ACT 1
“Sieg Iárn! Sieg Iárn!”
“Sieg Reginarch! Sieg Reginarch!”
Celebratory cheers declaring victory rung out across the plains surrounding Vígríðr.
The Anti-Steel Clan Alliance Army fielded by the five clans—Sword, Spear, Fang, Cloud, and Helm—in response to the imperial subjugation order counted nearly thirty thousand in their ranks. Facing them, the Steel Clan had mustered a little over ten thousand. Their victory was doubtless a remarkable one against overwhelming odds.
Relief and joy illuminated the faces of the celebrating soldiers, but the expression of the young man who had contributed most to the victory, Suoh Yuuto, reginarch of the Steel Clan, remained clouded.
“Kris! Send word to all units! Have them make their casualty reports and treat their wounded. Reorganize those that can still fight and prepare to pursue the retreating forces!”
Yuuto barked orders into the transceiver in his hand.
Certainly, the battle had been decided.
But the reality was that they had used their momentum to repel the enemy army. Even now the Alliance Army maintained an absolute numerical advantage over the Steel Clan.
Yuuto himself was most aware that his victory thus far was fragile; resting on a knife’s edge.
“Rún, I’ve got one more task for you today. I need you to immediately join in the pursuit.”
“As you command!”
A strong voice rang back through the transceiver.
That voice belonged to Sigrún, the woman known as the Mánagarmr, the greatest warrior of the Steel Clan, commander of their elite armored cavalry unit, the Múspell unit.
“Do whatever you must to capture the Sword Clan patriarch, Fagrahvél. We can’t afford any further problems arising.” Yuuto made clear the seriousness of the mission he was tasking her with.
“As you wish, Father. I shall do as you command!” Sigrún was quick to respond and duly accept her sworn father’s order.
“I’m counting on you.”
The Sword Clan patriarch, Fagrahvél, was effectively the leader of the Alliance Army. As an Einherjar with the rune Gjallarhorn, she could turn even the most rank-and-file soldier into a peerless hero who would charge fearlessly into battle. Yuuto understood from facing her just how much of a threat she represented.
While he may have defeated her this time, she was an opponent Yuuto didn’t want to face a second time.
It didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to understand that if she escaped and could regroup the Alliance Army’s forces, the situation would take a rapid turn for the worse.
Furthermore, she had lost with an army of thirty thousand. There was a strong possibility she would now avoid field battles and take shelter behind fortress walls.
Yuuto wanted to avoid that scenario at all costs.
Even with siege weaponry far ahead of its time, it was rather obvious that conquering the Sword Clan through a siege would cost the Steel Clan a substantial amount of time.
With the knowledge that Yggdrasil would soon sink into the sea, that was time they couldn’t afford to waste.
The pursuit of Fagrahvél could very well decide the course of events over the coming days.
A series of four loud gongs rang out across the battlefield, above the din of yelling soldiers and fighting.
Sígismund, the patriarch of the Fang Clan, ruler of central Bifröst, froze in place, and his eyes widened in surprise.
The army had, of course, decided what those gongs would signal well before the battle had begun.
In war, any misunderstanding of signals being sent could very well lead to defeat. Sígismund, who had risen to his position as patriarch through sheer ability, knew this better than most.
This was exactly why he had thoroughly committed the signals to memory. It was impossible that he would misunderstand a signal.
Impossible though it was for him to misunderstand this signal, he still struggled to process what he was hearing.
Four gongs in a row meant—
“All forces retreat?!”
To him, this order came completely out of the blue.
His Fang Clan forces, numbering around five thousand, were currently in the midst of assaulting the Steel Clan’s flank, and while they were slowed by the enemy’s Wagon Walls and hampered by reinforcements from skirmishers, they were still winning their slice of the battle.
Even looking upon the battlefield as a whole, the remaining twenty-five thousand troops of the Alliance Army had encircled the much-smaller force of ten thousand Steel Clan troops, and further, the soldiers of the Alliance Army were all fighting like legendary heroes thanks to the power of the Sword Clan’s patriarch, Fagrahvél.
Up until a moment ago, Sígismund believed victory to be little more than a matter of time.
“Hm?”
Sígismund noticed that the expressions of the soldiers protecting him had changed.
Mere heartbeats ago they had looked like wild beasts, with fire burning in their eyes, but now, upon hearing the signal to retreat, all of them looked like frightened cattle.
“...Fagrahvél’s rune has worn off.”
This could only mean that Fagrahvél herself was in no condition to make use of that power.
“Going by the timing of the gong signal, it is very likely that Fagrahvél has either been slain or captured.”
Furrowing his brow, Sígismund let out a grumble.
Fagrahvél had, in fact, only lost consciousness and was currently retreating from the battlefield, but Sígismund had no way of knowing this, being neither a god nor a seer. Under the circumstances, Sígismund’s assumption was perfectly reasonable.
“Tch. Fall back!”
His cloak flowing as he turned away, Sígismund barked out that order.
With the battle decided, there was no time to waste.
While the Fang Clan army had suffered very few losses and still had much of its strength intact, maintaining morale would likely prove impossible with the gong for retreat sounded and the effects of Fagrahvél’s rune having worn off.
The longer they stayed on the battlefield, the greater the confusion and panic among the soldiers would be.
