Volume 1 Chapter 44 The Battle of Strock Village, Part ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
The rearguard, composed of militia veterans from the former 303rd Unit, held the line while the people of Mauer Village fled toward the safety of Strock. It was well past midnight by the time the final cart creaked out of the village.
Trailing the tail end of the refugee column like a pack of stalking predators, a band of mercenaries followed at a taunting distance. They consisted of two mounted cavalry and about ten infantry.
Though the threat of Bours’s arrows kept them from lunging, their presence was a persistent, skin-crawling shadow. By the time the column emerged from the “Green Tunnel”—the dense canopy of trees guarding the entrance to Strock—the sun had fully crested the horizon.
(Just how far are these bastards going to push?) Edmond wondered, glancing back over his shoulder.
In that moment, the “stalking wolves” became the prey. A heavy rope had been lashed between the trees above the tunnel. From a high branch nearby, a massive shadow—acting as the weight on a lethal pendulum—swung out in a wide, violent arc toward the mounted mercenaries.
It was a traditional regional Orc Hunting Method¹, creatures blessed with keen noses but a fatal lack of vertical awareness. Since an Orc’s only natural predators are red-eyed wolves or brown bears—neither of which drop from the sky—they rarely look up.
Hunters would wait five meters up, using gravity and rope tension to deliver a blow with the force of a falling ton, finishing the stunned beast with a blade.
The first to drop was the second son of the Village Head, a former neighborhood bully known by the infamous moniker “Mad Dog Hans.” Though only seventeen, he was a giant of a youth, standing nearly two meters tall and weighing well over a hundred kilograms.
The mercenary’s armor offered no protection against physics. Hans swung from a five-meter height, his boots leading a body-check that could have sent a two-hundred-kilogram Orc flying. Crr-ack. The sheer momentum was enough to shatter bones on impact.
The lead rider was de-horsed instantly, sent tumbling into the dirt. Hans, using the recoil to kill his momentum, landed squarely in the vacated saddle. He grabbed the reins, effectively swapping places with the soldier in a single fluid motion.
”Heh. I’m keeping the horse,” said Hans.
Simultaneously, a second shadow plummeted toward the other rider. This was Alberto, a man whose reputation spanned several towns. Even larger than Hans, Alberto’s massive frame didn’t just unseat the rider; he sent the man and the horse sprawling into the brush.
The mercenaries, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of the assault, had no time to react before Hans’s subordinates—who had been buried beneath piles of fallen leaves—burst forth like demons.
However, these mercenaries had survived a lifetime of gutter fights; they recovered their footing with practiced speed. They formed a defensive circle of three and four, weapons braced back-to-back.
Their professionalism lasted until Alberto charged. He emerged from the woods swinging a literal log several meters long. With one monstrous sweep, the four-man mercenary squad was scattered like tenpins. The survivors recoiled, terror finally breaking through their discipline.
”Fall back! Retreat!” shouted a man who seemed to be the infantry leader. With their cavalry unhorsed and a giant clearing the field with timber, the mercenaries broke rank and fled headlong.
The war had officially begun.
It was a definitive opening victory. They had secured two horses and four prisoners, though the enemy’s main force remained largely intact.
* * *
The Celt Line²
Celt, a former squad leader in the 303rd Militia, had been tasked by Bours with the fortification of the village. He broke the geography of Strock Village into four critical zones: The Honjo, the Dish Basin, the Far Bank, and the area Below the Hill.
The first line of defense was the bridge over the Rhodes River. Situated between the Mauer road and the Dish Basin, it was surrounded by open pasture. Celt ordered a spiked palisade built on the settlement side. With Bours-san’s legendary marksmanship, they could hold off twenty men here indefinitely.
The second line of defense was the Honjo itself. To the north and south, the river and its irrigation canals provided natural moats. In the open fields between, Celt had his men drive shoulder-high stakes into the earth, lashing them together with rope and crossbars in a chaotic, staggered barricade.
This forced any advancing force into the Kill Zone³—the main highway—where they could be funneled and decimated.
(The stakes might get pulled up if they use human-wave tactics…) Celt noted. (If that happens, we’ll have to pick them off with arrows.)
