Translator: CinderTL
On the Road South
The thunder of hooves and billowing dust marked the passage of a cavalry unit along the main road. Leading the charge was a young officer in a deep blue uniform.
Derrick Heller, tall and stern-faced, his sharp gray-blue eyes fixed on the horizon. His cloak whipped in the wind, embroidered with the Heller Family crest—a soaring falcon, symbolizing courage and freedom.
Though he now served with the Northwest Legion, the family's sense of honor ran deep in his bones.
Amidst the rising dust, the distant sound of hooves reached his ears.
Derrick raised a hand, and the cavalry behind him halted.
"Scouts, any activity ahead?"
The returning scout quickly reported, "Battalion Commander, we've spotted the Royal Army's banner five miles ahead."
Derrick frowned slightly. His mission was to rendezvous with the Royal Army reinforcements and ensure their safe passage north to join the Northwest Legion.
But after reaching the designated meeting point, he found no sign of them. Derrick hated waiting, so they continued south along the road, searching.
Fortunately, they had finally located the Royal Army.
Derrick's impatience grew with the enemy's slow advance. On the battlefield, conditions changed in an instant, and the Orcs wouldn't wait for them to leisurely march forward.
"Pick up the pace!" he shouted, raising his riding crop and addressing his troops in a stern voice. "We must link up with them as quickly as possible!"
The cavalrymen responded in unison, and their horses resumed their gallop.
Derrick scanned his company, a surge of pride swelling within him. This Cavalry Company was the Northwest Legion's elite, well-equipped and rigorously trained.
As the eldest son of Earl Heller, he had once commanded his family's knights and had clashed with the Kent Family's cavalry during the Usurper War. Derrick Heller was no stranger to military affairs or warfare.
Yet the Alden Army had left a profound impression on him—their disciplined formations, strict adherence to rules, and advanced firearms were unlike anything he had known before. In the Usurper War, he had relied on personal valor to charge into the fray, but the Alden Army had taught him that true victory came from discipline and teamwork.
"Glory is no longer solely an individual achievement," he had told his father, "but the strength of the entire team."
During the first Orc invasion, the kingdom's Northwest was on the brink of collapse. Derrick led his family's army in response to Marquis Grayman's call, joining the defense against the Orcs' westward advance on the Blackstone Plains.
When the Northwest Legion announced the formation of a cavalry unit, Derrick immediately and formally joined, offering his lifelong training in horsemanship and martial arts to the army.
After passing the rigorous selection process, Derrick was appointed captain of a cavalry company.
Following the recent battle at Stonebridge Town, his battalion commander was killed in action. Derrick's meritorious service earned him the promotion to battalion commander.
Derrick yearned to prove himself in this war, not only for his family's honor but also to defend the land he loved. Yet while other cavalry units were dispatched eastward to pursue the Orcs' rearguard, he was assigned to lead only a single company to escort the Royal Army.
Even now, a dull ache throbbed in his thigh. The wound beneath the bandages sent sharp stabs of pain with every stride—the reason he had been sidelined from combat missions recently. But it did nothing to affect his posture. He sat ramrod straight, his gaze as sharp and piercing as a hawk's.
According to Derrick's own judgment, he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be stuck with this near-meaningless escort duty. He'd rather be leading his Cavalry Company on the front lines, still locked in battle with the Orcs. But the Medical Officer and Regimental Headquarters had been clear: "No charging until your wound has healed."
He instinctively touched the outside of his thigh, where a gruesome knife wound lay hidden beneath his trousers.
That day, the battlefield roared with deafening clashes. Derrick's Cavalry Company had collided head-on with the Orc Heavy Cavalry, blades flashing in a whirlwind of blood and gore.
His warhorse had been pierced through the neck by a spear, collapsing with a mournful cry. Derrick had rolled to his feet the instant he hit the ground, but before he could regain his balance, a hulking Orc cavalryman had already raised his blade to strike!
The blow came like lightning. Derrick barely managed to twist aside, but the razor-sharp scimitar still sliced open the outside of his thigh, blood instantly soaking through his trousers. The searing pain nearly blacked out his vision, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm.
Perhaps fueled by rage at their army's faltering momentum, the Orc roared and charged forward, raising his blade for the final blow.
But Derrick was faster. He snatched the spare carbine from his saddle—a short-barreled firearm that could only hold a single shot, a cavalryman's last resort in close combat.
Bang!
The muzzle of the carbine was pressed almost against the Orc's face when Derrick fired. The lead bullet instantly shattered the grotesque skull, sending brain matter and bone fragments spraying outward. The Orc's body swayed before crashing to the ground.
Derrick gasped for breath, kneeling on one knee as blood trickled down his leg into the mud. The fighting raged around him, but he knew he was temporarily unfit to lead a charge.
"Battalion Commander, are you alright?" one of his men asked quietly, noticing Derrick's stiff movements.
Derrick snorted. "Just a scratch. It's nothing."
He didn't want to admit it, but Regimental Headquarters' decision was sound. In his current condition, he was indeed unfit to lead a charge. That's why he'd been assigned this "relatively safe" mission: to rendezvous with the Royal Army.
"Pick up the pace," he ordered sternly, his gaze fixed ahead. "What's taking the Royal Army so long?"
The cavalrymen silently increased their speed.
Derrick tightened his grip on the reins, thinking, Once I'm healed, those Orcs better pray they never cross my path on the battlefield again.
By the time Derrick's Cavalry Company reached the Royal Army's vanguard, Harrison Abbott had already ridden out to meet them. The general of the New Royal Army had a solemn expression, his brow furrowed with fatigue and a hint of apology.
They exchanged names and ranks.
"Battalion Commander Heller," Harrison said, executing a crisp new-style military salute with a low, sincere voice. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. On behalf of the New Royal Army, I offer our regrets for the delay in our march."
Derrick returned the salute, his gaze sweeping over the moving columns behind Harrison.
He could tell Crystal Glare had sent two distinct units. The infantry resembled the Northwest Legion, but the cavalry-heavy unit was clearly inferior in discipline. Their ranks were loose and straggling, and many wore expressions of fatigue and discontent.
"General Abbott, the situation at the front is urgent," Derrick said bluntly. "The Northwest Legion has dealt a heavy blow to the Orc main force at Stonebridge Town, but now is the critical moment to press our advantage."
Harrison's expression grew even more grave. He glanced back at his troops, especially the elaborately decorated Protectorate Knights in the distance, and a slight twitch played at the corner of his mouth.
"I understand," he said in a low voice. "But we encountered some... obstacles along the way. Coordinating the Protectorate Knights' marching speed has proven exceptionally difficult."
(End of the Chapter)
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