Chapter 103

Field Duel (1)

At the center of Botmer’s encampment stood an open tent.
Inside, a portable altar and a holy book had been placed—forming a makeshift chapel.

It was a winter morning, shrouded in mist.
Two figures in white robes knelt within the chapel.
One was a young man, the other an elderly priest.

“Grant us the wisdom to choose rightly in hardship, and deliver just judgment.”

Rutger Joachim von Botmer.
The young man’s voice was low and reverent.
Beside him, the bishop held a rosary, wearing a faint, mask-like smile.

“It is nearly noon, Sir Rutger.”
“Is it?”

Rutger opened his eyes.

He straightened his disheveled side hair and rose.
As he stepped out of the chapel, two waiting guards fell in behind him.

“No deaths last night?”
“Three received their last rites.”

The smell of damp earth and burning wood drifted faintly through the fog.
Somewhere, a soldier coughed.
Sleet had fallen overnight, leaving the ground frozen hard.

Here and there, soldiers huddled against the cold.

Clicking his tongue in displeasure, Rutger returned to the command quarters.
A young page dressed him—first in a gambeson, then chainmail, then a plate cuirass—tightening the buckles and leather straps securely.

“Loosen it a little.”
“Yes, sir.”

The page obeyed.

“Ha.”

“Bishop, will you accompany me?”
“If you wish it.”

The old bishop smiled faintly.

The page presented a sword with both hands, and Rutger fastened it at his waist.
At that moment, with a clatter of armor, a knight arrived at the command quarters.

“You’re here, Chevalier.”

“Sir Rutger, Bishop Alquin.”

The knight bowed lightly.

“Are preparations complete?”
“Yes.”

Rutger nodded.

Five warhorses departed the camp, heading toward Vinfelt.
Rutger and the bishop rode at the front, followed by the knight and two guards.

“What are your intentions?”

The knight, Chevalier, asked.

“First, I’ll take a look at that mad dog’s face.”

Rutger wiped his face dry.
The armor bearing the swan emblem felt heavy.

He needed an overwhelming victory.

At the same time, he had to claim Vinfelt in a legitimate manner.
Only then would he earn his father’s recognition—
and gain a chance to surpass his older brother in the succession.

“To other lords, a war against Baron Vinfelt is nothing more than child’s play. However, depending on how this war is concluded, it may determine the course of future conflicts.”
“I know.”

Rutger replied curtly.
Though he did not show it, Chevalier’s remark irritated him.

The knight had been assigned by his father—a capable man who had trained Rutger in swordsmanship since childhood and stood by his side ever since.
Without him, far more casualties would have been suffered during their march through the Black Forest.
He had encouraged the soldiers, keeping their courage from faltering against magical beasts, and had led the charge at the front.

But to a young noble already on edge from commanding his first war, every word grated.
Especially for a commander who had already suffered losses before the war had even properly begun due to his own misjudgment.

“The Baron of Vinfelt must be eliminated. But the battle must be honorable. The collateral branches and vassals of Goethe are watching. If you consider what comes after, you must firmly turn their allegiance toward Botmer—”

“Now, now, Chevalier. Sir Rutger is well aware of that. You mean no ill, but your starting point and his are different. Though he may not show it, he is looking much further ahead than you.”

Bishop Alquin spoke in a gentle voice.
But there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Chevalier had risen from common birth, eventually manifesting aura and earning recognition as a knight.
That was what the bishop was pointing out.

“My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”
“No. Thank you for the reminder.”

Rutger answered bluntly.

Chevalier’s correctness made him reliable—
but at times like this, it only irritated him further.

His mind was already troubled.

Father is probably planning to send my brother to the main war against Goethe.

Rutger’s objective was to seize Vinfelt with minimal losses and establish it as a forward base against Goethe.

And to execute that mad dog—freshly granted his title—as an example.
As payment for arbitrarily executing Emil, a servant of the Botmer family.

The count likely wished to avoid war, even if it meant sacrificing his troublesome son and Vinfelt.
But if that son returned as nothing more than a severed head, things would change.

No matter how estranged, could he remain still when his own blood was slain?
At that point, the count’s reputation and authority would be at stake.

The problem is… how to take that mad dog’s head.

Assassination was out of the question.
It had to be done through a proper execution after victory in war.

But his forces needed to be preserved for the main war against Goethe.
The soldiers, having already suffered attacks from magical beasts in the Black Forest, had low morale.