To keep as many of his soldiers alive as possible, Sígismund knew it was best to retreat while his forces maintained their cohesion.
Sígismund’s judgment was both correct and swift.
Unfortunately for him—
“Gah!”
“Oomph!”
“Ack!”
Screams rang out from the Fang Clan army’s flank.
From a distance, Sígismund caught sight of a group of mounted warriors attacking with spears.
“The Múspell unit...”
They were the cursed band that kept appearing on the battlefield, interrupting every opening that Sígismund had found.
“Dammit! For them to appear now...!”
Sígismund couldn’t help but curse under his breath.
An all-cavalry unit that went against all of the accepted understanding of war in Yggdrasil; Sígismund had already suffered greatly at the hands of their impressive mobility and power during this battle.
Given that they were on the cusp of retreat, this opponent was one he would have gladly avoided.
“Hurry! It’s past time we made our exit!” Sígismund urged on his chariot driver.
In the eyes of his subordinates, a patriarch abandoning his post and focusing on his own escape must seem like a despicable act of cowardice. Yet, for a patriarch, surviving at all costs and making his way back to his own territory was the duty he owed to his people.
If, in addition to this great defeat, Sígismund were to be slain, the Fang Clan would be mired in further confusion and decline.
“Faster, dammit! Run them as fast as they’ll go!”
“They’re already running as fast as possible. Any more and...”
“Save your excuses! Faster, damn you!” Chastising the driver, Sígismund turned fretfully backward, his expression tensing. Several black-clad riders were riding straight at him. They had clearly identified him and chosen him as their target.
Even considering the confusion brought by the retreat and the disorganization, their ability to cut so quickly through the five thousand making up the ranks of the Fang Clan’s army could only be described as menacing.
“Grrrah... Grrr.” Sígismund couldn’t help but grind his teeth together.
The three horses pulling his chariot were three of the finest horses of the Fang Clan. At a gallop they would easily leave others behind. Yet in spite of that, the enemy cavalry were quickly closing the distance.
“Out of the way!”
“Whaaa?! Guh!”
Thud! Shoved off of the chariot, the driver fell to the ground.
A thoroughly ruthless act, but with one less rider the chariot quickly accelerated. Now was not the time for niceties. But even that mattered little in the end...
Whoosh! Crack!
An object cut through the air, and a heavy jolt impacted the chariot. The carriage suddenly collapsed leftward, and Sígismund was thrown to the ground.
“Guh!”
Sígismund rolled with the impact and somehow settled on his feet.
He caught a glimpse of his beloved chariot, overturned with a spear caught in its wheel. From beyond that, the enemy cavalry approached, kicking up dust in their wake.
“I am Hildegard, member of the Steel Clan’s Múspell unit! I take thee to be Sígismund, patriarch of the Fang Clan! I hereby challenge thee!”
A young woman, with pig-tails that looked completely out of place on the battlefield, identified herself and began swinging an enormous spear that looked far too large for her small frame.
“Dammit!”
Though his body ached, likely from his fall, Sígismund clamped down on the pain with sheer force of will, drawing the sword on his hip and catching Hildegard’s blow upon it.
“Umph?!”
The impact knocked Sígismund several steps backward. It was a heavy blow that didn’t seem possible from a woman, a blow undoubtedly by an Einherjar—one blessed by the gods.
“I’m not done yet!”
The young woman continued her attack, not leaving Sígismund any opportunity to regain his footing.
Her attacks were efficient, sharp, and quick. It was the kind of movement of one who not only was gifted with innate talent, but also had spent great amounts of time refining their skills with practice. She was, without a doubt, a worthy foe.
However—
“I’ll not lose to some mere slip of a girl!” Sígismund barked out, quickly turning his body to the side, avoiding Hildegard’s lightning-quick lunge and deflecting the spear shaft with the gauntlet on his left arm.
“Raah!”
Showing no concern for the mass of horseflesh in front of him, he stepped forward, just barely avoiding the charging animal. Sígismund’s sword flashed as he struck out with a sideward slash.
Blood sprayed from a wound on the young woman’s mount; the horse collapsing as it bled from its left flank.
With an odd exclamation of surprise, the girl was, herself, now thrown to the ground.
While there had been fewer opportunities for him to fight directly in recent battles, Sígismund was, by all merits, still an Einherjar and a seasoned warrior. He had built up great amounts of experience from spending over ten years fighting and surviving across countless battlefields.
The girl in front of him was certainly strong for her age, but she was still no match for him.
“Owwww!”
Evidently she’d taken a heavy blow to her back, and Hildegard remained on the ground, her face twisted in pain.
From the fact that she wasn’t standing back up, it appeared that the pain was so great that she couldn’t bring herself to her feet.
Sígismund was not one to pass up such an opportunity.
More than anything, there were other enemies around him. He was still in a dangerous situation; he needed to finish off the opponent in front of him, reducing the number of enemies, or else it could very well cost him his life.
“I don’t enjoy killing girls, but such is war,” Sígismund stated plainly, as though trying to convince himself.
He slashed at the girl, aiming for her neck to at least give her the mercy of a quick death.
“Eep!”
The girl’s expression twisted in terror at death’s approach—
—But the blade never reached the girl’s body.