”You’ve been busy, I see,” said Bours.
He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp. Most of the fortifications were complete, save for the final lashing of the Honjo gate.
”Word is the enemy has a hundred men,” replied Celt.
”Roberto saw them, but there’s no guarantee they’ll commit,” said Bours.
Celt didn’t say it aloud, but they had to assume the worst. Just then, Hans and his Delinquent Boy Brigade⁴ swaggered in, dragging four bound prisoners and the two captured horses.
”Impressive work for a bunch of kids,” said Celt.
Hans ignored him, looking directly at Bours.
”What do we do with these pieces of trash?”
The four mercenaries were gagged and bound so tightly they looked like cocoons, their eyes darting in silent terror.
”Four is a crowd, and we’re short on rations,” Bours said casually. “Thin the herd. Take two of them down to the river and squeeze them. I want numbers, cavalry counts, and how many crossbows they’re packing. Report back to Celt when you’re done.”
The casual cruelty of the order sent a chill through Edmond and Martin.
”Al, take these two to the riverbank. Handle it,” said Hans.
”Are we killing them?” Alberto asked.
”Depends on how chatty they are. Do what you want,” said Hans.
”Got it,” Al replied.
Alberto grabbed a rope in each hand and hauled the two men off the ground as if they were sacks of grain, heading toward the laundry path. Hans dragged the other two toward the quarry.
”Is this really okay?” Celt asked.
”Hans looks like a thug, but he knows where the line is,” said Bours. “We’re going to get some sleep before the real fight starts. It’s all yours, Celt.”
Celt watched the veterans sprawl out in the corners of the plaza. The safety of two villages rested on the shoulders of a twenty-something who had just become a yeoman.
By midday, he had moved the remaining supplies from the Dish Basin into the Honjo, ignoring the complaints from the villagers who hated the idea of abandoning their homes.
As the sun began to dip, the enemy finally appeared. They marched in a ragged but disciplined column. In the center were the remaining cavalry, flanked by at least twenty soldiers carrying heavy crossbows.
”Just like the prisoners said. A hundred, maybe more,” said Hans.
Celt didn’t hesitate. “Abandon the first line. Pull everyone back to the Honjo.”
Celt looked at Hans. The kid was five years his junior, yet his name was a curse whispered as far as the city of Obernbach.
”Are they coming now?” Hans asked. His voice wasn’t shaking; he sounded genuinely curious.
”They’ll send a herald first. Demand a surrender,” Celt replied.
”Will we give it?”
”Hardly. They’ve already been snatching women in Mauer. They’re mercenaries; they’ll raze the village regardless.”
”After that, the war?”
”No,” Celt shook his head. “If they attack now, they’ll be fighting in the dark in a village they don’t know. They’ll wait for dawn.”
Hans’s eyes lit up with a predatory glint. “So… you’re saying they’re going to be camping in our territory tonight?”
The youth was smiling. It was a terrifying expression.
”They’re pros, Hans. They’ll have sentries. Don’t be stupid,” said Celt.
”I’m not being stupid,” Hans grinned, cracking his knuckles. “But there’s no law saying we have to let the bastards sleep, is there?”
Celt realized then that trying to stop Hans was like trying to stop a landslide.
”Fine. Take your best scouts to the top of the tower. Map their campfires. If you’re going to do something, do it right,” said Celt.
Hans didn’t wait. He and his crew were already halfway up the tower stairs before Celt could finish his sentence.
As expected, the mercenaries began preparing to settle in at the Dish Basin settlement. A single rider from their cavalry, clad in a guard’s uniform, broke away and trotted toward us.
”I’m Commander Paul Adler of the guard, servin’ the noble Count Straba of the Kiridal Kingdom, I am,” the man announced with a thick, coarse drawl. “Now, be a good lad and let me speak with your Village Head.”
Bours-san arrived just in time, flanked by his men. He didn’t miss a beat as he stepped forward to meet the rider’s gaze.
”I am Bours Debritz, a former Captain of the Royal Army,” Bours said. “The Village Head is currently away, so I’ll be taking his place in this conversation.”
