WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Abood

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Friedrich's Battlefield

Chapter 34: Battle of the Mountain Pass (3)

"Enemy approaching!"

The commander of the archer unit shouted from the forest. Friedrich and the others turned to see about thirty soldiers from the enemy's rear guard advancing into the trees, aiming to eliminate the remaining ambushers.

Struggling up the treacherous, wooded slope, half the attackers were picked off by arrows before closing in.

But the remaining fifteen surged forward, crashing into the archers.

Though trained for melee combat as all Edelstein regulars were, archers were no match for knights or infantry. Worse, they'd given their spare armor to the conscripted farmers, leaving themselves dangerously exposed.

Now forced into close quarters with minimal protection, the archers fought at a brutal disadvantage.

“That’s the Commander!”

“It’s our win if we bring him down! Kill him!!”

Several enemy soldiers broke through the archer line, scaling the slope directly toward Friedrich.

"Wai—?"

Friedrich's face stiffened as their targeted malice locked onto him. His lightweight leather armor and black cloak which was standard for an Edelstein officer had drawn their attention. Stationed away from the front to observe, he'd been mistaken for a commander.

A case of mistaken identity with lethal consequences.

"Stay behind me."

Yurika, clad in similar leather armor, stepped forward with a drawn sword, shielding Friedrich before lunging at the lead attacker.

"Wha—?!"

The fight ended in moments.

The first soldier, underestimating the young woman blocking his path and likely fatigued from the climb, reacted too slowly. His sword flew from his grip when it met Yurika's strike, leaving him defenseless as her blade punched through his gut.

"Damn it!"

The second attacker avoided complacency but lacked skill. When he swung horizontally, Yurika ducked with ease and swept his legs.

W-wait, mercy—"

His plea died unfinished. Yurika's sword fell before he could rise, splitting his exposed skull as his helmet had rolled off during the fall.

"Raaaaagh!"

A third soldier lunged at Yurika without pause. More skilled than the last two, his strikes carried precision. Though she wasn't overwhelmed, finishing him quickly proved difficult.

While this third foe bought time, the remaining two enemies circled toward Friedrich.

"The commander's head is ours!"

The lead soldier bared teeth in a feral grin, his shaved head scarred, face framed by wild stubble, muscles like carved stone. A grizzled veteran. Friedrich turned fully toward him, face tense.

Then the enemy's eyes dropped to Friedrich's hands, now visible from beneath his cloak. A loaded crossbow, leveled at hip height.

"Ha—?"

Friedrich pulled the trigger before the soldier's surprise could fade.

At point-blank range, the high-velocity bolt left no room for defense or evasion—it tore through the veteran's chest without mercy.

There were no rules on the battlefield. The crossbow, a weapon of unmatched power despite its slow reload, had felled a foe far superior in skill and experience.

“Shit!! You bastard!!”

The last enemy, a younger soldier, charged with rage twisting his features.

Reloading was impossible. Friedrich discarded the crossbow, drew his sword, and braced himself. His face tightened further as he fought to steady his footing. Short, rapid breaths as an attempt to calm his nerves. This marked only his second battle, yet the first time he'd raised a weapon against an enemy.

Now, only his blade and the arm that wielded it could protect him. The enemy closed in, murderous intent on full display. This was real.

"Dieeeee!"

Friedrich swung his own blade to parry the soldier's strike.

Steel met steel with a harsh, resonant clang and not the dull thud of wooden practice swords or blunted training weapons, but the lethal ring of live steel. The impact traveled up his arm, rattling his entire body

Both combatants staggered back a step from the recoil.

As the enemy readied another thrust—

—Yurika struck.

Having already dispatched her third foe, she closed in from the soldier's blind spot. Her blade flashed, piercing his throat before he could react.

"Ghk—!?"

The soldier collapsed in a spray of his own blood, eyes wide with shock, never comprehending the attack's origin.

By then, the remaining ten or so enemies who'd breached the woods had either fallen to the archers or fled back to the pass. Despite their heavier armor, Edelstein's regulars wouldn't lose a close-quarters fight against half their number.

“Friedrich, are you fine?”

"I'm fine. What about you, any injuries?"

"All good~! Just glad you're safe."

Friedrich managed a smile at Yurika's blood-smeared grin.

Meanwhile, the battle along the mountain pass raged on.

