To go or to stay, there was no middle ground. What decision would Gilbert make?

"Gah?! The main camp?!"

In the midst of the skirmish, Gregor witnessed smoke signals rising from the direction of the main camp.

"Oi! Don't take your eyes off the fight!"

The spear flexed with a slight curve, its destructive power increasing at the point of impact. Nika's fighting style was light and supple, fully leveraging the advantages of a woman. Brute strength alone could not defeat a man, so she had devised a clever strategy.

"Tch?!"

Gregor's greatsword could only parry. Nika's spear struck in a rapid sequence of attacks, undulating and shifting unpredictably. Gregor's ability to withstand this barrage was impressive— few men on the battlefield had seen the trajectory of this spear and survived the initial onslaught.

"My, my! Is this all you've got, you puppet?!"

Feeling the presence of the enemy forces closing in from behind, Gregor's unit began sliding sideways. The vertical axis was completely cut off by Nika's forces, leaving them with no choice but to move laterally.

"Damn it! These guys are strong!"

They were no ordinary foot soldiers. The dark-clad figures they faced were all formidable opponents. Even Gregor's Thunderer unit, directly under the Thunder family, could only fight them to a stalemate.

"I won't let you escape. As soon as the ones behind you are annihilated, we'll crush you in a pincer attack."

The retreating soldiers were being ruthlessly slaughtered. Gregor could do nothing to help them. Before that, he couldn't even figure out how to extricate himself from this predicament.

"There's no way I can break through!"

Narrowly dodging the enemy's attacks, Gregor frantically searched for a way to escape this situation.

"It's no use. Volf's strategy hasn't failed. You're all going to die."

Gregor was not particularly adept at strategic thinking. Caught up in the heat of battle, his thoughts were not in the best state, and the result...

"What?!"

"There, have you made peace with your death?"

Blocked by a tree in his path of retreat, Gregor had no room to swing his greatsword. It happened in an instant— a fatal moment.

"Don't take my head!"

Gregor was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but Nika...

"Huh?!"

...was even more foolish. Any part of the body – the belly, the legs, the arms – would have ensured Nika's victory. But Nika, in her foolishness, had aimed for the head as she had declared. And Gregor, taking her at her word, had squatted down with all his might. As a result...

"Aaaaahhhhh!"

While his hair was partly shaved off, Gregor had managed to evade Nika's spear strike. The spear's trajectory cut the tree in half and came to a complete stop.

"Phew, I'm alive."

Gregor sniffled, while Nika sweated profusely. The spear was stuck.

"Lord Gregor!"

Snapping back to his senses at his subordinate's call, Gregor wiped his nose and charged forward without hesitation. Seeing this, Nika hurriedly released her grip on the spear and backstepped to create distance.

Naturally, Gregor pursued without giving her any respite.

"Now I'll take your head!"

Gregor was at the brink of victory, when...

"Tch. And I was just practicing with the spear... Oh well."

Nika drew a shorter, thinner longsword and an even shorter and thinner main gauche from her waist. With just the single-handed main gauche, she parried Gregor's greatsword strike.

"What?!"

Her movements were those of a seasoned warrior. Nika smirked.

"I've been practicing with longer weapons since I'll be fighting on horseback more often. But this is my true specialty, you fool. It's called 'Two-sword Style, you know?"

Gregor's face paled, but Nika secretly thought...

...But this isn't meant for attacking. It's more of a defensive art, really.

Nika adopted a defensive stance, and Gregor remained cautious, unwilling to move. The battlefield was bustling with activity, but this particular spot had become eerily silent. What a strange stalemate. Time trickled by.

...Why isn't he attacking?! Can I even retreat?

Come on, you bastard. One swift counter-strike and I'll lop off your head.

The silent battlefield stretched on.

What should I do?

Come on, you puppet!

Eyeing Nika's growing frustration, the subordinates thought...

