Episode 145 The Great King, Crazy to Death - The Saga of Lioncourt

While crossing the river and advancing, a sudden crisis struck—a visible deterioration in my health. "...Damn... Rolo, form a barrier." When I gave the command, Rolo directed the protective fraternity to form a human barricade, meant to conceal me. They've done this numerous times before, and they've become quite adept at it. Inside that protective circle, I curled up around the saddle of my steed, Noir, gritting my teeth to endure the pain. "Please, Master Varian, stay with us." Rolo encouraged me, but I couldn't muster a reply. Without anyone watching, I might have rolled on the ground, screaming and crying in agony. The unbearable pain forced its way out as I uttered "It hurts," which only made it worse. Through tears, I kept repeating "It hurts, it hurts," but Rolo couldn't do anything about it. He simply held the reins of the horse in silence. "Ugh, it hurts, it hurts... Help me, it hurts so much, just kill me already." As my cries of distress grew louder, Rolo placed a leather strap in my mouth to muffle the noise. "Perhaps we shouldn't have moved... Please hang in there, shall I prepare a litter?" Rolo was considerate, but going to the battlefield in a litter would affect morale. I clamped my teeth on the leather strap, and slowly, the pain began to subside. "...Phew, huff, huff... Sorry, I'm alright now, I'm saved." I steadied my harsh breathing and declined the litter. Though it's already summer, I don't feel the heat at all. The only sensation is the aching in my chest and back. Though the pain has eased, it constantly torments me. "Master Varian, please refrain from the battle. In your condition..." "...Yes, I understand, I'm fine now..." I steadied my breathing and straightened my back. With that, the guards who formed the barricade stepped aside, revealing the expanding landscape. A refreshing green breeze caressed my face. "Rolo, this Canard Plains is truly rich... Truly feels like fertile ground." I murmured to myself, gazing at the distant Amoros army. "Yes, there are roughly a little over ten thousand... around eleven to twelve thousand, I estimate." Rolo's response was completely unrelated to my comment, but this was how our conversations worked. "Ha, to think they claimed to have two hundred thousand. It's embarrassing just to hear it." "Ha ha, shall we say Lioncourt has three hundred thousand?" Rolo and I exchanged banter lightly. The pain had subsided considerably. "Haha, it's the other way around. Lioncourt has ninety men. That would make a stronger impression. After all, we're going to win." I boasted with a laugh, for weakness before battle is forbidden. ...Yes, it's fortunate the pain subsided before the battle... I'm lucky... Forcing myself to muster courage, I urged my horse forward. The grass rustled softly. Once again, a fresh breeze swept across the summer plains. *** The two armies faced each other on the Canard Plains. The Lioncourt army lined up in formation, simple and straightforward with no reserve forces. The Amoros army was similar, with no significant differences—a head-to-head test of strength. The Lioncourt army consisted of 9,200 men, while the Amoros army numbered around 11,000. I had never experienced a battle of this scale. Except for the knights and some soldiers, both armies wore crude military attire, lacking proper armor. A mere shirt layered over wooden shields served as defense. Some soldiers sported unique helmets, tying bones or stones to leather caps, or draped animal pelts over their bodies. It was the familiar sight of the Amoros army. Yet even amidst them, the main force of Lioncourt stood out distinctively. Bronze hats and simple leather armor were inexpensive yet relatively widespread, and many soldiers were equipped with issued crossbows. Good equipment boosted their courage and enthusiasm. They beat their shields with frequent battle cries. With this vigor, we could overcome the disparity in numbers. The Lioncourt army was filled with fierce and seasoned veterans. I rode with my eldest son, Robert, from one end of the army to the other on horseback. Ideally, I would deliver a speech before the battle, but my hoarse voice limited me to simply making an appearance. Each noble faction would likely handle their own encouragement and speeches. Even just showing myself proved effective, as soldiers cheered and stamped the ground upon seeing me. Robert delighted in youthful innocence, exclaiming, "This is amazing!" "Under normal circumstances, a rallying speech would boost morale, but with this many, my voice won't carry." Hearing my words, Robert's expression clouded. I've informed my sons about my illness. Their reactions were contrasting: Robert couldn't hide his shock, grimacing, while Simon dismissed it casually, claiming "Father would never die." I'm unsure which reaction was better, but perhaps the younger pair didn't fully grasp the concept of illness. Back when I was healthy, I thought illness was something from a distant world. It likely takes time for them to process being told "Father has a terminal illness." "Robert, listen well... Once both sides have finished arranging their formations, a battle of words begins. The key to a war of words is not taking the opponent's talk seriously. Just say what you need to boost our morale." "But if that's the case..." Robert seemed hesitant to continue, likely because my words contradicted what his tutor Enzo taught him. He learned that a war of words was 'a debate that highlights the opponent's faults and asserts one's own righteousness'. "Haha, soldiers won't understand complicated talk. Just get them fired up with