”Hoh, a former soldier? Well, that makes things easy, don’t it?” Adler replied. “We’re just here for a bit of food. Hand it over quiet-like, and we won’t have to do nothin’ to ya.”
It was exactly the kind of demand we had anticipated.
”If that’s the case, give us ten of your officers as hostages,” Bours countered. “Do that, and we might just consider your offer.”
”What? Are you some kind of half-wit? There’s no damn way we’re doin’ that!”
”Then we have nothing more to discuss,” Bours said.
”Fine. I’ll give you until sunrise. Think on it long and hard, ya hear?”
With that parting shot, the man called Paul wheeled his horse around and galloped back toward the Dish Basin settlement.
* * *
Night had fallen deeply when Hans, Al, and two of their subordinates began their descent down the dark waters of the Rhodes River. Bonfires blazed around the perimeter of the Dish Basin settlement, casting a light so bright it felt like they could be spotted from the watchtower in front of Al’s house even from this distance.
They had no choice but to stay low in the water. In autumn, the trip would have been a breeze, but the winter rains had swollen the river. If you hadn’t spent your childhood playing in these currents, you wouldn’t stand a chance of navigating them on a night like this.
They hunkered down beneath the bridge of the Rock Salt Road, south of the settlement, waiting in the shadows until a signal cry drifted over the water. Based on the position of the moon, they were right on schedule. It was time for the “hostage release.”
The prisoners’ upper bodies were bound tight, but leather bags were lashed to their backs—bags containing venomous snakes plucked from their winter hibernation. The plan was simple: the heat from the prisoners’ skin would wake the serpents, making the hostages both a distraction and a delivery system.
Hans poked his head out from under the bridge and spotted four figures stumbling as they ran. “Let’s move,” Hans whispered.
They slipped out from beneath the bridge and sprinted through the back alleys of the settlement. Reaching the rear of Al’s house, they eased the sliding door open. Inside the courtyard, as they had suspected, about ten men were sleeping on straw under the eaves, huddled beneath heavy blankets.
”Now,” Hans signaled. “One thrust, then on to the next. No need to kill them.”
The four of them moved in unison. Dropping into the courtyard, they worked quickly with their spears, delivering a single, calculated jab to each sleeping form. One man, alerted by the muffled groans of his comrades, scrambled to his feet and tried to bolt. Hans had no choice; he launched his spear. The weapon hit home, impaling the runner, but as the figure fell, Hans realized it was a woman soldier.
”We’re leaving!” Hans hissed.
They scrambled through the courtyard gate and sprinted toward the shore of the lake. The ground was a marshy mess, but they stuck to the wooden planks laid out as a path until they reached the moored boat.
Behind them, the settlement finally erupted into chaos as the first screams of alarm went up. They rowed hard, making for a secret pier on the north side of the pond—a hidden haunt for Hans’s gang of roughs—before taking the game trails back to the village.
* * *
Celt’s Perspective
”So, the hostages had broken arms, twelve were jabbed, and one was run through?” Bours-san asked.
”Yeah,” Hans replied. “Bad luck that the first one I had to kill was a woman.”
Hans looked like he could have a dozen kills under his belt with a face that hard, but this was apparently his first time.
”And we won’t know how many the snakes got until the dust settles,” Hans added.
”If we stick to the facts,” I said, trying to steady the mood, “you’ve neutralized seventeen of them. If the enemy has a hundred men and we can break the remaining thirty-three, the victory is ours.”
Hans gave me a puzzled look. “Why’s that?”
”Generally speaking, if you disable half of an opposing force, the fight is over,” I explained.
”Assuming our own losses stay low, of course,” Bours added.
”Maybe I should have stayed and raised more hell then,” Hans muttered.
”Don’t be a fool,” Bours said, checking him. “One mistake and I’d be burying the lot of you.” Hans didn’t seem particularly bothered by the reprimand.
”Let’s try to get some rest,” I suggested. “The real work starts at daybreak.”
Despite the successful raid, the air felt heavy. It was a long, sleepless night.