A spear shaft, interposing itself between the two of them, just barely stopped Sígismund’s blow.
“...By a whisker.”
Looking up, a silver-haired woman a few years older than Hildegard was letting out a long sigh atop her horse.
She, like Hildegard, was slender, but her aura was another matter entirely.
There was no arrogance or haughtiness to her frosty features, and her thoroughly sharpened presence was enough to even give Sígismund a moment’s pause.
“M-Mother!”
Hildegard’s expression, which had been frozen in fear, instantly thawed into an expression of relief.
Sígismund had heard of this woman before...
At the arrival of the Múspell unit’s commander and the Mánagarmr, said to be the greatest of the Steel Clan’s warriors, even Sígismund felt a shiver run up his spine.
“To think... Such a thing would happen...”
At the ringing of the gongs, Spear Clan assistant second-in-command Hermóðr’s expression, much like Sígismund’s, turned very tense.
He was, perhaps, in his mid-thirties. Though slender, he was a man with a tough, well-trained body and facial features to match. He was one of the Spear Clan’s greatest generals, known by the nickname of “Hermóðr the Swift.”
He had remained quiet during the war council meeting prior to the battle, remaining obscure among the gathering, but that was because he was aware that everything was proceeding according to the plans set by his liege, Lord Hárbarth.
A general should always display caution. To speak is to provide information. Observant individuals can discover the truth from even the smallest details. Those gathered at the war council meeting had been the elite of the elite from the participating clans. In fact, the chatty Alexis had given away the limits of Hárbarth’s powers through his unguarded statements.
Even to one as cunning as Hermóðr, the current news was a bolt out of the blue.
But experience had taught him that anything could happen on a battlefield. As such, he was quick to adapt his mindset.
“Now, what to do...” Hermóðr gazed up at the sky while muttering to himself.
At a glance, it appeared as though he was caught up in despair, but that was most assuredly not the case. His gaze was fixed on a single crow making its way toward him.
The crow eventually landed upon Hermóðr’s left shoulder.
“Hermóðr.” The crow spoke.
It was certainly an obvious oddity, but Hermóðr’s expression showed not a single trace of surprise.
“Yes, Father. My sincere apologies for not meeting your expectations.” Moreover, he even respectfully bowed his head toward it.
This crow was, in fact, the patriarch of the Spear Clan and the effective ruler of the Holy Ásgarðr Empire, the High Priest Hárbarth.
Or, more precisely, it was a vessel possessed by his soul.
Hermóðr was one of the few people aware that Hárbarth was an Einherjar who wielded the rune Svipall, and was capable of possessing various animals.
“You bear no responsibility. The Black One... I didn’t expect him to be that absurd. His abilities are far beyond what I expected.”
“As you say. I did not even in my wildest dreams think we would lose with our assembled forces.”
At Hárbarth’s words, Hermóðr could only agree with a sour expression plastered across his face.
Having spent twenty years at war after his first battle at the age of fifteen, Hermóðr was well aware there were no certainties in war.
But even then, he couldn’t believe that a combination of Hárbarth’s information, Fagrahvél’s power, Bára’s stratagems, and—most importantly—a force of twenty-five thousand that numbered more than twice that of the enemy could be defeated so easily.
More incredulous even than that was the fact that the one who had accomplished this feat was a boy of just seventeen, less than half his own age.
Hermóðr’s body couldn’t help but tremble at the thought of what sort of monster this boy could possibly be.
“Mm, we must come up with an appropriate response. At this rate, the Steel Clan will soon swallow not only the empire, but our Spear Clan as well.”
“...It is as you say.” Furrowing his brow, Hermóðr could only nod in agreement at Hárbarth’s observation.
With this victory, many would see that the tide had shifted. Seeing which way the wind was blowing, many clans would be likely to jump onto the Steel Clan’s bandwagon, at which point, the Steel Clan would become completely unstoppable.
“However, I have no intention of twiddling my thumbs as they trample all over us,” Hárbarth stated, a plan quickly formulating in his mind.
“Yes, of course,” Hermóðr replied.
Hermóðr was well aware of what happened to the people of a conquered country. The country of his birth, and the people of that country... Hermóðr loved both dearly. He couldn’t expose them to such inhumane treatment.
“The first priority is to save as many of our soldiers as possible. I will lead, come along.”
Those words were the most reassuring thing Hermóðr could hear at this time.
Hárbarth possessed wings, and, as such, he could look down upon the ground from high up in the air.
It was a simple task for him to find the safest retreat route, leading Hermóðr away from the pursuing forces, thus making them hard to find as they made their escape.
Crack! Snap!
From atop her speeding chariot’s carriage, Bára continued to crack her whip.
Anyone familiar with her usual demeanor would have stared in shock upon witnessing her current expression.
She had always remained calm and maintained a gentle smile on her lips when serving as a Sword Clan general, but she now had a grim expression drawn across her face, betraying the depths of her anxiety.
In truth, she was in as much peril as she had ever been in her life.
“For goodness saaaakes... This has nooot gone according to plaaan,” she muttered to herself, stealing glances back at her cargo. There slept her mistress, the patriarch of the Sword Clan, Fagrahvél.