a 'woo-hoo'. Whether that means mocking the enemy or making the soldiers laugh to ease tension, it doesn't matter." We rode toward the central Lioncourt main camp. There, Rolo and his guards awaited, swiftly shielding me from view. I must have looked quite unwell. *** After a short while, a well-dressed knight emerged from the Amoros army. His armor gleamed as if flaunting the wearer's nobility, and he sported a striking blue cape fluttering in the sunlight. He seemed slightly older than me, full of vigor at the peak of his life. He was likely the crown prince. I moved to respond, but Rolo surprisingly stopped me. "Master Varian, please rest for now. Let Master Robert handle this." "Ridiculous, if the commander doesn't appear, it will show contempt." I pushed past Rolo with my horse. "But, in your current state!" "...Enough." Rolo tried to stop me earnestly, but I stubbornly moved forward. ...Do I really look that terrible...? The pain was constant. My brow was eerily clammy when I wiped it. As I urged my horse forward, I could feel the eyes of countless warriors upon me—over twenty thousand pairs of eyes from both armies fixed on my movements. Within this sea of attention, the crown prince Charles d'Amoros spread his arms wide in a dramatic gesture and began to lambaste us. His theatrical gestures were no mere act of vanity; they were a display of his rhetorical skill—an art meant to draw public attention and communicate one's opinions clearly and impressively, a tradition passed down through the ages. Judging by what I saw, the crown prince's oratory was indeed commendable. He repeatedly raised his clenched fist and pointed to his soldiers, employing techniques to captivate the masses. After a period of waiting, it was finally my turn. I took a deep breath, intending to speak. Then I heard it—a strange sound, as if something inside me had burst or snapped. It might not have been a physical sound, but I perceived it clearly. "Ugh... kh... gah!" What came out of my mouth was not a voice, but a gush of blood. I felt faint, a darkness began to creep at the edges of my vision. 'I don't want to die.' My instincts screamed at me. 'I don't want to die.' With a clear determination, my very being commanded me. 'I refuse to die from an illness.' My consciousness, on the brink of slipping into darkness, was jolted awake by a surge of emotion akin to anger. 'I don't want to die, not from this sickness.' ...Indeed, I refuse to succumb to an illness... I am... "Gah! Gaah! Kah!! Oooaaaahhh!!" I shoved aside the blood in my throat, and a beastly roar emerged from my mouth. It was more strained than ever, lacking power, but it was my voice. "Oooooooh!! I am a warrior!!" I spurred Noir, my black steed, charging toward the crown prince. Not with any plan, just because he was the nearest target. Caught off guard, Prince Charles stood in stunned silence before hastily fleeing once he grasped the situation. "Impossible! A charge!" "Get out of the way! The horse is coming!" "Don't run! Form a wall!" "Protect His Highness!" In their surprise, the enemy descended into chaos, and not a single arrow flew my way. The orderly ranks shattered as the prince himself disrupted their formation. ...That's it! I've got him...! I pursued the prince, plunging into the enemy ranks. Simultaneously, my own army, the Lioncourt, roared to life, launching a full-scale attack. "Raaaargh!! Die! Dieeee!!" Spewing blood as I shouted, I swung my mace and urged Noir onward. Like a serpent weaving among chaotic enemies, we sowed further confusion. The enemy formation fell apart as if it were all too easy. Not far ahead, I spotted a young warrior of apparent nobility, surrounded by vassals, and set my sights on him. Evidently, he held considerable rank, and his vassals put up a desperate resistance. The vassals formed a human wall with their bodies and spears in a last-ditch effort to stop Noir. Noir was brought down, and I was flung into the air. I heard my beloved stallion's anguished whinny. ...Forgive me, Noir... die alongside me... I rolled to absorb the fall, continuing to wreak havoc. Recklessly pushing my way through the clustered enemy, slashing and striking as I went, none of their strikes or thrusts stopped my advance. The young warrior I sought, protected by his vassals, aimed a spear at me, but rather than dodging, I absorbed the blow with my armor, grappled with him, and snapped his neck with brute force. Seeing this, the enemy quailed. No pain, no thoughts of future or consequence—only sheer fighting spirit drove me. My helmet, my mace, even Noir were gone. My eyepatch and saber lost somewhere in the chaos. Picking up the fallen warrior's spear, I rushed forward. With this spear, I slaughtered whomever fate allowed me to encounter. ...Simon, Robert, observe your father, imprint my manner of death upon your memory... I am... "Oooooh!!" Once more, I unleashed a bestial roar, knocking down another hapless soldier with my spear. Before long, I spotted allies breaking through deep into enemy lines. We had won. I collapsed right where I stood, curling into a heap. My body, smeared with blood, sweat, and grime, felt weighed down by an overwhelming fatigue, leaving me unable even to stir. "There he is! Over here!!" "He's still breathing! The king is safe!" "Your Highness! Please stay with us!!" Someone shook me, checking my breath for signs of life. It seemed I was quite the wreck... I was conscious, but had no energy to respond. As if carried, I was borne away. In the distance, I faintly heard the victorious battle cries. We had indeed won. From somewhere far off, I thought I heard the voices of childhood friends and my sons.