In the morning, a thin mist clung to the ground. Across the way, the mercenaries took their time eating before they began to form their lines. At the front were the heavy infantry, armored to the teeth behind massive shields. Light infantry and crossbowmen followed, with the cavalry bringing up the rear. Their plan was transparent: a concentrated charge to shatter the entrance. It’s exactly what I would have done in their position.
After a quick briefing with Bours and the others, I climbed to the roof of the Village Head’s tower to get an overview. From the top, I spotted three riders tearing down the highway toward Mauer Village. Reinforcements. If they brought more men, we were finished. This had to be settled quickly.
I turned my attention back to the road as the enemy soldiers slowly closed the distance. A few men stayed behind in the settlement, but the main force was moving.
”We start the attack when they hit fifty meters,” Bours said.
He figured they wouldn’t order the charge until they were within thirty meters. Our goal was to bleed their momentum and their numbers before they hit that mark. We had already placed marking stakes in the dirt. Both sides were locked in a game of nerves, waiting for the first shot. The tension was so thick it felt like any stray sound would make someone snap.
Ten more meters.
Beside me, Tim’s breathing was ragged as he gripped his sling.
”Don’t get twitchy and hit our own guys,” I cautioned.
”I’m fine! I’ve picked off goblins from further away than this!” Tim fired back, though he couldn’t quite hide his nerves.
”Almost there. Just take a deep breath.”
The boy, who was the same age as Larry, was surprisingly obedient.
”Now!” I signaled.
Tim grabbed a stone the size of a fist, fitted it into the leather, and whirled it with a grunt. The stone arched through the air and disappeared into the enemy ranks. The sheer speed of the drop should have been devastating, but the mercenaries didn’t even waver.
Bours let fly an arrow that pierced a soldier in the rear. Thirty-two to go.
Tim’s stones continued to find targets, and I saw another man go down, but the wall of steel kept moving toward us at the same relentless pace. They were nearly at the forty-meter line.
”CHARGE!” the enemy commander roared.
They moved faster than I’d expected. At the same moment, a volley of crossbow bolts whistled through the air. Several of our men were hit.
As the enemy surged toward the plaza entrance, our Leaf-Litter trap was sprung. A triangular timber frame swung up, and several heavy infantry crashed into it. They went down in a tangle, but the light infantry didn’t hesitate—they scrambled over their fallen comrades and poured into the breach. Our shield wall met them, spears thrusting through the gaps, but the sheer weight of the charge was pushing us back.
The village delinquents had gone so far as to rip the iron door off the jail in the tower basement. Al, with his monstrous strength, was swinging it like a titan’s club. He was holding them back until a crossbow bolt caught him in the shoulder.
”Damn it all!” Hans screamed.
He caught the iron door as Al dropped it and heaved it with everything he had. The heavy slab went spinning into the enemy, mown down several men, but with their makeshift barricade gone, the mercenaries swarmed in. It dissolved into a brutal melee. Our line was crumbling, and flames were already licking at the roofs of several houses.
Bours had retreated to the well, trying to pick off targets, but the crossbowmen had him pinned down. It was almost time to let the women escape.
”They’re coming up the tower!” Tim shouted.
I snapped out of my thoughts. “Drop the stones! Now!” I grabbed the signaling flag and began to wave.
The village boys who weren’t fighters were our messengers. Seeing the flag, they began to shout at the top of their lungs, spreading the word for everyone to flee toward Seiren Village. We had nearly cut the enemy’s numbers in half, but the momentum was entirely theirs.
Then I saw them: ten enemy crossbowmen coming up from the washing path by the river. They’d circled around. It was a separate unit I’d completely overlooked.
”Enemy at the path!” I bellowed.
A few men tried to intercept them, but they were cut down before they could get close. The mercenaries seemed to be holding their fire, likely running low on bolts, but they were effectively taking the fleeing villagers hostage. To make matters worse, the infantry at the plaza began clearing the obstacles. If the cavalry rode in now, it was over.
Then, a bolt took Bours in the left shoulder.
He was the pillar of this village. If he fell, the defense would shatter. I was about to order the livestock in the courtyard to be driven into the plaza as a desperate distraction when the wind shifted.