Well, the goal is to hold them in place, so this is fine.

And so they left the situation as it was.

༺༻

As soon as Anselm detected a disturbance in the main camp, he rushed to reinforce it, despite the dire situation he was already facing. He considered safeguarding the main camp to be the top priority.

"I won't allow that."

However, what blocked his path was the 'Black Mercenary Corps.' And the one who stood in his way was a mysterious, noble-looking man.

"...He's fast."

Anselm's platoon was highly elite. Anselm's own strength, having earned the rank of knight at such a young age, was the foundation of their prowess. Many of the core members had been on the battlefield since their teens, and the crucible of actual combat had forged them. Anselm himself was also honed.

Yet, their speed was overwhelming. They were unable to break through and were repeatedly on the verge of being encircled.

"You nobles play at soldiering as a side hobby. We are specialists, true professionals."

That was why they could not be dislodged. No matter how high their experience level was, it was still within the context of the nobility. Compared to those who made their living as mercenaries on the battlefield, they might indeed lack in the sheer quantity of experience.

"A noble's side hobby, huh...maybe that's the case."

Anselm signaled his subordinates behind him, in a way invisible to the enemy.

"Perhaps true heroes are born not from the nobility, but from the common folk. If that is so, I am content to remain in the shadows. To support the light, and wield my sword for its sake. That is the meaning of my life."

Anselm's inner resolve swelled. Seeing this, the man furrowed his brow.

Anselm von Kruger. I had heard he was a steadfast and flawless man...is the person before me truly the same individual? This is like—

A fleeting thought. But he was already outpaced on the battlefield.

"I'll break through!"

With lightning speed and determination, Anselm and his knights charged forward.

Their speed was sufficient. They seemed to have found a weakness in the enemy's defenses.

"To abandon the terrain advantage and insist on reinforcing the main camp...that's loyalty, isn't it? However—"

As Anselm and his elite forces surged forward, black flames spilled from Anselm. They clung viscously to Anselm and his men, growing ever more frenzied. It was as if touching them would cause one to be blown away. Anselm's aura had become utterly abnormal.

"—That was a poor move."

But for Anselm, this enemy was—too great an adversary.

From the man's figure, a platinum radiance shone forth, belying his dark outward appearance. It was the luster of royalty. Certainly not the aura one would expect from a mere mercenary.

Anselm, wreathed in black flames, faced the man glowing with platinum brilliance. In terms of momentum, Anselm held the advantage. The man had not even moved. In terms of physique, Anselm also had the edge. There was no reason for him to lose. There was no area in which he was inferior.

The first strike. A dark, viscous, sludge-like aura of flames accompanied Anselm's slash. But the man calmly parried it. To Anselm's astonishment, the powerful blow was effortlessly deflected.

"Damn it!"

Strike after strike, Anselm stubbornly tried to force his way through. But they were easily thwarted. It was as if this were merely a training exercise.

Anselm's momentum was significantly diminished. And with it, the black flames also lost their potency.

"All-or-nothing...that kind of thinking is the root of failure."

The noble-looking man completely sealed off Anselm. He had been concealing his true abilities until now. Why would such a paragon choose to become a mere mercenary—

The man's radiance intensified. Anselm was captivated by it. Emerging from that light was the visage of a king, the form of a lion.

"Sir Anselm?!"

Transfixed by the dazzling light, Anselm stood frozen. The man then struck with his sword. The delicate-looking, slender arms belied the elegant yet powerful swordplay.

"Gah?!"

It was swift, strong, and beautiful.

Anselm barely managed to parry, but was violently knocked back, crashing into his subordinates.

"So you can withstand that...indeed, Arcadia has depth."

The man deliberately did not pursue Anselm further. His intentions had been hinted at earlier, and now it was clear— he was not aiming for victory.

"...Are you stalling for time?"

Anselm's words were met with the man's gentle smile.