Until a few moments ago she had been leading the Anti-Steel Clan Alliance Army, wielding an unprecedented force that numbered a massive thirty thousand as though they were her very own hands and feet. Now, she was the defeated general of an army, left fleeing with only a handful of troops in tow.
This, however, had not occurred because Fagrahvél lacked skill in the art of war.
Even accounting for her own bias, Bára thought of her mistress as an enormously talented patriarch. Even after she’d suffered this historic defeat, her faith in Fagrahvél hadn’t wavered in the slightest.
No, it was just that, this time, they had fought the wrong opponent.
“For the loooove of all that is hoooly... What a mooonster... Just what is heeee?”
With Fagrahvél’s trump card, the rune of kings—Gjallarhorn, the Call to War—their troops, who had practically become legendary heroes, had been repelled in a head-on battle and quickly defeated.
Even with them harnessing the strategic power of Hárbarth’s ability, which had earned him the appellation of Skilfingr, the Watcher from on High—an ability that had so often caused frustration for Bára and her comrades—they had still had been handily outdone by that god of war.
Bára, who had inwardly considered herself one of the five greatest strategists on the entire continent, had seen all of the stratagems she’d skillfully woven using Hárbarth’s power easily—so very easily—defeated.
And then there were the weapons. Powerful, unprecedented weapons that had appeared suddenly on the battlefield. If all of them were creations of the Steel Clan reginarch Suoh-Yuuto...
“...He’s not huuuman. Could those rumooors have been truuue?!”
Bára couldn’t stop a shudder of fear from running up her spine.
Suoh-Yuuto, the Steel Clan reginarch, had been sent by the goddess Angrboða herself to save the Wolf Clan from its impending doom.
It was a rumor she’d heard numerous times.
Bára had dismissed it as little more than propaganda, as rulers often spread such things to justify their reign, but having now thoroughly experienced the man’s terrifying presence on the battlefield herself, she could no longer regard it as mere myth.
“Buuuut we’re not just going to let him waaalk all over us.”
Even as her expression tensed from fear and stress unlike anything she’d ever felt before, Bára still managed a laugh, forcing herself onward.
She was now the last of the Maidens of the Waves, the Sword Clan’s elite force of nine Einherjar. Her companions with whom she had shared in both great joy and sorrow had, at her orders, gone into battle and ended up as captives.
Bára was well aware of what happened to women who were captured on the battlefield. Imagining what humiliations they faced now, she felt her blood run cold and wanted to tear out her hair in self-hatred.
No matter how powerful the enemy, she would never be able to face them if her spirit broke here.
“At the very leaaast, I neeeed to get Fagrahvél to saaafety,” Bára, her tone leisurely but her expression determined, muttered to herself.
She believed that this was her final duty as the Maiden who had shamefully remained as the last one standing.
Clang!
Clank! Clang!
“Yaaaaah!”
“Grrrah!”
On another corner of the battlefield, Sigrún and Sígismund’s exchange of spear thrusts continued. Little separated the two in terms of strength, speed, and skill. The exchange of blows escalated, but...
“Yah! Hah! Hrph!”
“Grr! Gumph! Raaah!”
The battle eventually began to tilt in Sigrún’s favor, and her attacks were gradually putting Sígismund on the defensive.
Sígismund was a warrior whose name was legendary in Bifröst.
Legendary though he may be, he was still clearly a tier below heroes like Yngvi of the Hoof Clan or Hveðrungr of the Panther Clan, to say nothing of the monster that was the Lightning Clan’s Steinþórr.
He was no match for Sigrún, who had tested her mettle in hard-fought battles against those very foes.
Or rather, that should have been the case...
The one who was gasping and struggling for breath was Sigrún; the one who had appeared to have had the upper hand. Even as she gained the advantage, she couldn’t quite muster the strength to finish things.
“Heh.”
And despite being on the defensive, Sígismund wore a confident smile. It wasn’t that he had done anything in particular. But he had noticed.
“Tch.”
As the sweat poured from her and onto the ground, Sigrún clicked her tongue.
During the earlier portions of the battle, the Múspell unit had been employed as skirmishers, continually fighting across the breadth of the battlefield. Even she, the greatest warrior of the Steel Clan, was only mortal. Fatigue gripped her body, leaching the edge from her movements.
“Where’s your spirit from earlier, girl?! It would seem you’re tiring!” Sígismund barked out, in an attempt to taunt her.
“Grr!”
From that reaction, it would appear the taunt had had the intended effect.
Having seen his chance, Sígismund went on the offensive.
He freely swung his spear, using his momentum to press home his advantage.
“Come on! Is this all there is to the infamous Mánagarmr?” Sígismund continued his verbal barrage.
“Grr! Guh! Mrph!”
The flow of the battle changed in an instant, and Sigrún was forced to put herself on the defensive.
Her spear was much heavier than normal. Her body wouldn’t respond as it usually would. She hadn’t been able to access her trump card, the Realm of Godspeed.
For her body to struggle after so little... She couldn’t contain her frustration at her own weakness.
“Guh?!”
And as Sígismund’s attacks continued, he finally landed a blow that pierced through Sigrún’s defenses, lightly grazing her shoulder. The shock of this attack jarred her such that she momentarily relaxed her stance.
“Got you!”
Sígismund was not going to miss out on such an opportunity. He lunged forward with a spear thrust aimed directly at Sigrún’s heart, intending to end everything then and there—
“Hrph.”