A massive mercenary fighting Hans suddenly stiffened and collapsed, an arrow through his skull. Then another fell. Then another. Every shot was a kill, and every shot hit the head.
Who? Where?
Five men in the melee were dead in seconds.
”The second floor! There!” a mercenary screamed, pointing to the window of the inn.
The crossbowmen turned their fire on the banquet hall windows, but the hidden sniper didn’t miss a beat. Arrows kept raining down.
”Burn it! Burn the place down!”
A jar of oil shattered against the wall, followed by a torch. The inn began to roar with flames, but the arrows didn’t stop. We had surely neutralized fifty of them by now, but they refused to retreat. Thirty of them were still fighting in the plaza, and the cavalry had finally entered.
Then, the roof of the barn began to move.
A Golem?
It was an ancient, rusted thing, far cruder than the ones in the city. It burst through the barn timbers, its movements jerky and grinding. It crushed the fence and lumbered toward the washing path. The enemy unit there took one look at the iron giant and scrambled for the river. The Golem watched them go, then turned its hollow eyes toward the plaza.
”What is that thing?”
Tim asked me, his voice trembling with a hint of terror. “That’s a Golem… is it your first time seeing one?”
The boy gave a slow, heavy nod.
As the Golem stepped into the square, it slammed head-on into the cavalry. Two of the horses collapsed on the spot, while the rest reared back in a panic. The riders lost their grip on the reins as the beasts scrambled to flee the plaza.
At the Golem’s feet stood two stout, powerfully built men clad in heavy armor. They brandished maces that looked far too large for their frames-the Dwarf father and son from the forge.
With the cavalry in full retreat, the enemy infantry fell into a total rout. The two Dwarves moved through the chaos, methodically finishing off the remaining enemy soldiers one by one.
(We won…)
I didn’t know the how or why of it, but the fight was over. My legs turned to jelly, and I slumped right there onto the dirt. But as long as I was still on the field, I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
I forced myself up and looked toward the eastern highway. A ragged group of fewer than twenty-cavalry and infantry combined-was scrambling away, each man for himself. As they neared the settlement of Dish Basin, about twenty riders emerged from the forest.
(Wait… enemy reinforcements?)
Looking down at the square, the villagers were exhausted and bloodied, and the remaining enemy soldiers had simply collapsed. No one had the will to fight anymore. Neither did I. This was it.
* * *
Bours grunted as he yanked the arrow from his own shoulder. He clamped a hand over the wound, trying to staunch the flow. Just as he’d been ready to give up, arrows began raining down from the second floor of Granny Ferris’s inn. That was when the tide truly turned.
Whoever was loosing those shafts was no amateur; the rate of fire was blistering, yet each shot was delivered with terrifying power and peerless precision. Bours considered himself a fast draw, but he couldn’t touch this. The arrows punched straight through steel helmets. Even with the targets tangled in the heat of a melee, not a single shot went wide.
There wasn’t a marksman this good in the entire Royal Army. He squinted, peering at the narrow gap in the window. For a fleeting second, his eyes met the archer’s.
(Emma…?)
He shook his head immediately. No. That level of mastery wasn’t something a girl that young could reach.
Then, the Golem lumbered out. (That has to be the old woman’s. I’d heard she knew how to handle one, but I never expected her to be keeping one in reserve.)
At the Golem’s feet stood the Dwarf blacksmith and his son in full plate. He’d heard their third son had been evacuated, but it seemed the Dwarves had stayed to lend the Elves a hand. It was an interesting development.
The momentum had shifted completely. Even the cavalry that tried to push in at the end were driven back, and every enemy soldier still capable of walking fled into the night.
”I’m getting too old for this,” Bours muttered. He couldn’t move another inch. His days of warring were over. He let out a dry, lonely chuckle as the tension snapped and his consciousness began to fade.
”Pop!”
Someone was jarring his shoulder. (I just got the bleeding stopped, and you’re shaking the wound, you idiot…) He forced his eyes open to see his son, Michel, kneeling over him.
”Is this a ghost? Am I finally dead?” Bours asked.
”Get a grip, Pop!” Michel said. He shook Bours’s wounded shoulder again.
”Dammit, stop! That hurts! Wait… Michel? Is it really you?”
