It was a day when rain poured down. The cold rain cooled the body, and a stench stabbed the nose. There were dozens of people shivering with anxiety. A place where grain was stored was built of stone, and a place where people stayed was built of planks. That was the reality of the farms that fed the city.
If you put it another way, fertile soil meant something else—bloody wheat, grain soaked in blood. Inside the city, because of the walls, sunlight did not reach well. One could not put fields in the center. So they built farms a little way outside the city and raised stone grain storehouses to defend against monsters and beasts. The farmers risked their lives to go out and till the land. The grain was protected by stone walls, and the people died defending their own ground. That was how the city worked.
Since there was a limit to the number of people a city could sustain, was it something to just accept and move on?
Enkrid of the past could not. He had been on his way to take on the escort of a noblewoman. Then his ankle was caught.
"This is all we have."
Because he had spent his life farming, the old man's fingertips were black. His bent back could not straighten. His bowed head would not lift.
The wooden fence set around the farm, the raindrops falling over it, and the people who lived there. The key to the stone storehouse was held by a soldier, and the lord who was supposed to protect the city protected "only the city." The farmers who had been driven out could not give up their land, for if they gave up this year's harvest, it was clear they would become paupers. They gathered the property they had and hired mercenaries.
It was the kind of story one could hear anywhere.
Lacking wealth, grain soaked in blood, people struggling to live, and rulers who turned away.
The trinkets the old man with the bent back brought were nothing more than a copper ring and a few crude glass ornaments.
Enkrid had a keen eye and, having worked as a noble's guard, he knew the value of things.
"Not even worth a single gold coin."
It was an amount far too small to hire a mercenary band. That was one of the reasons they had clung to him.
"Please help us."
The old man said it. Enkrid took only one copper ring.
"I'm alone, so this is enough."
One of the young men watching opened narrow eyes. His rain-soaked hair stuck to his cheek. The rain fell endlessly.
"If it's just us, we can block them."
"Idiot. You can't do it without a bladesman."
It was an argument between the old man and a young man twenty years younger.
This land had been lucky. There had been a few beastman invasions, but they had managed to fight them off. There had been deaths, but they had never tasted despair.
"Tom, you bastard, I'll get your revenge."
Ptoo—spitting phlegm on the ground, one man muttered. His eyes were filled with murderous intent. Enkrid glanced over the gathered people and said nothing.
Having a commander would change nothing for this group. To be honest, they were barely keeping themselves alive. There was an option to turn away from the farm, but he did not take it.
Through the curtain of rain falling at the end of summer, a pack of beasts poked their heads out. Wolves and foxes formed the main force. The beastmen were not after the stone grain storehouses. What they hunted were humans. Poorly armed humans were easy prey.
"...There are too many."
One young man muttered, and Enkrid quietly nodded inside.
There were more than twenty starving beasts. But were they just supposed to die? Leaving aside the women and children, everyone who could fight had gathered.
They shouted for everyone to fight back-to-back, and even as their legs were bitten, they smashed a fox's skull with a mace. Even then, he never neglected his daily training, so his strength was unusual.
But this was not a crisis one could overcome just for being a little stronger than others. They were right on the verge of becoming beast dung along with the farm.
Limping from bites, stabbing with his sword and swinging his mace, he held out.
"This one's a crazy bastard."
It was a mercenary band. That was what the one at the front said.
"Damn, the rain's coming down like hell."
That was the mercenary captain. He said it again as he swung his sword. In Enkrid's eyes at the time, he was a considerable expert. With a single slash, the fox beast that had been lunging at them yelped and fell back. Others followed in behind.
Fifteen warriors, armed and skilled, far above Enkrid.
"So what, did someone here promise to hand over a daughter or something?"
One of the mercenaries said cheerfully. It was the same as asking why they were making such a fuss here. The crisis had passed, and life went on.
"No, your skill's not even that great—what did you trust in?"
The mercenary captain asked again.
"I just couldn't leave it and go."
"...A refreshingly insane bastard."
With this event, Enkrid joined the mercenary band and learned much. He wouldn't call the man a first teacher, but still, he was the one who took him in and looked after him.
"Put down the sword. That's what suits you. If you really can't let go of it, then loiter around a noblewoman's side."
Was that advice he had given too?
The memory of that day in the rain overlapped with the present. Enkrid looked at the man in his memory.
"...Tim?"
"Shit, who's that? My name's Bunion."