However, Sigrún swiftly hopped onto her feet and easily evaded the strike. This was all part of her act.
It was true that Sigrún’s physical reserves were depleted. It would be difficult, even for her, to overpower and break down Sígismund’s defenses with brute force.
Which is why she chose to let her opponent go on the offensive and allowed him to create an opening by going for a killing blow.
No matter how quick and well-executed, if it was a blow that she’d coaxed her enemy into attempting, she could avoid it even without having her footing.
“What the?!”
And now, in front of Sigrún, was Sígismund, defenseless, wearing an expression of shock as his finishing blow missed completely.
By contrast, Sigrún’s lips quirked into a smile.
Because of his own magnificent strength, Sígismund had never faced opponents who could match him in that regard. Sigrún, however, had faced off against opponents of greater skill and learned how to survive in closely-matched battles. This difference made itself apparent.
“Hmph!”
“Guh!”
Sigrún thrust her spear into Sígismund’s chest in a single calm and calculated movement. His chest almost seemed to suck in the tip of Sigrún’s spear. The wound was clearly mortal.
Sigrún calmly pulled out her spear, held the blood-slicked tip to the heavens, and shouted.
“I have slain the Fang Clan patriarch Sígismund! If you value your lives, throw aside your weapons! Those that surrender will be guaranteed their lives. Our reginarch Suoh-Yuuto is merciful!”
Her announcement rung out like a bell, piercing through the din of the battlefield.
It appeared that the death of their patriarch had taken the already shell-shocked soldiers and driven them into even greater depths of despair. It had completely broken their spirit.
The Fang Clan soldiers had completely lost their will to fight. They began to throw their weapons to the ground, then sank into demoralized heaps near them.
There were some who fled, but many could no longer muster the strength of will to attempt even that.
“We’ve done it, Mother! Thank you so much for saving me earlier!” Hildegard said brightly, dashing up to Sigrún.
Sigrún, however, furrowed her brow and lightly tapped Hildegard’s forehead with the butt of her spear.
“Ouch!”
“I suppose you saw your chance for glory, but you overextended yourself greatly. Do not do that again.”
“Oww... Yes, ma’am.” Hildegard nodded obediently, rubbing the now-sore spot on her head.
Ordinarily, her pride was perhaps her most distinguishing feature, but having been a heartbeat away from death, she seemed to be in a much more contrite mood.
Sigrún let out a soft laugh and softened her expression.
“Ordinarily there would be punishment... But it worked out for the best. I was able to catch Sígismund thanks to you, after all.”
“Oh! Th-Thank you!” Hildegard’s features immediately lit up.
“I-I suppose you’re right, ma’am. Slaying him instead of letting him go is a big deal.”
“Yes, so I’ll let it pass, this time.”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am! ...Heh. Yes indeed. The reason we found a general in this din was because of just how keen my nose and ears are! I’m a big freaking deal!”
Her thoughts spilled out from her lips. She could get carried away, and far too easily at that. Plus, she was careless. Sigrún could only shake her head at the girl’s antics, though she didn’t exactly dislike that part of her, either.
In the end, Sigrún had a certain amount of affection for her and wanted her to do well. That was why she had to occasionally bring down the hammer to keep her from going too far.
“You never do change, do you?” Sigrún said with an exasperated sigh, glancing toward Hildegard’s crotch. For some reason it was soaked and stained. Likely as not, she had lost control of her bladder when Sígismund was about to kill her.
“Huh?” With a puzzled expression, Hildegard glanced down and checked herself. At that moment, her cheeks flushed red.
It seems in the excitement of battle she hadn’t noticed until just this moment.
“As a member of the honored Múspell unit, you really should fix that habit of wetting yourself.”
“N-Noooooooooooooo!” Hildegard’s mortified scream rang out amidst the cheering.
“Oh?”
As he stood atop the ramparts of Vígríðr, Hveðrungr let out a murmur of curiosity.
He was an odd-looking man, with long golden hair that cascaded down his back and a mask that hid half his face.
As the patriarch of the Panther Clan, he had faced off against Yuuto numerous times, and now as commander of the Independent Cavalry Regiment, he, along with the Claw and Ash Clan patriarchs, held the Ash Clan capital of Vígríðr.
“Sieg Reginarch! Sieg Reginarch!”
Cheers that appeared to be from the Steel Clan Army echoed from afar.
“Seems he has won again. Hrmph.” Despite his words, Hveðrungr’s tone conveyed disappointment. He was not annoyed that his side had won, by any measure. What did annoy him, though, was the fact that an opponent that had thoroughly made game out of him had been easily bested by Yuuto.
“Ah, well. Independent Cavalry Regiment! Prepare to move out!” Twirling his cape as he turned to his subordinates, Hveðrungr called out his orders.
Vígríðr was currently surrounded by the army of the Cloud Clan, one of the clans that made up the Alliance Army’s forces. However, with the Steel Clan victorious in the battle between the main armies, it was likely they would start their retreat soon. With their overwhelming mobility, a retreating opponent was perfect prey for the Independent Cavalry Regiment. Hveðrungr believed in taking every opportunity to beat down the enemy when they avail themselves.
“Father, we’ve finished preparations. We can leave on your order!”