"Yes. Today is the stage for my boss. As his subordinate, I cannot interfere. My mission is to take your position. I will defeat you, but slowly and cautiously, with minimal casualties and risk."

He declared that he would be Anselm's opponent for the day. In the end, he would claim victory and the position, but he would do so gradually and without drawing too much attention, unlike the boss. Yet, could this man truly be the kind to serve under another? The aura he had displayed earlier was truly exceptional.

"It's impossible to break through. I'll fortify the defense."

Anselm gave up on breaking through and opted to focus on defense. To attack would mean being overwhelmed.

"You, who are you?"

Anselm asked the man as he retreated.

"Just a mercenary. Just a, you know."

Proclaiming himself as 'just a mercenary,' this man was dominating nearly every aspect of the confrontation against Anselm, the heir of the prominent Kruger family. It was almost impossible for Anselm's platoon to dislodge him. Even with the terrain advantage, their best hope was to merely contain him.

... Forgive me.

Anselm's platoon was completely pinned down on the hilltop.

༺༻

"What is happening?"

A young corps commander. He had been speeding down the elite track. He had no apparent defeats in his battle record, and the upper echelons of the military had carefully scrutinized and dispatched him to the battlefield, determined to nurture him. Although a greenhouse-raised talent, he had seen his fair share of action. And so—

"I don't understand."

He could not comprehend this situation.

"Whoa, nice defense there. Not bad, not bad at all, you."

The man spoke as he raced across the battlefield like a whirlwind. His face bore a confident grin, never once considering the possibility of defeat. In fact, the main camp had been ravaged. By the suddenly arrived black wolves.

"My name is Volf, the 'Black Wolf.' And these are the 'Black Mercenary Corps (Noir Garou).' Engrave it in your hearts—I, we, will devour you all!"

A man shining brilliantly on the battlefield, commanding the black wolves. Volf, the 'Black Wolf.'

"Don't screw with me!"

Even the young corps commander had his pride. His forces outnumbered them, yet they were on the verge of being toppled by a small contingent. Such a thing could never be accepted, not while his pride was at stake.

"Hmm. Not a bad aura. Looks like you've got what it takes."

The atmosphere was electric. The corps commander's charge. His subordinates were galvanized at the sight of him. The commander's morale soared, and so did his troops'. A paragon of a leader.

"But—"

That man, however, was far from being a paragon. His fighting style, his tactics, were self-taught. He could not conduct himself according to the textbook. The affairs of common folk held no interest for him. As a commander, he was riddled with flaws.

"Woooah!"

But there was one aspect in which he excelled above all others—vitality. He possessed the fierce determination to carve out his own path in the world. That was why he was strong. That was why he was clever—the strength and knowledge he possessed were born after those of others.

"I have it far more than you do!"

The corps commander's sword, the aura emanating from that man, cleaved through the man's very body in an instant. In two swift strokes. The fangs of the black wolf had severed it all.

"Oh, I forgot to ask your name. …Ah, well. I'll probably forget it anyway."

The black wolf had two fangs. They were manifested in Volf's choice of weapon—twin swords. Their absurdly irrational swordplay was also a product of his self-taught ways.

"Well then, farewell, nameless commoner."

Volf does not learn from others, for he is convinced he is the most exceptional of all.

Volf does not rely on others, for he is convinced he is the most exceptional of all.

Volf does not acknowledge others, for he is convinced he is the most exceptional of all.

"With this, the tide has turned in our favor. Straight to victory from here on... or so it would seem."

He had taken control of the flow. But unexpectedly, the enemy was stubborn. Niika's failure was within expectations, but for the other one to hold out this long was rare. And above all—

"To gain the upper hand against Anatole, huh... impressive, White Mask."

Volf had expected to be the one present at that scene. He had no intention of stirring Anatole, a corps commander-class individual. Until Anatole himself decided to join, Volf had been following the same blueprint that William had drawn.

