I Became the First Prince: Legend of Sword's Song-Novel

Chapter 165

The Roaring Lions of the North (4)

Vincent knew better than anyone that he did not possess the talents of his father. However, he was not disappointed by this, for he was not a knight but a lord, and he had a job to do.

He thought that was enough.

Keeping his sword sheathed, wanting to beat the monsters back, he instead pressed the defense from the walls. It wasn’t easy, but he was able to adapt, for these were the duties of the count.

But his mind was shaken up, as of late.

“Why is it so frustrating?”

At some point, his heart had started beating like crazy. Heat flared from inside him as if he had swallowed a fireball. His hand kept crawling to the hilt of his sword. The heat inside in him was too great, and he knew he had not fully rid himself of the instincts of a knight.

He held such feelings back, taking care not to give expression to them. Instead of a sword, he wielded a baton, and he was faithful to his role.

And then, thanks to the charge of the dwarves and the remarkable performance of the central army, there came to exist sufficient grounds for him, as count, to signal the advance.

He knew that if the piled mound of monster carcasses was not dealt with, then the defensive advantage of the wall was rendered useless.

The momentum of the enemy had to be broken before the damage inflicted upon the allies by the offensive became too great. Also, the prince had stated that the sooner the enemy leader was forced to reveal himself, the quicker this war would end.

And he figured that now was the opportune time, as all the reasons for an advance were met. So, Vincent switched to the offensive without hesitation. He thought it was a very reasonable and decent judgment.

However, his assumptions proved to be illusions.

In the distance, he heard the prince shout out several times, calling for a retreat.

The lieutenant next to Vincent informed him that the troops of the Allied Northern Forces had been thrust into confusion due to orcs suddenly bursting from the snow. He also told Vincent that the retreat was blocked off.

“After we smash through the enemy’s main force, we return!”

Most of the monsters had wheeled around and were fleeing. The only thing that stood in the way of the allies was the war legion of the orcs, which constituted only a small fraction of the whole.

Here was a rare opportunity to utterly crush the enemy’s main force.

Instead of retreating and joining up with the soldiers of the Allied Northern Forces, Vincent decided to scatter the enemy first and then fall back.

However, this judgment also proved to be in error.

“Vincent!” The prince had appeared late on the battlefield, and his face held a rare urgency. He leaped into the air as he raised his sword, and the next thing Vincent knew was that the world had become a blur.

Suddenly, a huge forearm exploded from the snow under his feet. Vincent wielded his sword with all his strength, but his sword aura was scattered with ease when faced with the red energy surrounding that great arm.

And faced with that vicious energy, Vincent finally realized the reality of the situation: What he had figured to be a reasonable judgment had merely been an excuse for rash action. It was all due to this vicious energy that the troops had so eagerly advanced from the walls; this energy was the cause for a lord of a castle to charge onto the battlefield.

Vincent only realized it now, and no time was allotted to him to regret it.

‘Shuck,’ someone pushed his body aside.

‘Wvshooo!’ and he saw a brilliant golden sword as he stumbled back, and a woman with lights of varying color in her eyes was wielding it.

‘Skwot!’ red fervor washed over the woman, seeming to devour her, and in the next instant, a great eruption of energy blossomed out. It sounded as if the sky itself was being torn apart.

‘Graahh!’ there was a roar, and everything occurred so quickly that Vincent couldn’t immediately judge what had happened to him as he rolled through the snow. When he snapped awake, he was lying on the snow and staring at the back of someone blocking off his front.

“You almost broke my heart,” an angry voice came into Vincent’s ears. “To lose one of you in vain is tragedy enough.”

Vincent’s mind flashed as he heard the prince’s reproachment. It was only then that he realized that he had fallen into the enemy’s trap and that the prince had saved his life just in time.

“Do not blame yourself,” said the prince, saying that none had known that the Overlord had hidden himself in the snow and that the fault was not Vincent’s that he had made multiple misjudgments and nearly charged to his self-destruction.