Though not yet recovered from their recent string of battles, the cavalry troops had rapidly prepared and assembled in front of the gate. It was an impressive display worthy of an elite unit that surpassed even the Múspell.
Hveðrungr found their eagerness for battle reassuring, but Douglas, the Ash Clan Patriarch, let his anxiety show.
“P-Please hold a moment, Uncle! Just what exactly is going on?!”
Vígríðr was the capital of Douglas’s Ash Clan, and the Independent Cavalry Regiment, boasting skilled archers within its ranks, was a keystone in its defense. If they were to mobilize recklessly and be lost, Vígríðr could very well fall soon after. That was, without a doubt, his primary concern.
But Hveðrungr couldn’t care in the slightest about that fact.
“Heh, no doubt you hear it as well, Lord Douglas. These cheers... This is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” Hveðrungr said with a sneer creeping across his face as he climbed atop his horse.
Douglas’s brow furrowed in irritation, but it was of no importance to Hveðrungr. Taking advantage of this opportunity was much higher on his priority list than Douglas’ feelings.
“B-But, we can’t be certain these are cheers of victory. There is the possibility that they are simply rallying the troops in preparation for tomorrow.”
The words were perfectly reasonable. The Steel Clan faced an army nearly three times its size. The normal course of action would be to assume that the Steel Clan troops were on the defensive and were attempting to rally themselves.
However, Hveðrungr dismissed these words and replied bluntly.
“Those are no rallying cries. They’re cheers of celebration.”
“...Where does your confidence come from? May I hear your reasoning?” Douglas continued, questioning Hveðrungr intently.
“Mm...” With a forced chuckle, Hveðrungr shrugged his shoulders.
From the moment he was born, Hveðrungr could sense the ‘color’ of letters and numbers, and of emotions.
It was only a vague sense when he had gone by the name of Loptr, Second-in-Command of the Wolf Clan, but it had become clearer to him around the time he had ascended to the position of patriarch of the Panther Clan.
Hveðrungr had no way of knowing, but this was what modern scholars refer to as synesthesia.
Depending on how it was wielded, it was an ability that, much like perfect pitch or savant syndrome, would let its wielder show overwhelming talent in their field.
It was a large part of what allowed Hveðrungr to imitate and learn techniques across a wide range of fields.
Hveðrungr could see that the cheers of the Steel Clan soldiers were lit with the bright orange of pure joy. If it were a rallying cry, there would be more uncertainty tinging the cheers, clouding the color.
However, Hveðrungr was well aware that this particular explanation would simply feed Douglas’ suspicion and get him nowhere.
“Having fought Big Brother Yuuto, I know his strength better than anyone. He is not a man to rely on a rallying cry on the first day of battle.” He made up a faintly convincing set of reasons.
There was a slight irritation in having to use Yuuto’s name, and referring to him as Big Brother still felt rather uncomfortable, but Hveðrungr was a man who could justify anything when the circumstances required it.
“H-Hrrm, I have heard much of Father’s abilities in war, but...”
“Now now. Let us do as our Uncle says and trust in Father.”
Douglas refused to be convinced, but here came help from an unexpected corner.
It was Botvid, patriarch of the Claw Clan.
While he appeared to be an uninspiring overweight man in his middle age, he was an annoyingly cunning man that had gotten the better of Hveðrungr dating back to his days as Wolf Clan Second-in-Command.
“My ears agree with our Uncle’s interpretation.”
“Mrrrmph.” Douglas furrowed his brow and grunted.
Botvid wasn’t talking about his sense of hearing. It was well known throughout Bifröst that Botvid employed spies and had ‘ears’ providing him with information from all corners of the land.
“Vígríðr will still have the forces of the Ash Clan and our Claw Clan. We can withstand any amount of siege. And further, if this really is a rallying cry, then reinforcements to the main army are, if anything, more necessary,” Botvid continued.
“H-Hrm. Yes, you have a point.”
Douglas’ expression twisted into a sour one as he contemplated the situation.
If the main army were to lose, the Alliance Army’s main force would once again close upon Vígríðr. The capital’s fall would then be inevitable.
As for the possibility of breaking through the Cloud Clan’s encirclement, there was no other force with the mobility necessary to do it than the Independent Cavalry Regiment.
“Very well. Godspeed to you.”
Douglas gave his assent, even if it came somewhat reluctantly.
Hveðrungr couldn’t help but feel a bit conflicted at his old rival’s aid, but raised his voice to shout out his orders.
“All right! Independent Cavalry Regiment, we march! Let’s pay them back two-fold for all they’ve done!”
At around the same moment—
“Sieg Reginarch! Sieg Reginarch!”
“Mm?”
As the sudden rush of cheers assailed his ears, Gerhard, the Cloud Clan patriarch, furrowed his brow in suspicion.
He was a man about forty years of age, slender but well-toned, with fierce, intelligent eyes. He had, to date, defeated two other clans. He was a hero who had brought his clan far beyond where it had been under his predecessor.
“Hmph! I suppose they must be staging a rallying cry to overcome their disadvantage. Heh, I suppose it’s to be expected that the soldiers would lose heart facing those crazed berserkers.”
It certainly didn’t occur to Gerhard that they could be cheers celebrating victory.