”Yeah, it’s really me,” Michel replied.
”What the hell are you doing here? What about the Rus border patrol?”
”We were mobilized as reinforcements,” Michel said. “Well, by the time we got here the fight was mostly over. We’re just handling the mopping-up now.”
Bours learned the details later. The Martyr Army, spearheaded by the Empire of Charle, had for some reason struck the capital of the East Room Empire and sent it falling.
The East Room Emperor had fled to Rus. While the Emperor of Rus was busy raising an army to reclaim the capital, the situation was far too volatile for them to risk a border skirmish with Schweilitz. Consequently, the border units-now with nothing to guard-had been diverted here.
”Anyway, this Golem… is it really Granny’s?” Michel asked.
”Likely so,” Bours said.
”You’re damn right it’s mine,” a voice crackled. Granny Ferris was approaching them.
”It’s been a long time, ma’am,” Michel said, giving a crisp, respectful greeting. (He’s grown up,) Bours thought. It had been twelve-maybe thirteen-years since Michel entered the academy at fourteen. Bours had only seen him once since then, at his own wedding.
”I was the first Commander of the Golem Battalion, after all,” Granny Ferris said, puffing out her chest.
”Are you serious?” Michel asked.
That was a story Michel didn’t know. Nor did he know about Granny’s history with the Second Sage.
”Yep. I gathered the recruits and the Golems myself. The Second Sage gave me a hand with the logistics,” Granny Ferris said.
”But I heard the First Sage was the one who founded the Golem Battalion,” Michel said.
”Schwaben-the First Sage-just signed the papers. The ones who actually built the damn thing from the ground up were me and the Second,” Granny Ferris replied.
Michel started smirking. “Listen, Pop… this probably isn’t the best time, and I can’t stay long, but…” He started hesitating, acting like he was afraid to spit it out.
”What is it? You getting married?” Bours asked.
”Damn, Pop. Nothing gets past you,” Michel said.
Bours had aimed a shot in the dark, and it had hit center mass. His son was in his late twenties; he was actually a bit late to be taking a wife, but as a father, Bours hadn’t felt ready for the news. “I see. So, who’s the girl?”
”A fellow soldier. A Second Lieutenant, same age as me,” Michel said. Bours felt a surge of pride; Michel was a First Lieutenant at his age. For the woman to be a Second Lieutenant meant she was exceptionally capable. “We were stationed on the same border detail. We’ve been seeing each other for about a year, and…”
Beside them, Granny Ferris was grinning ear to ear.
”We’ve got a little one on the way,” Michel said.
Granny Ferris let out a loud cackle. Bours felt a sudden, complicated knot in his chest. “Don’t tell me the girl is a Mage…”
”You’re too sharp, Granny,” Michel said. “Her name is Christina Meinecke. She’s a Company Commander in the 101st Golem Battalion.”
”Michel… you know what they say about Mage women…” Bours said.
”I know, Pop. They say they can control conception and contraception just by thinking about it, right? It’s fine. I gave her the green light,” Michel replied.
It was a common military prejudice-that the women in that battalion weren’t “right” in the head. The pilots-Mages who spent their days dealing out mass death-were said to lose their humanity.
”Are you sure you shouldn’t sleep on this?” Bours asked.
”Are you really going to be like that, Pop? We’ve been together a year. I’ve seen her at her best and her worst. We’ve made our choice,” Michel said.
If his son was this certain… Bours couldn’t argue. “He’s turned into a fine man, Bours. Stop being such a parent and let him go,” Granny Ferris prodded.
Maybe she was right. Just then, one of Michel’s subordinates ran up and saluted. “First Lieutenant Debritz! A dispatch from Major Kitinoa!”
”Got it. I’m on my way,” Michel said.
Watching his son return the salute brought a lump to Bours’s throat. Michel looked so much like Bours had in his prime. “Fine. Marriage it is. Let him live his life. I’m hardly one to talk.” Bours winced at the pain in his shoulder but forced himself to his feet. “Alright. Good luck, son. Make sure you send me an invite to the wedding.”
”Thanks, Pop,” Michel said. “Take care of yourself.”
