Chapter 113: Loyalty and Betrayal

Chapter 113: Loyalty and Betrayal

Aether Orolan, Inquisitor of Heresy, was staring at the prince of Moltalia.

More precisely, he was staring at the prince's corpse. The thing hung directly above the gate of White Spring Valley Fortress. Stripped of his armor, only a half-crushed helmet remained on his head. That winged-lion helmet marked him as a commander.

Black hair veiled his pallid face, swaying in the wind like seaweed. Those purple eyes—which had once charmed countless northern maidens—stared blankly, like dull violet glass.

A few crows lurked nearby, eyeing the prince's eyeballs hungrily. Above the fortress, a cloud of crows circled, their black wings blotting out the sky.

"Some White Spring Valley. I reckon before long, they'll have to rename this place Red Spring Valley."

Nashel appeared out of nowhere, half an apple in his mouth.

The valley was called "White Spring Valley" because it was a pass among the mountains. Snowmelt flowed down from the eastern peaks, gathering into a stream in the valley. The spring water dashed against the rocks, and from a distance, the whole stream seemed to churn with white foam. That was the origin of the name "White Spring."

The Mortalians had built a fortress at the valley's most strategic point, commanding the north-south passage. Stationed there was the kingdom's elite force—the Winged Lion Legion, personally trained by Prince Aster. Someone had once boasted: as long as the Winged Lion Legion and Aster held this fortress, Moltalia could never fall.

But now, the clear stream passing beneath the fortress was instantly stained blood-red.

The valley floor was carpeted with corpses. Some wore cloaks embroidered with the sun, while more bore the emblem of the Scale Lion.

The Winged Lion Legion had indeed fought valiantly, fearless in defense of their homeland. Yet before supernatural power, mortals were as fragile as grass.

Nashel finished his apple and tossed the core at the nosy crows, which had already landed on the spears, ready to peck out Prince Aster's eyes.

The core hit a crow square in the head. The crow cawed in fury, flapped its wings indignantly, and flew off—but not far, landing in a nearby tree and glaring hatefully at the red-haired Inquisitor.

"Don't mess with crows. They hold grudges," Aether said.

Nashel wiped his hands on his bloodstained battle robe. "I know. I just can't stand watching them defile the dead. Prince Aster was a noble man—even knowing he was outnumbered, he fought to the last breath. As a warrior, he deserves the highest respect."

"...And that's how you show respect—by hanging his body from the city gate?"

"That wasn't me!" Nashel yelped. "If I could, I'd toss an apple core at the Grand Master too. Those guys with more muscle than brains don't understand a warrior's honor..."

His voice trailed off as a group of monks from the Church of Saint Dominique approached, carrying stretchers. Saint Dominique was the patron saint of healing, and the monks who venerated her often served as battlefield medics.

In this campaign, Saint Dominique's monks had accompanied the army. They pulled the barely breathing wounded off the corpse-strewn battlefield and carried them to makeshift field hospitals.

As they passed Aether and Nashel, a wounded soldier suddenly let out a cry of agony. He was a young man of seventeen or eighteen, his youthful face still bearing an innocent boyishness.

He pressed hard on his blood-soaked belly, afraid to move his hand, lest his guts spill out.

A monk examined the young soldier's wound and shook his head regretfully.

"He's beyond saving." He suddenly noticed Aether and Nashel, his face brightening. "Your Honor the Inquisitor! This must be the will of the God of Dawn. This young man is about to be called to the Lord—please administer his last rites."

Only those ordained as priests could administer last rites or conduct funerals. The monks were still novices, so this duty fell to the higher-ranking Inquisitors.

Nashel shot Aether a helpless look. The golden-haired Inquisitor sighed, knelt beside the stretcher, took the dying young soldier's hand, and began reciting prayers.

The young soldier struggled to open his eyes, clinging to a sliver of hope. "Sir, we won... right?"

Aether didn't answer. Nashel spoke up first: "Yes."

The soldier's lips curved into a crescent-moon smile. "Th-then... we conquered the infidels, and after I die, I'll go to the God of Dawn's palace... right, sir?"

"...Yes," Nashel said again. He paused for a moment before speaking.

"I... could I... after I die, could my body be sent back home? I want to go home... I miss my family so much... can I, sir?"

Nashel opened his mouth. This time, only silence came out.