"The difference in the number of pieces decided the outcome. Don't take it the wrong way."

If William did not move, Anatole would become an arrow of certain victory. Even if he did move, Volf would be the second arrow to pierce the enemy. It was already hopeless. At the ground level, no matter how they moved, it was checkmate. It was simply a matter of the difference in the number of pieces, and whether one knew of Volf's existence, whether one knew of William's existence. That difference had created this situation.

"And then... the other one is also making a good move."

The other one that Volf had his eye on. Honestly, he had not expected them to make a move. They could be effective even without moving. Normally, they would not move. If they were excellent, they would move even less. Such was the situation.

"Heh. Looks like an interesting one."

But if they were exceptionally skilled, they would move in this way.

༺༻

Gregor was in a hurry. Surrounding him were the excellent black mercenaries, blocking his way. Approaching from behind was a blue army. And in front of him stood the slightly foolish yet troublesome enemy, Nika, the deputy commander of the Black Mercenary Corps. While the outnumbered Black Mercenary Corps could not be wiped out entirely, they could not escape either. And the approaching army behind them was keeping time.

"Tch. And I was just about to kill you myself...it's all over, huh."

The commotion behind him. The sound of the army could be heard. Gregor closed his eyes, realizing it was all over.

"...I mean, if you're not gonna watch, can I just behead you?"

Nika said something idiotic. Gregor no longer had the energy to retort.

"But you're so damn noisy. Shut the hell up, you bastard!"

Nika, who should have been an ally, was cursing at the side of Nederkus. She was indeed a fool. But she was certainly noisy. Too noisy.

"Nika. Something's odd. In the first place...why do I hear the sound of hooves?"

"Hooves...well, duh, we're on a battlefield, aren't we?"

"...Didn't we decide to go on foot since we can't use horses in the mountains?"

Nika struck her palm, understanding.

"So it's just a misheard sound. There are no horses, so how could there be the sound of hooves—"

Nika fell silent in the middle of his sentence, staring intently at a single point. Nika's wild instincts were telling her something.

"...Crap. Let's run!"

Without sparing a glance for Gregor, whom he had been about to finish off, Nika took off running, and her subordinates followed without a moment's hesitation. The blue army had come dangerously close to Gregor.

"What is happening?"

The group that appeared before Gregor's eyes was in a state resembling a tattered rag. The once beautiful blue uniforms were now caked in mud and full of holes. It was a sight unbearable to witness.

"N-no. I don't want to die—"

A large shadow swept the ragged group aside. It was a mounted soldier. Those trampled underfoot by the front hooves, those kicked away by the rear hooves, were helplessly crushed by the man and horse. In a literal sense, the horsepower was vastly different. When confronted by a living, breathing warhorse, all one could do was flee. Especially a muscular military steed. A mere confrontation would be enough to intimidate them.

"Cavalry? How ridiculous. This is the mountains. There may be some gentle slopes, but unless one is highly skilled, charging across the battlefield would be impossible."

Gregor's subordinate exclaimed in surprise. Nika and the others had fled, disappearing from sight. The blue army was in a frenzied charge. Sensing that they had escaped the predicament, Gregor sat down heavily on the ground.

"She's confident, that woman."

Gregor grumbled as he ruffled his hair. One of the three people he had been unable to defeat at the military academy, the one who is known as the finest among them.

"What are you doing, Gregor? Hurry and regroup to block the path from the enemy's main camp. Do not let that vile intruder escape alive."

Gilbert von Oswald, the second son of a ducal house and the rising star of the Arcadian army, known as the finest. He was versed in military strategy, but his true forte was in the martial arts. His riding skills, swordsmanship, and proficiency with spears and bows were all of the highest caliber. His swordsmanship was leagues above the rest, but—

His moment to shine this time was in his equestrian abilities.

"You're a nobleman too, aren't you? At least show a bit of that pride."