“And thanks to this, we were able to pull the guy out of hiding. Now leave the rest to me.”

A giant orc arose, towering over the prince. He was the King of the Orcs, his hideous body half-melted, and the prince stood tall while facing such a sinister, insidious being.

“Go, and command the knights. You have already drawn your sword, so now trample the foe thoroughly.”

Before Vincent could say anything, the prince shoved him back.

“Go now! Quickly!”

Vincent hesitated, for it felt as if his legs would not move. He knew not whether this was out of concern for the prince or because of the unknown energy that constantly battered into him.

And then, Vincent gritted his teeth and followed the prince’s orders.

“I will be back soon!” shouted the prince. “Hold on for a while!”

And with that said, the prince took a firm step to face his foe.

* * *

When I confirmed that Vincent was leaving, I sighed in relief. My heart sill thudded in my chest, for I had feared that I would lose Vincent as I had lost my uncle.

And I was filled with fear for dear Adelia as well, and also afraid that all the northern men gathered here would fall in vain. And I was surprised by such fears, for it felt as if all the blood had drained from my body. Yet Vincent lived, and Adelia was thrown aside but seemed unhurt.

The Allied Northern Forces in the rear were quickly stemming the chaos that had pounced them with the aid of Nogisa, his knights, and the royal infantry.

I was relieved, and this sense of relief soon turned into great wrath.

“You’re truly divergent from the common nature of orcish kind,” said I, for I couldn’t imagine how such great king would hide himself in the snow in ambush.

No matter if he had fled from Hwaryong, I had believed that there would at least be a shred of pride in Urdu, pride which any true orc warrior should have.

There existed nothing of it in him: Not the pride of a warrior, nor the pride of a king.

Simply put, he was merely a coward who has survived for many ages.

‘Greaa,’ and such a coward was now gazing at me in arrogance. Snow covered Urdu’s head and shoulders, such a definite sign of him having hidden in the snow. To me, it looked like the funerary cloak of a king, and once the sun shone bright, it would melt away and be no more.

“You are not a king.”

I denied the majesty of the being before me by way of mouth, and in my mind, I thought of an empty throne.

“Isn’t it mine, either those high halls, or that dignified throne?

“There is nothing that is not my seat.”

[The Poetry of the Defeated King] rang in my head, and at the same time, I released the spirit and momentum that I had suppressed within myself unto the world.

Overlord Urdu looked at me.

At first glance, he seemed merely curious, as if thinking, ‘Where did this human come from?’

But his curiosity soon became suspicion, and suspicion turned into distrust.

And then, finally, Urdu was surprised.

“I’m curious,” I languidly said as I studied his face, “if you are weaker than in the past, or stronger?”

The presence of the Overlord had felt so strong from a distance, but as I faced him, the momentum contained within his being did not meet my expectations.

“The latter eventuality will be perfect, but it is probably the former.”

And I laughed at Urdu, at the Overlord that had fled from Hwaryong and hidden in a snowy ditch.

Such a being was just an elderly orc who has lived for a very long time.

I raised my sword.

“Even a heroic poem is too good for you.”

The simple, [Extraordinary] poem that the avenger never completed would be more than enough. Blue flames erupted upon Twilight, and I gripped my sword with both hands as I swiveled my waist.

‘Woo~ Woo~’ and before Urdu could react, I attacked.

‘Cheop!’ a blue trajectory arced out in front of me, yet Urdu stepped back and escaped my assault.

“You fear pain?” I ridiculed him in orcish, and Urdu replied by gently leveling his spear at me.

Yet, his gaze was not fixed on me – his rolling red eyes glanced everywhere. Urdu was expecting some kind of trick, so I quickly closed the gap, but he leaped back once more. Then, without a backward glance, the Overlord stomped away, fleeing from me.

I was stricken with surprise – surely, I never thought that he would turn tail and run away. But soon enough, I was almost bent double with laughter, for my Masters had sensed my presence soaring to the ends of the sky, and they were converging upon this spot.