"Ah, right."
Enkrid nodded. Bunion. That was the name.
"If you don't know, you could just say nothing, so why throw out another name?"
Lawford muttered.
"He's always been like that. Why ask when you already know."
Pel picked up the words. Since coming here, Lawford had been more on edge than usual. It was a result of that mood. Maybe somewhere on this front was his proper place.
Life is a chain of coincidences—you never know how things will change. The choices between birth and death change much.
"Weren't they similar?"
Enkrid heard Lawford's murmur and tilted his head. Bunion looked straight ahead and smiled. He ignored that nonsense. He had a knack for it too.
"I half suspected, but you're the mad knight-captain? Well. You were always going to be something big."
Bunion wrinkled his nose as he spoke. It was a habit when he smiled. The dark under his eyes and the fatigue weighing on him were clear, but he smiled anyway.
"And didn't you once tell me to give up the sword?"
"Me? When?"
Bunion shrugged as if wrongly accused.
Enkrid gave a small laugh and held out his hand. That kind of shamelessness had Bunion for its originator. The two clasped hands.
"Past glad—I almost feel like crying."
"Your face doesn't show it."
"Yeah, my pride won't allow me to cry over a man."
It was an easy, unceremonious tone. Bunion was a squad leader commanding ten soldiers. The Southern Front rotated units in defense, but some stayed fixed. Bunion was in such a unit.
Naturally, Bunion guided them around the camp. He spoke of tent positions and the current situation, and after hearing, Enkrid asked,
"How did you end up staying here?"
"Because someone has to, and I'm the one doing it."
It was window dressing. There was more hidden behind it, but now wasn't the time to say it. He had been like that from the start—soft for a man who made his living eating steel on this continent. That was why he had taken in and looked after Enkrid back then.
"You came to help us, didn't you, Enkrid? If so, then help us. Lend your hand to defending this land."
Kindness, grace.
They were tied by that sort of thing. The mercenary captain Bunion had saved Enkrid's life and taught him much. Cracking jokes with a brazen face was something Enkrid had learned from Bunion.
"Don't worry."
Kindness goes around. The one who gives will someday receive. Bunion had heard the name of the mad knight-captain and been surprised, and now he saw him.
"Will things change just because one knightly order joined?"
If they crossed the Southern Front and charged forward like this? Should they fight a full-scale battle?
It was difficult. Truly difficult.
One of Southern Rihinstetten's secret weapons was an anti-personnel ballista. A modified weapon, its bolts were thicker than a wooden spear.
"Even for knights, breaking through that is hard."
The drawback was that it could only be used from a fixed position, but between here and the Southern army there were many narrow passages and hills.
If they wanted to break through head-on, climbing those hills and passing those narrow paths, they would have to withstand volleys from ballistae thicker than javelins and faster than arrows. It would not be easy.
"If they went around."
A few knights could break through somehow and come back around, but in the meantime, would the Southern knights just sit idle?
It was grim. Bunion knew it. He knew, too, that even with a knightly order joining, not much would change. What could they do about the monsters—the Gryphon Riders—right now?
"It'll work out somehow."
Enkrid said it. He had heard the situation. There was no immediate answer. Even so, he said it.
The funny thing was, at that one line, Bunion's cheek, the corner of his eye, and his fingers trembled.
"...Have you met Sir Cypress?"
Bunion asked.
"No, not yet."
Enkrid shook his head lightly.
What was the commander of the Southern Front thinking? He didn't know. Why he didn't even show his face wasn't his concern. He had met Crang and set what he had to do. For Enkrid, that was enough.
"Yeah? That's strange."
Bunion said. Enkrid didn't know, but the words "It'll work out somehow" were Cypress's habit.
One who did not know how to give up. One who shone even in despair. The knight who protected this land was such a man.
***
Most of the soldiers defending the South were like Bunion. This was a land where, without an unusual sense of duty, one could hardly remain. When it rained, there were mass drownings, and monsters swarmed in at any time—and in the middle of that, the army of Rihinstetten came attacking as well.
Recently, the Gryphon Riders and the weakening of the Holy Relics had overlapped, creating the worst days imaginable. Even so, there were no deserters. The men who remained on this battlefield did not turn away from their duties even in such circumstances. They went out on watch even while limping, and fought wrapped head to toe in bandages. If the Holy Relics were failing to do their work, then they simply opened their eyes wider and fought all the harder. If something was thrown from out of reach, then they crouched down and endured until the chance came. And so, they even protected those who had joined the Southern defense and fought alongside them. These were people who did not know how to give up on a single thing.