The Alliance Army had an overwhelming numerical advantage over the Steel Clan’s army. Added to that were Fagrahvél and Hárbarth’s extraordinary powers.
No matter how powerful the Steel Clan’s boy leader was, there was no possibility of defeat. He could not have dreamed that the Alliance Army would be forced into a retreat within a single day.
With sunset approaching, Gerhard had instructed his soldiers to begin preparing their evening meals, and he himself was in a confiscated house, out of his armor, and taking a rest.
Siege warfare was a matter of endurance, and getting the proper amount of rest was an important part of the playbook. But this proved to be his undoing.
“I bring news! Th-The main army under Lady Fagrahvél’s command has been defeated by the Steel Clan Army!”
“...What?”
When he received the words from the exhausted messenger some time later, Gerhard could only respond with a look of utter surprise.
Gerhard was a man who had climbed to the position of patriarch of the Cloud Clan and was an intelligent man in his own right.
But like Sígismund, the sheer impossibility of the news he received meant it took him several moments to process what he’d just heard.
“D-Don’t be absurd. A loss with that kind of force is unthinkable...”
“B-But it’s the truth, sir. The Alliance Army is in retreat and the Steel Clan’s main force is advancing upon this position! It’s only a matter of time before they arrive!”
“Wha... Wha, what, wha...?!” Gerhard was unable to even form coherent words at the shocking news.
“Father! The bastards in the castle have mobilized! It’s Hveðrungr!” A different soldier dashed in, anxiously relaying his news.
“What?!”
“The soldiers stationed by the gate are holding them off right now, but there’s little more we can do. Hurry with the reinforcements!”
“Nrrrgh...” Gerhard let out a troubled grunt.
An hour earlier he would have regarded it as the last gasp of doomed soldiers and eagerly taken them on, but the situation had changed completely. The Steel Clan Army’s main force was already near. It was imperative to get away from this location as quickly as possible, and there was no time to organize reinforcements.
In this case, they were facing the remnants of the Panther Clan, which combined overwhelming mobility and charging power. If he turned his back upon them without a force to cover it, they would feast upon his retreating forces.
He bitterly regretted his misjudgment of the cheering. If only he had ordered a retreat when he’d heard the Steel Clan’s victory cheer...
It was far too late for regrets, though. It was a difficult situation, where he was left with no good choices. Moreover, time was of the essence, and Gerhard, the general, had to make a decision immediately.
“Grr... Very well! The soldiers by the gate are to remain engaged! Gather the remaining forces. Make all haste to leave this place!” Gerhard made his decision and gave out his orders.
“What?! Father?! Are we abandoning the ones at the gate?!” The second messenger stared at his patriarch in shock. Given that he didn’t know of the Alliance Army’s defeat, the reaction was perhaps only natural.
But there was no time to explain.
“Silence! My orders are final!”
After instructing his men appropriately, Gerhard hurried into his armor and rushed outside to take direct command of his army.
His decision was perfectly rational. On paper, it was the best possible order he could give. It was, in fact, a creditable decision under the circumstances, where he was cornered, with little time to make the call. A more typical general would have likely balked at the choices, wasting irreplaceable minutes.
However, the reality of the world is that rational decisions often trample over people’s emotions. The ones most caught by surprise were the soldiers fighting the Independent Cavalry Regiment by the gate.
“H-Hey, what’s going on?!”
“Why are they going that way instead of coming here?!”
“They’re abandoning us and running?!”
Serving as the rear guard during a retreat was an extremely dangerous role.
Ordinarily, those that are chosen for that role would secure promises that their loved ones back home would be cared for, and steel themselves such that they could defend their retreating comrades in the face of certain death. But those at the gate had none of that preparation. It was impossible for anyone to so abruptly accept that they’d become sacrificial pawns.
“Damned bastard! Abandoning your own children?!”
“Dammit! Screw this!”
“Let’s get out of here! We’re not dying here!”
As a result, they quickly fell into a panic. And fleeing soldiers with no stomach for fighting were no match for the Independent Cavalry Regiment, one of Yggdrasil’s most elite fighting units.
The cries of Sieg Iárn rang out in Vígríðr as well.
“Good work hanging on until I got here!”
The moment he arrived in Vígríðr, Yuuto clapped his hands onto Douglas, the Ash Clan patriarch’s shoulders, and offered him praise.
Morale was an extremely important consideration in war. Had they heard news that a key city had fallen before the decisive battle, the morale of the troops would have taken a devastating hit.
Vígríðr’s fall may not have resulted in losing the battle, but would have at least made it much more difficult to win. His praise was understandably effusive.
“Y-You honor me, Father!” Douglas’s voice trembled, as though overcome with emotion.
His own clan had been on the brink of extermination. Responsibility for the fate of his clan had weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
Then came his reginarch’s grateful praise. It would have been harder for him not to be deeply moved.
“B-But I did not manage it by myself. My brother Botvid and my Uncle Hveðrungr’s help were invaluable in doing so.” Douglas’ modesty took over, and as such, he felt it appropriate to share the credit for this success.
“Hm? Say, I haven’t seen my masked brother about.”
At Douglas’ words, Yuuto glanced around curiously and tilted his head.