If they engaged in a full battle now, even against Vinfelt’s small numbers, they would still suffer significant casualties.
After all, the enemy would fight to the death.

“Bishop, may I borrow your wisdom?”
“Of course.”

The bishop smiled.

On the table inside a simple tent, a modest meal had been prepared:
smoked venison, salted meat warmed over fire and sprinkled with herbs, rye bread, roasted turnips and onions, dried fruits and nuts, and cheese.
There was also wine infused with cinnamon and cloves.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

At the center of the table sat a boy in a black tunic.
Gray hair, blue eyes—his features were noble, though somewhat fierce.
He was said to be twelve, yet he looked far more mature.

Those eyes… resemble his.

Rutger recalled the face of Count Goethe from his childhood.
At a glance, it was obvious—this was the count’s son.

But unlike his father, this one was arrogant, insolent, and foolish.

It was clear at a glance.
He wasn’t even armed, and he had only a single guard.

He had brought along a middle-aged man and what seemed to be a maid, yet neither showed any sense of urgency.
They stood by a campfire, tending a pot.

A crude tripod of intertwined branches held the pot above the flames, where soup simmered, steam rising.

An unarmed young baron, a guard with nothing but a sword, and servants preoccupied with preparing food.
If one wished to kill him, it could be done immediately.

The only thing preventing it was honor—and legitimacy.

Rutger felt reassured.
His opponent was exactly as expected.

Drawing him into a trap would not be difficult.

“You must be Baron Vinfelt.”
“Correct. And you’re the viscount’s son from Botmer?”

Isaac looked up at Rutger, resting his chin on the table.

“That’s right.”
“Sit. I’m hungry.”

There were only two chairs at the table.
Isaac occupied one; only one remained.

“Is this all the seating you have?”
“Yeah. Can’t you see? Hans! When’s the soup ready!?”

Isaac shouted.

Rutger glanced at the elderly Bishop Alquin.

“I’m fine. Please, sit.”

At the bishop’s words, Rutger had no choice but to take the seat.

“Why bring that old man? To show off how devout you are?”
“He is my advisor and a field priest.”
“A priest as an advisor in a battlefield? Hey, old man—when I die, will you give me last rites too?”

Isaac asked with a mocking tone.
Though his appearance was noble, his speech was no different from a roadside bandit.

“Of course. The Lord embraces even the lost sheep. If you repent at the end, His grace shall follow you, Baron.”

The bishop replied gently.

“If repentance is all it takes to receive that grace, then heaven must be full of thieves and murderers. Myself included.”

Isaac smiled faintly and drank from his cup of wine.

“That would be quite a sight to see there.”

“Since we’ve finished the introductions, let’s move on to the main topic.”

Rutger’s expression hardened with irritation.

“Already? The soup’s not even out yet. Hans!”
“Coming right up!”

Hans and Enette hurriedly brought over wooden bowls of soup.
Rutger frowned at Isaac’s leisurely attitude as he looked down at the bowl placed before him.
The aroma was decent enough, but it did nothing to stir his appetite.

“Try it. It’s made the way my nurse used to cook—really good. Hmm, nice. Excellent, Hans, Enette.”

Isaac blew on the soup and ate it without a care.
He seemed completely unconcerned with Rutger and his party.

“It’s not poisoned. Go on, eat. It won’t taste good once it gets cold.”
“I’m not hungry. I accepted this meeting to make a proposal.”
“Go ahead.”

Isaac reached not only for the soup but for the bread and meat as well.
It was hard to believe he was facing an enemy commander—he looked utterly at ease.

The thought that he was being looked down on by such a brat made Rutger’s face stiffen.

“As you know, your forces are vastly inferior to mine. Victory is already in my grasp.”
“So? Ah, tough. I miss the white bread my nurse used to make.”

Isaac muttered as he tore into the rye bread.

Rutger barely suppressed the urge to drive his fist into that chewing face.

“I have no desire to spill blood unnecessarily. The soldiers all have families waiting for them at home.”

Isaac barely seemed to listen, dipping bread into the soup and tearing meat apart with his bare hands, stuffing it into his mouth.
He made no attempt at manners, chewing noisily like a starving animal.

Beneath the table, Rutger clenched his fists.

“You really won’t eat? We came early to prepare all this. That’s rude.”
“You’re one to talk…”
“I’ll give you two options.”

Isaac licked the grease off his fingers.

“First—surrender. I’ve got weapons you don’t know about. Vinfelt won’t fall. In the end, you’ll lose.”
“Do you even understand the difference in our numbers?”