The crows overhead cawed loudly, as if mocking him. Even they seemed to know the soldier's wish was impossible.

Who would travel thousands of miles to haul back the body of some ordinary, low-ranking soldier? Even just shipping his ashes would be too much trouble, too costly. Their best fate was to be buried in White Spring Valley, becoming fertilizer for the soil.

The red-haired Inquisitor was about to answer when a cold, clear voice rang out behind him:

"Child, haven't you already come home?"

A tall figure in silver armor approached, followed by a squad of knights. A golden cape billowed behind them like a burning flame. A gleaming silver helmet concealed the figure's face. The setting sun glinted off the helmet's crest, casting a holy radiance on its wearer.

The monks were overjoyed and bowed hastily in salute.

"Lord Grand Master!"

The knight in silver armor took off his helmet and handed it off casually. His adjutant received it with utmost deference.

Beneath the helmet was a woman's face. She appeared to be around forty. By worldly standards, even twenty years younger she wouldn't have been called a beauty—time had carved her features into something weathered—but beneath her skin seemed to burn a heat that gave her a sharp, striking brilliance. One look into her commanding dark green eyes, and no one could doubt she was the supreme commander of the Dawnlight Knights.

The young soldier stared at the woman in confusion at first, but when he realized who she was, tears of emotion welled up in his eyes.

"Lady Antonella..."

Grand Master Antonella knelt on one knee beside the stretcher, her armored hand pressing the young soldier's forehead.

"My child, you've already come home," Antonella declared, her voice carrying a power that stirred hearts. "Thanks to your efforts, our legion has conquered the infidels. From this moment on, the radiance of the God of Dawn shines upon this northern land as well. Isn't every land bathed in God's light part of our Holy Nation? Isn't it our homeland?"

"Ah... y-yes..." The young soldier gasped for breath. His eyes could no longer see the black fortress or the white valley—only the glorious vision Antonella painted filled his sight.

"And more than that, you will soon see your family," Antonella continued. "You are so devout that your soul will surely ascend to the eternal radiant palace of the God of Dawn, where you will be reunited with your family. You'll be free from hunger, cold, and darkness forever. Everything you desire will be yours, and only happiness will keep you company."

"I... my family..." The soldier's gaze began to glaze over. "In my hometown, there's a girl waiting for me. In the palace of the God of Dawn, will I see her too?"

"Of course!" Antonella declared without hesitation. "You will be wed to that girl before God, with angels and saints offering their blessings. Together you will ride golden steeds, galloping along roads forged of rainbows."

"Really..."

"Have no doubt! You fought to spread the grace of the God of Dawn—nothing pleases God more than a great warrior! Your devotion and faith have been seen by the God of Dawn, who admires them sincerely. You will earn a place at God's side—all this is a reward for your courage!"

With that, Antonella pushed Aether aside and clasped the young soldier's hand tightly.

"I, Antonella the Divine Hand, promise you this, child. Sleep peacefully now. When you open your eyes again, comrades, family, and loved ones will all gather around you. You will be forever young, forever glorious, and nothing will ever separate you again."

The young soldier closed his eyes. A single tear slid from the corner of his eye. His chest no longer rose, but his lips still held their curve of happiness.

Antonella released his hand and stood. Her adjutant handed her the helmet. She waved dismissively, silently signaling the monks to carry the dead soldier away.

She turned to Aether and Nashel, nodding courteously. "Your Honors the Inquisitors."

Aether was silent for a few seconds before speaking. "Lady Antonella, since that soldier's wish was to return home, could his ashes be given to his fellow countrymen? Surely there must be someone from his hometown in the army."

"No need for such trouble—bury him on the spot," Antonella said casually as she donned her helmet. "We still have to march north next. There's no time for such sentimental indulgence."

"But..."

"Your Honor the Inquisitor, please come to my tent later to discuss military matters. Quite a few remnants of the Winged Lion Legion have withdrawn from White Spring Valley Fortress. We need to find a way to catch them all in one net. We absolutely cannot allow them to regroup."

"But how? If I were one of those remnants, I'd retreat north and join up with other units."

Antonella gave Aether a meaningful look. "I have my own ways of luring them out."

"Oh? Do tell."

The Grand Master pointed at the prince's body hanging from the city gate. A crow perched on the dead man's shoulder, pecking at his ear.

Then the Grand Master led her men toward the war tent.