From the rear came Nogisa, who had swept through the orcs, and Arwen and Eli were charging in from the flanks. And just beyond was Adelia, who had shaken off the impact of her collision with Urdu, and she was following him with black murder in her eyes.

My Sword Masters were everywhere, and there was nowhere for Urdu to run to.

‘Swak! Swak!’ a roar erupted in the direction of the fleeing orc, and blazing golden energy bloomed in the area.

I headed towards it, seeing Adelia struggling against the Overlord, raining down blow after blow.

The Overlord swept out with his spear, roaring, and Adelia was beaten back by that fell energy.

But who was Adelia? She was a madwoman who never knew when to stop once she had tasted blood. She rolled across the snow and righted herself, charging straight back at the Overlord. And while she kept Urdu busy, the other Masters arrived.

“If we kill this thing, this damned war is over!” shouted Eli as he rushed at Urdu, his sword glowing like the crescent moon.

“I will join you,” cried Arwen as she attacked the orc, her sword blazing like the stars themselves.

“Recklessness does not suit my temper, but if I break a single foe to save a thousand soldiers, why would I hesitate?” mused Nogisa as he rushed in whilst gathering pure white light on his blade.

‘Oh oh oh oh!’ the Overlord cried as he swept his spear in all directions, and red fervor arose like a great wall, surrounding him. The Aura Blades of the Masters battered against that red wall. However, even if the Overlord had dirtied himself by hiding in a ditch, his fervor remained great, and there came only the rarest of gaps in the wall of energy that blazed around him.

Then, the true breaker of fortresses appeared.

“Here is my chance to get the blood of the greenskin king upon my ax! If Turka hears of this, he will roll on the floor in envy!”

It was Meister Surkara, a dwarf who was a wall in his own right, armored in iron. Surkara gave a bloody laugh as he slashed into Urdu’s fervor barrier with his axe.

‘Bwaak!’ came the roar of the red fervor shaking, and the Overlord was forced a step back after the dwarf, who barely reached the orc’s knees, charged at him.

“The harder they are, the better it tastes if they break!” Surkara bellowed as he readied his axe and once more cleaved into the fervor.

And in that instant, the Masters attacked, all at once.

‘Blsha! Blsha!’ the red wall that had seemed so strong started showing cracks, and it was quickly sundered by successive attacks.

‘Oh oh oh!’ the Overlord cried out as he whipped his spear in every direction, yet all those around him survived his attack and repaid it in kind.

‘Schwak!’ Arwen, whose pauldrons had been bashed from her armor, struck out with her sword.

‘Thuk!’ Eli, whose breastplate was smashed, sliced out from left to right.

‘Bwak!’ the frenetic Adelia leaped high into the air, her sword in a reverse grip, and pierced it into the orc.

“Here’s a taste of a dwarven axe!” exclaimed Surkara as he rolled over the snow and slammed his axe into Urdu’s ankle.

‘Seotuk! Seotuk! Pook! Klap!’ different noises rang out, one after the other. Urdu’s body quickly became bloodied, and he cried out fiercely as he pushed the Masters and the dwarf back. They dared not face the feral, wild strikes of the struggling beast, and they stepped away.

‘Grar!’ the Overlord growled low as he shook his head. He readied his spear, crouched low, his knees almost touching the snow and his arms stretched taught as if we would leap into attack within the next instant.

But Urdu did not charge at the Masters.

‘Dumpf,’ his knees sank into the snow, and he knelt there, looked at me, and shouted, “Valiant human knights!”

His red eyes were ablaze, and his lipless mouth was twisted into a grimace.

“I pay homage to your strength! I, Urdu, commander of the Enraged Flame Legion and Overlord of the twenty-three tribes, admit my defeat!”

And so, Urdu surrendered with vigor.

“I know you are knights of great pride. I believe you know the proper courtesy to show a commander who has admitted defeat!”

It was embarrassing.