Rutger finally raised his voice.

“I was trying to be considerate. You forced your way through the Black Forest and got attacked by magical beasts, right? Your morale must be at rock bottom, and you’ve taken casualties. More importantly, you burned through a lot of supplies, didn’t you?”
“…How do you know that?”
“A patrol saw it. Just a guess, really. You said you wanted to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, after all. So then—second option. Ah, why won’t this tear…”

Isaac muttered as he struggled with the rye bread.

“Second option… oh, I didn’t bring it. Carlson, lend me your glove. My hands are like this—sorry.”

His hands were greasy with food.
He borrowed Carlson’s glove, pinched it by the tip with two fingers, and tossed it toward Rutger.

Thud. The glove landed in Rutger’s soup.

A vein bulged on Rutger’s forehead.
For a moment, he genuinely considered killing this mad dog with his own hands.

“Ah, sorry. It’s fine, right? You weren’t going to eat it anyway.”

“…State your second option.”

Rutger spoke through clenched teeth.

“Fight me. You and me.”
“Are you challenging me to a duel?”
“I threw a glove, didn’t I? Not mine, though.”

Isaac glanced at Carlson, who looked deeply displeased.

“Wouldn’t it be enough if just the two of us shed blood?”

Rutger looked toward Bishop Alquin.
The bishop nodded.

“I have conditions.”

***

The next day.

Soldiers of Vinfelt and Botmer faced each other across a barren plain.
With roughly a hundred paces between them, the difference in numbers was stark.

“Ugh, I ate too much.”

Isaac rubbed his stomach.

“Young master… I have to ask again—this is really how it’s supposed to go?”

Hans asked anxiously.
He had probably asked the same question over ten times already.

“Yeah. Vinfelt’s on your shoulders now. I’m counting on you, Hans.”
“Why me of all people…!”

Hans groaned, his face on the verge of tears.

By now, he was fully outfitted—gambeson, chainmail, chain leggings, plate coat, vambraces, greaves, boots.

“Is this how it’s supposed to go on?”

A red-nosed veteran scratched his head as he helped Hans into the armor.

“Do it properly. This idiot’s life depends on it.”

Besimer grinned as he spoke.

He seemed to find the whole situation amusing.

“Ugh—too tight!”
“Yeah? Damn it, I’ve never done this before.”

The red-nosed soldier broke into a sweat.

The armor had been pulled from storage, rusting away unused.
In truth, none of Vinfelt’s soldiers had ever worn such equipment before.
It was poorly maintained and difficult to put on without assistance.

The red-nosed man had once served as a squire, so he’d been assigned the task—but even his memory was fuzzy.

“Hans, was it? Look over there. See that tin can trembling?”

Besimer slung an arm over Hans’s shoulder and pointed at his opponent.

The enemy—already fully armored in plate—stood glaring at them.

“Gilliam! Kill him!”

Hundreds of soldiers roared his name.

The louder they shouted, the more murderous the opponent’s gaze became.

“Does that look like fear to you? He looks like he wants to kill me.”
“That’s what fear looks like. A scared dog barks the loudest.”
“He looks more like a hunting hound staring down prey.”
“That’s just your imagination.”

Besimer slapped Hans on the back, nearly knocking him over.

“Damn it, hold still!”
“Sorry!”

Hans apologized at the red-nosed man’s grumbling.

Meanwhile, the opponent stood receiving Rutger’s encouragement and a priest’s blessing.
On their side—nothing.

Isaac just yawned, looking bored, while Hans struggled just to get into his armor.

“Alright… done.”

After tightening the straps on the plate coat, the red-nosed soldier stepped back.

“His footwork’s sloppy. Aim for his flank.”

Carlson spoke calmly, observing the opponent.

Hans swallowed hard and nodded.

“If you think you’re going to die, surrender. Plenty of fighters out there.”

Isaac waved a hand dismissively.

“…Ha.”

Hans sighed as he put on his iron helmet.
It felt like his head was being squeezed.

He tapped his helmet twice with his gauntlet.

“Don’t get yourself killed trying to show off. Focus on staying alive, not winning.”

The red-nosed man handed him a longsword.

Hans took it and nodded.

Just wearing the armor and holding the weapon made his body feel unbearably heavy.

Seeing that Hans was ready, the fully armored opponent began walking toward the center.
Hans started walking as well.

“Ha… ha…”

His back was already drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged.
His heart pounded like it would burst.

He wanted to see his wife… and his son, Peter.