Gregor twisted his face in displeasure. Gilbert was always like this. He demanded excellence from the nobility. The superior were the true nobles. He practiced this himself and expected it of other nobles. His effortless mastery and imposition of it was what Gregor disliked about him.

"Don't fall behind me, either. Your rein work has been a bit loose as of late."

"Understood, Lord Gilbert!"

"No need for apologies. Redeem yourselves through your martial prowess."

"Yes, sir!"

These were Gilbert's immediate subordinates, battle-hardened warriors belonging to the Oswald household. They were skilled and experienced enough to command their own armies, yet they had chosen to serve under Gilbert.

"Let us go."

With just those words, the atmosphere of the place shifted.

The aura that Gilbert possessed was that of a sharply beautiful masterwork sword. It was the true form of a 'noble,' born from the self-discipline of the mind, cutting through enemies, allies, and even himself.

"As you wish!"

They were captivated by it. Though skilled warriors in their own right, still young and inexperienced, they followed Gilbert out of fascination for his charm.

Gilbert urged his horse forward without hesitation, his rein work so perfect it was as if he had forgotten they were in the mountains. Every movement was graceful and refined.

First, I'll head to Anselm's position. If that falls, our tactics may be in jeopardy.

The peerless Gilbert, galloped across the pathless path on horseback. His subordinates desperately chased after him. In a moment, they had disappeared from the scene.

Gregor, still grumbling, began to move as he had been told. He knew, that no matter how much he disliked his companion, Gilbert's words were golden.

"But I don't like it!"

Forgetting that his life had been saved, Gregor was overcome with jealousy at Gilbert's shining figure. But it couldn't be helped. Among their classmates, they had been the ones most frequently exposed to Gilbert's superior abilities. His envy had turned to resignation—

༺༻

"Ugh, seriously! How could someone like him...and on horseback, no less! What a nuisance!"

Nika had fled the superior situation based on instinct. The result was the right call. That's why it was so frustrating.

"Crap, isn't that guy like Volf or Euwain-class?"

Nika glared at the subordinate who had let slip a weak-willed comment. The subordinate averted his gaze.

"In any case, let's retreat, Nika. If you get taken down, we'll end up getting killed by Volf."

"...Don't treat me like one of that guy's women."

"I understand Nika's abilities well enough. I know you've been working hard to stand on par with those two. We're your subordinates, after all. But if we get cornered by an opponent like that, we won't be able to move freely. If we run into him, we'll all get killed."

Nika twisted her face but did not argue further. She understood that she couldn't win. Still, this kind of special treatment was painful. Even though she had given up on being a normal girl, the people around her wouldn't let her. That was frustrating.

"Let's leave that woman to Volf or Euwain. Maybe even that old man Anatole might kill her. There's nothing we can do right now. Even that puppet who managed to regain his footing is beyond what a small group like us can handle."

Nika nodded reluctantly, avoiding eye contact to hide her sullen expression.

The tilted battlefield gradually began to regain its balance as Nika and her men retreated.

The "puppet" referred to here is likely Gregor, who was previously described as having regained his composure after the situation had seemed dire.

༺༻

"This is troubling. I had expected him not to move,"

The man facing Anselm's battalion observed Anselm's unwavering defensive formation. Slowly eroding that impregnable defense by nightfall had been his plan, but that leisurely approach had now become a threat to his life.

"...As expected of the sword lineage that Arcadia takes pride in. Inheriting the blood of the 'Sword Saint,' Siegfried von Oswald, I see the rumors of his exceptional talents are true."

The sound of hooves, which should not be audible on this battlefield, and the palpable aura of isolation—truly impressive. Being flanked with Anselm in front would be fatal for the man. He had only one choice.

"This is vexing. I suppose this will be a topic of discussion for a while."

His own carelessness and complacency had led to this mission's failure. There was not enough time left to secure the position. The man's deliberate attempt to prolong the outcome. His own mistake in trying to enjoy himself.

