The horizon trembles. Dust from the wasteland rises like a sandstorm in the far west. Below it, the banners are distorted amid the shimmering heat waves under the summer sun.

Skaldholm, Bloodvar, Stormbrak, and the northern lords of Huscalpor.

The southern lords of Barnahaim, Midraven, Eldbark, Drekhalt, Hailsklog, and Valkrig.

The banners of beasts symbolizing each clan flutter like a curtain, rising over the dust. Banners depicting bears, salmon, eagles, deer, and wolves soar above the sand.

Thud, thud, thud. The noise of war drums and horn trumpets echoes faintly in this land on the edge of Findvald, in the eastern part of Drovian.

Now, all of Drovian’s forces have gathered together in one place.

“Kids….”

A dark smile creased the corners of Einar’s lips. The fatigue accumulated over ten long days of slaughter vanished as if washed away. A new vigor, excitement surged through his blood vessels, heating his body.

Yes, he was not wrong.

In the long history of Drovian, when have the warriors of this land ever moved with such unity?

Such a thing had never happened. Every clan was no different from hungry wolves, baring their teeth at each other.

Countless people starved to death. Pillage is ultimately about taking from others, which, in terms of short-term survival, may be acceptable, but from a macro perspective, Drovian was slowly withering away.

A country with no productivity. A culture that finds shame in tilling the land and herding beasts. A civilization with an expiration date, where every child only wishes to become a warrior.

When the great war ends and peace arrives, Drovian warriors will no longer be able to invade foreign lands. Then, the warriors of this wasteland will starve to death, eating each other like insects in a pot.

Drovian had to unite for survival. Beyond their land, the east has become the Demon Realm, the west has a powerful nation that dares not be touched, and the scraps of the south have started to form an alliance.

If the culture of pillaging continues once the great war concludes, the only future left for Drovian will be death. Civilized society will surely wish to dismantle these troublesome savages.

Before that, they needed to be ‘civilized.’ The country had to be united under a powerful king’s authority, forced into submission. To achieve this, they needed not cunning but strength.

Young Einar had read the future of the country among the fools, deciding to become the biggest fool himself. And as a result.

The result is right here.

He was not wrong. The proof that his choice was correct is here. The sight of selfish and greedy jars rallying together for a greater cause is before him.

“Brother….”

“Oh, something got in my eye. Anyway, they seem loud.”

Einar rubbed his eyes and laughed roughly. One of the Huscal burst into laughter at his appearance.

“Getting sentimental in your old age, huh?”

“Do you want to die?”

“Well, if I’m going to die, I’d rather die at the hands of demons. I’ll head down first.”

“Sure.”

As he chased away the one talking nonsense, the noise of the Drovian army, which had drawn near, grew louder.

Thud, thud, thud!!

“How in the world… are they walking in step…?”

Only Krasilov can manage a legion of that size and still behave like that. Drovian warriors? Walking in step, merely for show?

Moreover, they weren’t just charging recklessly; they were maintaining some form of marching discipline! How could a mass of warriors from different clans do that?

Thud! Thud! Thud!

…do it! …do it!!

“…?”

The shouts of many warriors were getting clearer.

It wasn’t about walking in step; it was as if… just like the drunk warriors marching to the beat of a bard singing in front of a campfire (burning corpses) at a festival…

The next song is—!! For the Crystal Sword!!

Waaaaah—!!!

They’ve lost their minds!!!

“…???”

A sharp and clear sound that seemed familiar. Yet, it was much huskier than he remembered.

In Einar’s confusion, the approaching legion’s melody began to resonate over the wasteland.

For the king, for the wilderness, for the fjords—!!

For the blue valleys where dragons fly!!

“Where are there dragons in our land…?”

For the strength and glory to defeat the Dark Lord!!!

We will seek the Crystal Sword!!

We will seek the Crystal Sword!!!

Waaaaah—!!!

“…What in the world…?”

Einar was thrown into confusion.

He soon caught sight of Ecdysis from a distance, singing wildly and beating a drum.

The warriors were not marching.

They were following Ecdysis, moving to the rhythm of her drum to the point that it looked like marching.

Listening closely to Ecdysis’s song, which reverberated throughout the battlefield through sound amplification magic, Einar gradually, very slowly, began to think.

