Chapter Title: The Key of Destiny (1)
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Pshk!
Jeron severed the neck of a Barbarian breaking through the shield wall.
Hot blood sprayed out, soaking his face.
The collapsed section of the ramparts had soldiers from both sides pressed tightly together, slashing and stabbing at one another.
It was nothing like the heroic scenes in movies.
It looked more like a tedious push and pull, and if the shield wall broke even slightly in the chaos, a rusted axe was sure to come down on a soldier's shoulder.
They wore helmets, so the enemies knew better than to aim for the head—they had to target elsewhere.
Once the melee began, it devolved into a dogfight.
Thud!
"Aaagh!"
"Jeric's hit! Pull him back quick!"
Even though it was still morning, a sweltering heat swept across the battlefield.
Just a six-meter-wide gap.
The enemies thrashed desperately to pour through it, prolonging the chaos.
"Garcia! Where are you!"
"Right here, Young Lord!"
Sir Garcia was usually lost in some self-absorbed nonsense, but his knighthood wasn't just for show.
He darted around, plugging the breaches wherever they appeared.
Covered head to toe in blood, only his eyes and teeth were visible.
"What about the flanking force?"
"The reserves—100 men—have been hastily assembled, and Sir Jenald is leading the bypass!"
"Damn it! Why is it taking so long!"
One by one, their own soldiers were falling.
Considering the cost to train even a single soldier, the accumulating losses were a matter of the territory's very survival.
In this brutal era, they couldn't afford to lose any more men if they wanted to survive.
From the rear, the wounded kept streaming out on stretchers nonstop.
At least the archers atop the walls were nocking arrows and loosing them relentlessly, rapidly thinning the enemy numbers.
The clash of weapons, screams from rusted axes biting flesh, and death rattles all blended into a maddening cacophony.
But Jeron strained to assess the situation properly.
'The enemies number around 200. We're holding them with 100 men. Archers: 30. And the flanking force?'
Far off, Sir Jenald was swinging wide on the bypass, closing in fast.
The loyal old knight had stamina that belied his age.
He led from the front, and once they were about 300 meters out, they broke into a full sprint.
Watching from afar, Jeron felt like his lungs were tearing apart.
A perfect encirclement.
The 100 soldiers and 10 knights under Sir Jenald fell upon the Barbarians' rear, slaughtering them.
The Barbarians, fixated on the front, crumbled swiftly.
They'd put up a decent fight at first, but trapped in a sandwich with archers raining arrows down mercilessly, their morale shattered. They surrendered and dropped to their knees.
Sir Garcia reported.
"Young Lord, rejoice! The enemy is annihilated!"
"Woooah!"
The soldiers cheered wildly, but Jeron felt no joy.
Dozens of casualties in this battle alone.
If those rusted axes dug in properly, tetanus or sepsis would claim lives.
It was absurd, but on the battlefield, a Barbarian axe was a deadly weapon when it connected.
The field cleared quickly.
Sir Jenald, realizing the gap had caused the issue, threw even the soldiers into labor, frantically erecting makeshift barricades.
That was when Jeron turned to leave.
"It's the expedition force!"
Far in the distance, the family banner bearing the Gold Dragon appeared.
Around 200 men.
Limping soldiers and carts overflowing with wounded—the situation looked grim.
The baron lay in a cart ringed by soldiers standing guard.
"Damn it! Father!"
Jeron felt a chill and bolted out the gates.
As he approached, knights and soldiers dropped to one knee in salute amid the chaos.
"What the hell happened!"
"We have no excuses, Young Lord. The Lord was struck by an arrow during the Barbarian subjugation. We provided emergency treatment, but..."
Knight Captain Sir James's face twisted in grief.
Sir James himself didn't look great—scratches everywhere.
Many soldiers and knights were wounded.
Having lost 30% of their force, the story was clear without further explanation.
"Get Father inside and fetch a priest now!"
The entire territory mourned like a house in bereavement.
100 of the expedition force had perished, their bodies piled mountain-high on the carts.
From what Jeron gathered, the Barbarians had grown larger than expected, and the expedition had slain their leader—what amounted to a great warrior.
In the process, the surviving warriors had fled south.
Jeron's hunch had been right.
The force that had raided the territory was just stragglers.
The Barbarian horde seemed sorted, but the damage was severe.
Baron Ark Pellow was exhibit one.
"...I'm sorry to say this, Young Lord, but we may have to amputate the arm."
"What? Amputate? Do you realize what you're saying? Our family has been warrior nobles for generations. How's the lord supposed to fight without his arm!"
"It's the best option now."