Oliver, having led the charge himself, had just cut down another enemy soldier when he looked up and locked eyes with an enemy knight. The very commander who'd ridden at the head of their detachment until arrows felled his horse. The quality of his armor marked him as nobility of considerable standing.

This commander, too, had just slain one of Oliver's men. Their visors hid their expressions, but their gazes met with crystalline clarity.

Both recognized their next opponent.

"I am Knight Oliver Falke! Your head is mine!"

"Baron Vincent Alanbure! Try and take it, you brat!"

The voice that answered was decidedly not young. Oliver knew the Alanbure name, once prominent among Loire's nobility.

As Vincent raised his sword with predator-like intensity, Oliver struck first.

The first strike was a feint meant to bait Vincent's guard. As expected, he raised his sword to deflect Oliver's blade.

Oliver instantly pivoted his wrist for a follow-up, but Vincent blocked it with just his left gauntlet.

Though the steel stopped the edge, the impact should've staggered him. Yet Vincent barely flinched, resetting his stance with both hands on his sword.

They exchanged several more blows. While Oliver lagged in skill and experience, Vincent's age and exhaustion from fighting since dawn tipped the stamina balance against him.

A slight sluggishness crept into Vincent's movements. Oliver seized the opening, darting left to thrust at the weaker chainmail covering his flank.

Yet Vincent dodged the strike outright. Somehow, despite the blade coming from near his helmet's obscured blind spot, he'd evaded it.

Was it a veteran knight's instinct? As Oliver reeled from shock, Vincent lunged driving his full weight and armored mass into Oliver with a powerful kickoff from his right foot.

Oliver, still off-balance from his failed thrust, couldn't brace in time. He crashed onto his back, and by the time he tried rising, Vincent loomed over him.

The baron's blade stabbed toward the narrow visor slit in Oliver's helmet, the gap granting vision.

A pause. Vincent must've thought the fight won.

That hesitation decided everything.

Oliver's right hand still gripping his sword despite the fall jerked upward. The blade plunged deep into Vincent's inner thigh, where armor gave way to flesh. A savage pull severed muscle and skin, slicing through a major artery.

Blood fountained from the wound. As Vincent collapsed to his knees, Oliver's sword found his exposed throat.

“......”

Vincent died without a sound. His body collapsed like a suit of armor bereft of its stand.

Victorious, Oliver first wrenched the sword embedded in his helmet free.

Removing the helm revealed a deep gash running down his left cheek.

"A fine fight, Lord Alanbure."

He paid his respects to the fallen foe with a knight's dignity.

When thrown to the ground earlier, Oliver's chin strap had loosened, twisting the helmet slightly askew. That misalignment had saved him, and the thrust meant for his visor instead carved a furrow from his nose across his cheekbone, shearing flesh to the bone but sparing his life.

Had his helmet not shifted and the angle differed even slightly, the blade would have pierced his left eye and brain.

A hairsbreadth from death. Sheer luck had spared him.

With this thought, Oliver rose and removed Vincent's helmet. The face beneath matched the voice he'd heard earlier, a grizzled man in his twilight years looking every bit the seasoned warrior.

Oliver raised his sword.

"Baron Alanbure has fallen! Your commander is dead!"

His voice carried across the battlefield. Friend and foe alike froze, all eyes locking onto Oliver and the severed head he held aloft.

A silence fell, so absolute it seemed impossible that a fierce battle had raged mere moments ago.

"...!"

"The Baron's dead!"

"Shit! There’s no way!"

The Arelian forces shattered the silence first. Not just the young conscripts, even veteran soldiers and knights reeled in visible shock.

"R-retreat! Fall back beyond the pass!"

A senior knight's shout triggered their collapse. The detachment fled westward, some dragging wounded comrades, others abandoning them entirely.

"Hold it. It’s unnecessary to pursue them."

Oliver halted troops ready to give chase.

With inferior numbers, provoking a counterattack could spell annihilation. And pushing deeper into Arelian territory with a small force was suicide anyway.

Having slain the enemy commander and repelled their forces, the priority now was holding the pass until reinforcements arrived. That cold calculation guided Oliver's order.

"You there—knight! Halt!"

He called out to the Arelian officer who'd first sounded the retreat.

"Take Baron Alanbure's head. Return it to his kin."

"...My thanks."

The knight sheathed his sword, accepting Vincent's remains with both hands. After scanning for stragglers, he departed at speed.

"All of you, well fought! This victory is ours!"

Oliver's declaration drew thunderous cheers.

Footnotes:

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