Bours offered a salute, and his son snapped one back. “By your leave, sir!”
The child he’d raised-now a man he barely recognized-did a sharp about-face and marched away.
”Time really does move too fast,” Bours muttered.
”You’re saying that to an Elf?” Granny Ferris teased.
”I am. You’ve probably got great-grandkids,” Bours said.
”I do. And you’re about to have a grandchild of your own,” Granny Ferris replied.
A grandchild. Bours started to laugh, and as he did, the tears finally started to fall. He’d almost forgotten the most important thing.
(Hey, Michel… you’re about to have a new little brother or sister, too.)
—
Summary:
Strock Village successfully repels a mercenary scouting party through a daring pendulum-trap ambush. Celt manages the complex logistics of fortifying the village while integrating stubborn refugees. The arrival of a main mercenary force of over one hundred soldiers creates a tense standoff at the gates.
Hans and his group execute a night raid using venomous snakes and silent strikes to thin the mercenary forces before the morning siege. The village defense struggles against the sheer momentum of the heavy infantry and a surprise flanking maneuver from the river. Bours is wounded, and just as morale begins to collapse, a mysterious sniper and an ancient Golem emerge from the local inn and barn to turn the tide.
Bours survives a grueling defensive battle thanks to the intervention of a Golem and a mysterious master archer. His son Michel arrives with reinforcements, revealing the geopolitical shifts in the neighboring empires. The two share an emotional reunion where Michel announces his impending fatherhood with a Golem pilot.
—
Trivia:
- The specific height of five meters is a ritualistic standard for regional Orc hunting.
- Mauer Village refugees are currently occupying the town square area near the Seiren road.
- The Rhone River water level is seasonally high, which prevents immediate enemy flanking.
- Tim Dvorak’s slinging position on the tower is the village’s primary long-range deterrent.
- The Golem was previously unknown to the villagers, hiding in Granny Ferris’s inn.
- Dwarves and Elves are collaborating in the defense, suggesting an integrated community.
- Mage pilots in the Golem Battalion face heavy social stigma regarding their humanity
—
Character Insight:
Hans demonstrates a shift from a simple local bully to a calculated guerrilla leader, showing tactical curiosity rather than just bloodlust. Bours displays a hardened veteran’s lack of empathy, prioritizing military intelligence over the lives of prisoners.
Bours shifts from a combat-focused mindset to a reflective, paternal one as he accepts his son’s independence and his own aging.
—
Glossary:
Notes:
• Mauer – A stout man from the Rosen family with thin, downy white hair. He wears a beige dalmatica.
• Bours – Tall, scarred, in a faded Royal Army uniform, Sullen Bours is a former military academy master, senior to the royal family, and leader of the 303rd Militia on the Elders’ Council. A Western Front veteran who commanded cavalry and infantry during the Kiridal attack, defended Strock Village, and expertly saved Larry and Rudy. Married to Sheeta‑san, father of a son conscripted on the Imperial border, originally from Larry’s village; he leads with cold, pragmatic command and quiet grief.
• Edmond – Ed, tall and lanky with a wiry frame, is the second son of a farm family from Mauer Village and Mary’s brother. Living in Strock Village, he teases Martin and Larry, scorns manual labor, plots celebrations, and aims for the Officer’s Academy. An scout, he rescued a wounded near a broken carriage, relays grim enemy intel, and burns with ambition. His household sits across the Rhodes River.
• Ed – A lanky refugee youth in simple farmer’s garb, Larry’s close friend and soon-to-be conscript, now a militia member training spear-walls; he witnessed the initial skirmish at Mauer Village as part of the group seeking safety in Strock Village, was an associate of Captain Bours, and participated in the ambush of the mercenaries—fiercely protective of Larry, remembered for his quiet resolve to survive the battlefield.
• Village Head – The elderly leader of Balsheni Village who previously sold furs in Obernbach. The elderly leader of the village and grandfather to Marie. The leader of the village who orchestrates Larry’s integration into the family.