"However, it would be the act of a fool to stubbornly refuse to retreat. I shall take my leave here."

The man signaled his subordinates to withdraw without a single objection. No one dared to question his decision.

"If you pursue, you'll need to be prepared."

Sensing the retreat, Anselm had readied to give chase. The man deterred him with words alone, without even a glance. Anselm seemed to have grasped that there was no such opening.

"Allow me one question. What is your name?"

Anselm asked again after saying he would not. The man paused briefly before responding.

"...Anselm von Kruger, in recognition of your valiant efforts, I shall give you my name. I am Euwain, the deputy commander of the 'Black Mercenary Corps.' We shall meet again on the battlefield. And I shan't hold back then."

The dashing Euwain of the 'Black Mercenary Corps' departed. He was the number three in the corps, with abilities rivaling Volf's.

"Euwain? Could it be...?!"

The platinum-haired man, whose appearance did not befit the Black Mercenary Corps, was the one supporting the corps' rapid ascent. He was a man of formidable power.

༺༻

"Damn it, even Euwain has given up!"

Volf was descending the mountain frantically, his face pale. He had captured the main camp, but with only a small force, maintaining it was impossible. It was a waste, but he had decided the commander's head alone was enough.

"Alright, now I need to find a route to escape without running into young master Gilbert, and get out of here."

The fact that Gregor had managed to rally and redeploy the fleeing troops was a serious blow. Gilbert's lion-like ferocity had helped the other forces regain their footing. The more ground Volf had gained, the more compact the battlefield had become, leaving fewer openings.

"...But isn't that a bit too cold?"

Of course, incompetent subordinates who refused to retreat in this situation were unnecessary. Nika and Euwain, along with their troops, had a firm grasp of the situation. That's why Volf could focus solely on his own escape. Still, a small part of him felt a bit lonely.

"Young master Gilbert is single-handedly dominating with about ten mounted knights, while the others are steadfastly defending key positions. Impressive subordinates he has, making me quite envious."

Gilbert had split his forces, with ten skilled mounted knights and the rest defending vital points. It was a risky maneuver, but Volf had not been willing to gamble. The result was the tide of battle shifting back in the enemy's favor. It was a clever tactic. Now the Nedelkos side could carefully strike at the overextended parts of the line. Only someone with a bird's-eye view of the battlefield could pull off such a feat - a true mark of a top-tier commander.

"Well, of course, they're still nothing compared to me!"

Volf, never doubting his own supremacy, continued his descent down the mountain. This was not a retreat, but a strategic withdrawal necessary to win tomorrow. It was certainly not a defeat. If anything, having taken the enemy commander's head, there was even a possibility of no tomorrow.

"Hey, Volf, aren't you moving a bit too fast?"

The elite troops Volf had chosen were keeping up, but his pace was faster than usual, raising questions from his subordinates.

"Nah, I've just got a bit of a bad feeling, or maybe I'm overlooking something...my instincts are telling me to hurry. Have I ever been wrong about these kinds of hunches?"

The subordinates shook their heads. Volf's intuition was rarely off the mark. Then, something must be—

Whoosh. Something zipped past Volf, embedding itself in the back of a following subordinate.

"Whoa, for real?"

Without even glancing at the fallen subordinate, Volf's gaze was fixed on the parabolic trajectory, at the man standing on the tree, bow drawn.

"The White Mask, William Livius!"

William Livius, bloodied and wounded, had rushed to this location to corner Volf. Volf had to forcefully suppress the urge to ponder what had happened to Anatole. It didn't matter how Livius had gotten here. The only issue was:

"You filthy mercenary scum, how dare you besmirch my face!"

Descending from the tree, the blood-soaked monster readied his sword. Volf had to figure out how to put him down.

"Hah! That's more like it. A battlefield just wouldn't be right without this!"

Volf too drew his twin blades, as the white and black forces clashed.