Hveðrungr and his followers, the Independent Cavalry Regiment, all stood out easily in a crowd. It was hard to think he had missed them.
“Uncle set out in pursuit of the fleeing Cloud Clan forces.”
“I see. As I’d expect with his eye for opportunity.” Yuuto smiled in admiration.
Hveðrungr’s particular strength, the one that Yuuto believed in above all, was his observational skills. It seemed he had determined that this was a chance to secure victory.
“Somehow managed a win, I guess,” Yuuto murmured to himself, speaking to no one in particular.
Tighten your helmet strings after a victory.
As the saying suggests, the most dangerous thing to do was to let your guard down after a victory. When engaged in the pursuit, Yuuto had been continually aware of the possibility that the retreat was a feint.
As that concern had faded and he had obtained certainty that victory was secured, he had, at last, started to realize that he had won.
“The ideal outcome would have been being able to capture Fagrahvél sometime today, but... Well, that’d be hoping for too much,” Yuuto sourly noted with a hint of self-deprecation.
The undeniable facts were that the Steel Clan Army had gone through a forced march and that the battle had been intense. The soldiers must be exhausted.
While they were able to push forward today because of their morale and the excitement of victory, when the adrenaline wore off the next morning, there would be those that would be overwhelmed by fatigue. At which point their pursuit speed would slow.
However, at the same time, they couldn’t afford to let Fagrahvél escape at any cost. It was a nagging problem for Yuuto.
“I have no choice but to rely on the cavalry I guess. I’m counting on you, Rún, masked brother.”
Yuuto was not at a place yet where he could relax.
“Sieg Eld! Sieg Eld!”
Countless Flame Clan standards were arrayed, and the rapturous shouts of soldiers rang out in Bilskírnir, the former capital of the Lightning Clan.
The throne that sat in the palace that dominated the center of the capital had welcomed its new master. He was a man with long, unruly black hair—a rarity in Yggdrasil—with a roguish air.
Despite being over sixty years in age, his expression and physique were overflowing with vitality, and at a glance, one would think him no more than forty.
The man’s name was Oda Nobunaga.
He was a man who had once been on the cusp of unifying Warring States-era Japan, only to have fate draw him to Yggdrasil to become the patriarch of the Flame Clan.
It could only be called a peculiar twist of fate, but he himself was relishing the task of unifying the world under his banner from scratch.
“My lord, we have news from our spy we had inserted into the Ash Clan. The Anti-Steel Clan Alliance Army numbering thirty thousand has taken the strategic linchpin Dauwe Castle and is advancing to the Clan Capital of Vígríðr!”
“Ah?” At his second-in-command Ran’s words, Nobunaga’s eyes glinted with interest.
He knew through experience that information was, at times, far more valuable than gold. Although it was in a far distant land, he had heard of the impenetrable Dauwe Castle.
“Heh. Seems that the Steel Clan’s whelp has found himself in quite a predicament.”
Nobunaga had already heard that the Steel Clan faced invasions from the Panther Clan remnants from the northwest and the Hoof Clan from the west.
Given that the Steel Clan would have to send forces to deal with those invasions, facing an army of thirty thousand was a formidable task. Added to that was the loss of a strategic citadel. It was a desperate situation, and one could only describe the Steel Clan as being on its last legs.
“Yet, I’ve seen the promise in him. The least he can do is survive this ordeal.”
“Your lordship believes the Steel Clan will win?” Ran asked, brow furrowed in doubt.
His understanding of the situation wasn’t wrong. Seen objectively, it was impossible for the Steel Clan to pull off an upset.
“Quite. Care to place a wager?” Nobunaga grinned impishly to his subordinate.
In truth, the Steel Clan had already defeated the Alliance Army, meaning Nobunaga’s read of the situation was accurate, but even he, a once-in-a-millennium talent, was only mortal. He certainly couldn’t have seen that far ahead.
“...I’m afraid I must decline. I don’t believe I’ve ever won a wager of this sort with you, my lord.”
“How dull of you.” Nobunaga furrowed his brow, as though his mood had soured.
Even the great warriors of the Flame Clan, who had survived countless battlefields, trembled in fear at the prospect of his displeasure, but Ran simply shrugged his shoulders with a soft laugh.
“Avoid wars you can’t win. Fight only after you’ve secured the terms for victory. Both are things I learned from you, my lord.”
“So they are.”
Nobunaga’s lips quirked in an amused smile. He was pleased with his protégé’s response.
The fact that he approved of the content was one reason, but the other was the fact that he returned the quip without the faintest fear of his lord. It was that grit that he required in his second-in-command.
“Then you know what comes next?”
“Yes! Now is the time for us to make our way to the Imperial capital, Glaðsheimr.”
“Indeed.” Nobunaga nodded firmly.
Ten years had passed since his arrival in Yggdrasil. He had bided his time, strengthened his clan, and assembled an army totaling fifty thousand.
Having eliminated the Lightning Clan and signed a non-aggression pact with the Steel Clan, he had removed any sources of anxiety.
Time, place, and opportunity—all had come together.
Nobunaga looked to the sunlit western sky, the direction of the Imperial capital, and reached out his hand. He then balled his hand into a fist, as though capturing something in his hand.
“My long-awaited ambition, the dream that had slipped through my grasp in my homeland... This time, we shall triumph!”
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