‘Perhaps I am not wrong?’

People whose lives have been denied often look for that fault in others. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the frenzied Drovian warriors.

Soon, he spotted a man next to Ecdysis, helping to beat the drum.

Crack.

The stone guardrail of the watchtower crumbled under his grip.

With a dull expression, the man, fervently sweating, casually drummed to the beat.

A man who would nod in agreement that this was necessary, even though he was doing such a thing nonchalantly.

“Ivan—!! That bastard…?!”

Ivan Petrovich. His most cherished little brother was standing next to his daughter.

EP46. Castle Raid.

“Damn, there are a lot….”

Ingvar grumbled, and Wulfric laughed in response.

“What, are you scared? If you think you’re going to die, hide behind.”

“Scared? Isn’t that a modern slang the young folks use? We never had such words in our day.”

“What a truly ignorant old man…”

Wulfric chuckled and turned his head. In the distance, the sight of the Findvald Fortress could be seen.

Since the great war, he had never seen such a battle. Wasn’t the peaceful period mostly filled with minor skirmishes?

The moat was filled with the corpses of demons. Smoke from burning corpses was rising into the distant fields. Had the demons crossed the outer walls? Flames were rising even within the castle walls.

Yet, atop the highest point of the inner fortress, Einar’s banner remained unfurled.

A colossal clan banner, depicting a roaring lion, fluttered slowly. It would not bow down as long as there was one person left standing, till the very end.

A sense of awe swelled unexpectedly. Has there ever been a greater warrior in the history of Drovian?

People of the world often say, “The era when individual bravery dominated the masses has ended.” The range of battle is widening, war forms are becoming more daunting, and the dynamics of the world are growing more complex.

But no. Not yet; the era where individual bravery and feats surpass the masses has not ended. Just as the giant standing on the walls of the inner fortress proves it.

Looking down at the approaching warriors, a life-filled cry echoed over the battlefield.

“Drovian warriors—!!”

The king of warriors is commanding his people.

“Those born in struggle, living for struggle and dying in struggle—!!”

There are no signs of fatigue or injury in the king’s voice. He laughed heartily as he cleaved a demon’s head in two and completed his statement.

“Come and fight, prove yourselves, and die—! Live and die on the battlefield, and you shall live on forever!!”

With the king’s cry, the song that stirred the warriors came to a halt. In this strange silence, the warriors’ hearts were not beating to mere melody anymore but igniting with something else.

With snorts, bloodshot eyes gleaming, and muscles taut from tension.

The warriors of Drovian stomped the ground in rhythm, shouting without the need for military music.

“Drovian—! Drovian—!! Drovian—!!!”

“Fight, live, and die—!”

“We shall live forever!!”

The jars collectively struck their horses’ flanks. Generally, in war, a commander should not flaunt valiance. The most necessary virtue for a commander is not the strength of a commoner but the ability to oversee the entire battlefield.

But in Drovian, this is more worthless than anything.

Here, where only the strength of the commoner matters, warriors do not heed the commands of those weaker than themselves. To lead others, one must be stronger than every other, and must prove that throughout their lives.

The jars do not command. They charge towards the battlefield, roaring. There are no elaborate strategies to direct the warriors or split the troops into intricate maneuvers.

Like a wildfire on dry earth, like a hungry beast unleashed, like a tidal wave surging through the fjords.

All Drovian warriors began to race forward, following their leader.

Every warrior capable of wielding a weapon in Drovian land, a total of twenty-four thousand, clashed with the demons on the plains of Findvald.

The battle of this day ended within two days.

Before the mountains of stacked demon corpses. The banner of Drovian, today, tomorrow, and perhaps far into the future, shall never bend.

*

The sound of corpses burning continued into the night.

As the excited warriors casually ate roasted demon corpses while they could.

Ivan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the fatigue of the recent battle.

“Hey.”

Until a mad giant, with killing intent emanating from every word, appeared.

“Let me see you for a moment.”

The warrior king of Drovian, flanked by Huscal, was growling at Ivan.

Ivan nodded expressionlessly and got to his feet.

“Perfect timing.”

He wiped his hands, lightly dusted off the crumbs from the cooked energy bar, and walked towards Einar.

“I have a lot to say as well.”