• Hans – Mad Dog, a 17‑year‑old, nearly 2 m tall and over 100 kg, is the rugged, wild‑eyed second son of Strock Village’s Head and heir to the Kessler estate. Once a delinquent youth‑brigade leader, he abandoned his duties, crashed a ceremony, and now enforces the Village Head’s will with brute strength, while his aggressive, decisive brother refuses the headship.
• Alberto – A towering red‑haired former delinquent, over 210 cm tall and heavier than Hans, now an elder on the temporary Elders’ Council. He questions Larry’s future as Village Head, is engaged to Mary, and is a well‑known, key combatant in the village, known to Larry and Hans.
• Al – Alberto (Al), a massive red‑haired man recently wed to Mary, lives near the Dish Basin. He’s a companion of Hans, helping intimidate and rally elders as a villager and leader.
• Celt – In his twenties, he now works as a yeoman and leads the Second Squad, overseeing Strock Village’s fortifications. Dressed in simple work clothes, he’s a calm, kind sandal‑maker and translator of Bours’s jargon, quietly admiring Teressa‑san’s skill. Once a militia squad leader in the 303rd Unit, he earned his land with reward money and remains the village’s trusted gossip source.
• Roberto – A scar‑lined recruit, face marked by last night’s turmoil, sits beside Larry — a fellow trainee and spearman — in the grove, trembling yet celebrating their survival; as a nervous militia member wary of snipers, he bravely tracks mercenaries despite a crossbow wound.
• Martin – Mar, a boisterous recruit from Mauer Village, wears Shinto‑inspired armor and fights in a Shinto‑linked style. Loud, erotically obsessed yet politely eager, he flirts with Ferris‑san, proposes to Felice, pursues the elf Granny Ferris, and trains with Larry. He helped evacuate to Strock Village, rescued wounded near a broken carriage, calms soldiers despite antics, and once proposed to Ferris unaware of her age. Also observed interrogation preparations as a refugee linked to Edmond.
• Mar – A battle‑hardened veteran, clad in worn armor, uses door panels as shields and captures enemy crossbows; Larry’s comrade who teases him about his sister‑in‑law’s pampering, known as Martin to his companion Edmond.
• Paul Adler – Captain of the Guard for Count Straba. A massive man wearing tights.
• Commander – A man leading the mercenary press-gang at the south gate.
• Tim – Fourteen‑year‑old Jarek Dvorak, the village’s eldest son and recent ‘graduate’, has short dark hair, a lean build and thoughtful eyes. He traveled to Obernbach with his father, watches the Golem’s arrival with trepidation, and, like Larry, comes from a sugar‑beet‑cultivating family that refines sugar; his carefree, slightly reckless nature leads him to boast of pleasures in the district.
• Larry – Fourteen-year-old third son of the Strock Village Head, with reddish-white skin, curly bronze hair, and bronze eyes, he is a slave-soldier in Militia Unit 303 and Mage Level 3, hosting the reincarnated consciousness of a 40-year-old Sage—granting him adult wisdom, fire magic (Fireball), heart/mana sensing by touch, and golem synchronization. A survivor of the Vod Fortress war, he battles PTSD, mana inflammation, and guilt over a killing, while navigating domestic tensions and admiration for his sister-in-law. Recently returned from enemy territory, he met the King in a high-stakes audience, trains to become Village Head, and is suspected to be the Fifth Sage, serving as the narrative’s central perspective.
• Ferris – Granny, an ageless elf who looks like a 30‑year‑old but is centuries old, runs an inn and serves as the first Commander of the Golem Battalion, a former associate of the Second Sage. She speaks bluntly, claims to know Larry’s grandfather, and is the elderly woman Martin hopes to marry.
• Emma – A village girl with large black eyes, a cold, sorrowful expression, black hair in a bun, and a three‑colored crest on her forehead; she works at the inn serving Ferris‑san, stays with her, witnessed a healing session and is a candidate for Larry’s rite, while also noted for a legendary side‑boob presence and suspected of drugging Edmond.
• Michel – A First Lieutenant in the military and the son of Bours. He arrives with reinforcements after the primary battle has concluded and reveals he is expecting a child with a Golem Battalion commander.
Please bookmark this series and rate ☆☆☆☆☆ on here!
Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
Leave a Reply