Aether and Nashel hung back. Once they were certain the others couldn't hear them, Aether turned to his red-haired companion.

"Who says knights don't understand 'warrior's honor'?" he said coldly. "They understand it all too well."

***

Night had fully fallen. Nashel glanced back from horseback; the snow-capped peaks of White Spring Valley had faded into blurry shadows in the moonlight.

It had been ten days since the Battle of White Spring Valley. Nashel and Aether led a squad of fifty knights north along the great road, heading for Goldrock City, the biggest city north of the fortress.

Their official mission was to negotiate surrender. After White Spring Valley fell, the road north was wide open. Yet some cities were still preparing to make a last stand.

What can be resolved with words need not be settled with swords—or so declared Grand Master Antonella. Their goal was to rule the lands of Moltalia, not to rule over a pile of corpses and ruins. Let the citizens see what happens to those who resist, and the smart ones would know what to do.

In addition to their fifty men, Nashel and Aether were hauling a corpse—the prince's body, which had hung from the gates of White Spring Valley, had been taken down, salted to preserve it, and stuffed into a crude coffin.

They'd make the stubborn bastards in Goldrock City see the prince's fate with their own eyes, crushing any will to resist.

Of course, that was just the cover story.

"I still think this plan is stupid," Nashel said, chewing on a dry blade of grass, his words slurred. "Luring out the Griffin Legion leftovers with the prince's corpse? What if they don't show? Are we really gonna drag a dead guy all the way to Goldrock City?—No offense to the dead."

"I hear Prince Aster was well-loved. To keep his body from being dishonored, his men will definitely come."

"Great. She's sitting pretty in White Spring Valley while we play the bad guys." Nashel made a face.

Aether elbowed Nashel, jerking his chin toward the knights riding behind them. Even though they spoke quietly, you could never be sure if one of the knights had superhuman hearing. Nashel was famous for running his mouth, and everyone was used to his crazy talk, but it was still smart to be careful. You never knew what words an enemy might twist against you.

Wind swept down from the eastern peaks, over the cliffs, carrying a sound that didn't belong to nature.

Aether raised his hand in a "halt" gesture. Everyone reined in their horses and held their breath in the dark.

Footsteps echoed from the darkness, mixed with the faint clink of armor and the crunch of horseshoes on gravel. Someone had deliberately slowed their horses to cut down on noise, but it didn't help.

The knights with them sensed it too. One of the lead knights peered into the dark, then turned to Aether. "Inquisitor, they're here."

"They actually dared to come for the prince's body." Nashel almost sounded impressed.

"The Grand Master called it." Aether said flatly.

He squinted into the dark. He couldn't make out their shapes clearly, but the shadows were spread wide, like they were trying to look like a bigger force.

"There aren't that many of them," Aether said quietly. "We'll split up and flank them. Nashel, get into position over there. Wait for my signal, then hit them."

Nashel drew his empty sword hilt, gave it a flick, and the invisible blade sliced through the air. The grass under his horse's hooves flattened in a fan shape. He rode off alone, leaving the formation. When Aether's men engaged the enemy, he'd hit them from an unexpected angle, catching them off guard.

"Get ready to fight!" Aether commanded.

The knights drew their weapons in unison, forming up on either side of him, blades out, calm and ready.

The shadows in the dark drew closer. One knight lit a flaming arrow and loosed it into the sky, tracing an arc overhead. In the brief flash of light, Aether saw the outlines of the approaching figures.

Worn armor, the Scale Lion crest on their chests nearly hidden under black bloodstains.

"Go!"

Aether charged forward first. The knights followed close behind, their silver armor glinting coldly in the moonlight.

They hit the Griffin Legion's flank (if you could even call that broken formation a flank). He drove his longsword into an oncoming enemy's throat; the man dropped, spitting blood without even a scream. Unlike Nashel, he wasn't a supernatural fighter, but his sword was just as deadly.

The Dawnlight Knights were fighting hard too. At least, they seemed to be.

Aether noticed the first sign that something was off—he hadn't ordered a formation change, but the knights had moved on their own.

The deputy Antonella had assigned to him had somehow drifted to his left. Not in a protective spot, but...

He had no time to think. Another Griffin Legion soldier came at him; Aether sidestepped the spear thrust and knocked the man off his horse with his longsword.

A sudden, sharp pain cut through Aether's movements.