Jeron wanted to punch the bald old priest, but he barely held back.
It might feel good to deck him, but the priests would never aid the territory again.
Baron Ark Pellow remained unconscious, the arrow wound festering with rust poison.
Pus oozed heavily, and without amputation, he'd likely die in days.
Even then, tetanus or sepsis might be unstoppable.
"We need to decide."
The retainers pressed Jeron for a choice.
Even his mother and sister awaited his word.
If the arm had to go, Jeron had to do it.
No knight here would dare cut their lord's limb.
Jeron gritted his teeth, cleaned his sword thoroughly, and sterilized it with fire.
The brazier blazed hotter; the branding iron was ready.
The stump needed cauterizing immediately for hemostasis.
"Hold him tight."
A solemn hush fell.
No easy task, a son severing his father's arm.
But this wasn't a choice—it was necessity. Jeron steeled himself.
A clean cut in one stroke, or worse problems followed. Then Baron Ark Pellow's life truly hung in the balance.
"I'm sorry, Father!"
Slash!
Splurt!
Blood sprayed everywhere.
No proper tools for amputation—it couldn't be clean.
Veteran Sir Jenald, experienced in such matters, grabbed the iron and seared the wound.
"Gaaahhh!"
Baron Ark Pellow screamed even in his stupor.
The priest poured holy power in, but soon the baron went still as death.
With his modern memories, the psychological blow to Jeron was immense.
Who could hack off their own father's arm and stay unaffected?
It'd leave a massive trauma.
In this barbaric world, such traumas piled up endlessly—you just endured and carried on.
Even after leaving the lord's castle, Jeron had no rest.
Battle cleanup plus treating the expedition force.
Crude tents overflowed with wounded.
Mid-June sun beat down on the stifling enclosures like steamers.
Packed with injured, they weren't hospitals—they worsened conditions.
Today's wounded had it better, but after a week-plus expedition in this heat, wounds festered and rotted, reeking of every foul odor.
Treatment methods made him grimace.
They'd roughly slice open pus-filled areas, stitch with needle and thread, wrap in bandages. If that failed, off came limbs.
A massive basin brimmed with severed arms, legs, and body parts, blood dripping steadily.
Jeron had thrown a fit to get people washing hands and boiling bandages at least, but infection control? Dicey.
They could only pray to the priests' holy power.
"No excuses, Young Lord."
Knight Captain Sir James approached, head and arm swathed in bandages, saluting humbly.
Jeron caught the glint of despair in those steadfast eyes.
"Come with me."
Outside the tent.
Under a tree's shade, Jeron heard Sir James's report.
"Through this expedition, we've learned the Barbarians are larger than we thought."
"Larger?"
"Until now, they'd come south in small bands for raids and retreat. Now they're descending in massive numbers, looking to settle. By year's end, it'll be a huge problem."
"Sir James, you've heard rumors of war with the Lapis Kingdom soon."
"Yes."
"We can't spare attention for Barbarians too."
"But... without expanding the forces, we'll suffer disaster."
Sir James's eyes wavered.
In this iron-willed knight, Jeron saw fear.
Worst case: at war, and Barbarians swarm south for warmer lands—the territory falls.
Lost troops didn't regenerate overnight.
Minimum six months training, gear, real combat to make them usable.
It strained finances, and over-conscripting young men wrecked farming.
This wasn't a game or novel—things didn't pop into existence.
"So, Sir, how many do we need to prepare for the future?"
"At least 2,000."
"Hoo, what a damn mess."
This wasn't for debating with the knight captain.
After scrambling all day on aftermath headaches, toward evening, word came: Baron Ark Pellow had awakened.
Solemn tension hung heavy.
Knights guarded the lord's chamber like fortresses.
His mother wept softly; his sister's face was puffy and swollen.
Anyone could see Baron Ark Pellow was in critical condition.
'If only we had a few antibiotic pills, this wouldn't happen.'
Even post-amputation, his father's state hadn't improved—worse, in fact.
Pallid complexion, seepage from the bandaged arm—no sign of recovery.
"Father."
Jeron took his father's hand.
Barely any strength in it.
The baron rasped, forcing his mouth open.
"Time... is short."
"You'll recover. I'll make sure of it."
"I... know my state. Cough! Not much left—so it's time for you to succeed me."
"No! I still have so much to learn!"
This was genuine.
He still hadn't adjusted to everything.
Could Jeron handle it?
Baron Ark Pellow spoke.
"Son... now you must carry on the family's power."
"The family's power..."
"The Dragon Vein—the strength our heirs have passed down for generations."