"May we look inside?"
Audin and Teresa had found the tent where the priest-band was staying. Around the tent, the smell of death was thick. Between the fishy stench carried by the Demon Realm's rain came the distinct smell of people dying. As a monk, Audin had met many like that before. That damp ammonia smell—the odor that came from those on the verge of death—it was heavy in the air of this tent.
At the question from the giant-like man, a soldier braced his abdomen and answered.
"Who are you?"
The soldier's head was fogged. Because of the headache and the rain from the Demon Realm, it was as if dust had settled inside his skull. His cognition and thinking ability were barely half of what they should have been. He focused only on his duty. In truth, if he didn't, he would have easily fallen to the temptation of an evil spirit.
"A servant who serves the God of War."
The soldier hesitated. Those in the tent were dying anyway. Letting someone in wouldn't make a difference. And the one standing before him was a priest. Still, his duty was to guard them.
Audin could have pushed through with force, but he didn't. He respected them.
"This is the middle of the encampment. If I were to act wrongly, pointing your spear at me then would be more than enough."
If they were not allies, they wouldn't have even reached this far. Besides, the priests lying in the tent behind him had no hope left. So it should have been fine to move aside, but the soldier could not easily yield his post.
"Let them through."
The voice came from behind Audin. It was Lapild. He held seniority over the soldier on watch.
He had gone out while trying to catch a short rest. He had been searching for the servant of the God of War. It wasn't hard to find him—his build was massive to begin with. Besides, the two of them were standing right in front of the tent where his benefactor lay.
"Senior Lapild."
"Step aside."
He spoke and gently pushed the soldier aside. The soldier guarding the tent blinked his clouded eyes and stepped back.
"You're going in? If you go in recklessly, you might catch the sickness."
Lapild said.
From the beginning until now, his wish had been only one.
Those suffering in that tent were too righteous to die here. Even if the rain stopped, this land still gnawed at people's lives. So all he wanted was for them to be taken back to the city—to safety.
"Yes, it's fine, brother with the sorrowful face."
When Audin said that, Lapild frowned slightly, then relaxed.
"That's a strange way to call someone."
The soldier stepped back, and Lapild pulled aside the entrance flap of the tent. Audin bowed his head in greeting and went inside. There were people lying between the stench of urine and rot.
Ten in total, the small tent was full of priests. Beside them were water bowls and scraps of dry cloth. Even in this situation, there were traces of effort to care for them.
"If left as they are, they'll die."
Lapild's voice came from behind. To speak more truthfully, they could die at any moment. Even so, if it was at all possible, if even one could be saved.
But what came out of his mouth was more realistic than hopeful.
"If you can't save them, at least recite the prayer of rest."
Lapild's voice trembled. The helplessness of being unable to do anything for his benefactor pressed down on him so hard that all he could do was seek God inside himself.
'Lord. If You will grant my wish, please.'
Save them.
'If You save them, I will worship and serve You for the rest of my life.'
It was a prayer that risked his faith, his life, his tomorrow, his everything. His prayer was desperate.
"You came a little late."
Audin said it, and Lapild felt an even deeper despair. Even if he already knew, hearing the confirmation still hurt.
"At least a month of recovery will be needed."
At those next words, he was speechless.
"Sister, sing."
"Yes."
And then, at the song that followed, and at what unfolded before his eyes, he fell to his knees.
Ah—
Teresa poured sanctity into her song. It was not a funeral hymn. Her chant replaced the Holy Relic.
The ten priests had been stricken by the plague spread by the Demon Realm. Of course, they were not the only ones. The plague had spread across the entire battlefield.
Lapild witnessed a miracle.
Light flowed through the lyrics, and that light saved the ten priests. As they gasped for breath, the glowing lines brushed over their skin covered in black spots, and the priest who had saved Lapild's younger sibling opened his eyes.
"...What happened?"
He had not opened his eyes for three days, and Lapild had been turning his body to keep him from getting sores on his back. Now the man opened his eyes, turned his head, and spoke.
"Lapild?"
To the priest who turned his head, Audin and Teresa were invisible; all he saw was Lapild, praying nonstop in gratitude.
"You've lived, priest."
Lapild crawled on his knees, sobbing loudly. Humans cry in sorrow—but also when the joy is too great to bear.