Bear School Astartes

The army advanced with a thunderous roar.

Even though their numbers reached three thousand five hundred, heavily armed and solid, the Niflgaard people still far surpassed the refugee group in speed.

It didn’t take long at all for everyone in the refugee group to see the billowing gray smoke piercing the sky behind them.

That was the dust kicked up by the army’s march.

And in an instant, frantic fear swept through everyone.

”Run quickly! Head up the slope!”

This is a Ring Mountain, and the refugee group had hurried inside upon discovering the pursuers, now entering through the only gap,

The scene here wasn’t much different from other mountain forests, with dry trees waiting for the spring at the slightly steep top of the hundred-meter-high mountain.

Places that horses couldn’t go, humans could manage with effort. But... it takes time.

The first to catch up with the refugees’ tail was a mixed force of fifty Nausicca cavalry squad members and three hundred lightly armed infantry.

Initially trailing from afar, later driving the refugee group into the Ring Mountain faster, like herding poultry.

But the leading cavalry officer adjusted his helmet adorned with pheasant tail feathers, not rashly sending his troops directly into a massacre.

Instead, he lifted his visor and signaled to the side.

And so, a squad of ten scouts charged out from the ranks, heading straight into the Ring Mountain’s opening.

Even against a group of refugees, the officer’s training and quality made him choose to first eliminate potential ambushes.

He saw the group of refugees were panicked and chaotic, like lambs awaiting slaughter.

On the outer perimeter of the refugees, almost thirty fully armed Sintra soldiers stood ready, along with over ten cavalrymen.

Under the command of a person wielding a steel scepter, they formed a barricade on the outer edge of the refugee group.

But for the Nausicca cavalry squad, they were well accustomed to such postures.

The ten scouts raised the stone crossbows hanging on their saddles, each nocking an arrow.

The alchemically crafted arrows were expensive, but dispatched this time by Duke Adal, who was always generous to his working subordinates.

So ten explosive crossbow arrows soared into the air, exploding mid-flight, showering iron shards and debris.

People instantly became blood-stained, their flesh torn by the shards. The explosive crossbow arrows weren’t powerful in this usage, but they excelled at causing chaos.

And though the explosion weakened the killing power, still unlucky ones were pierced through vulnerable spots by the iron shards, losing their lives.

First came a wave of screams, then panic spread, drawing more screams.

But the scouts made no contact with the defenders, like nomadic cavalry, firing arrows and leaving.

They circled the Ring Mountain many times, meticulously observing the terrain and places suitable for hiding large troop units.

Their training and military discipline vividly demonstrated the Niflgaard’s prowess.

Then came the reports.

And within this time, the main force had arrived.

”No ambush? No Demon Hunter?”

Darkley quickly inquired. The scout looked at Duke Adal first, without speaking until he impatiently waved his hand to start reporting.

”We searched places on the mountain capable of hiding more than fifty people. The terrain is poor but offers a good view. As for Demon Hunter... we don’t know any Demon Hunter, but there aren’t many brave men among the refugees.”

So the duke, long itching for achievements, simply waved his hand: ”Advance the whole army! No matter some absurd Demon Hunter or Hunting Marquis! This is a Niflgaard Army of three thousand five hundred!”

The clever one leading the charge or the Demon Hunter, Hunting Marquis terrifying the mud-kickers, they were merely Northern barbarians.

Northern People were always ignorant and superstitious, what culture or civilization did they have? What heroes could they produce?

Even if there were, that ludicrous entity would turn to a layer of bloody mud under the Niflgaard Empire’s iron hooves!

Duke Adal was very certain of this.

Thus the army began entering the Ring Mountain amid rumbling footsteps.

Today, Hacksaw didn’t meticulously tidy his sideburns and beard, instead wearing armor.

This armor was stripped from a Niflgaard person on the battlefield at dusk yesterday, repainted blue and clumsily adorned with a yellow lion.

Hacksaw stood beside anyone still able to wield weapons and wear armor.

As he said, every capable Sintra warrior had been dispatched.

Behind him were refugees terrified by explosive crossbow arrows, climbing the mountain in panic.

But they were already exhausted, now terrified beyond measure, barely climbing at all during this time.

And the people below continued pressing upwards, causing continuous sounds of trampling, cries, and pleas.

In front of Hacksaw, the Niflgaard people came pressing in with billowing dust, just like beneath Sintra City.

”Merciful Meretelli... Great Meretelli...”

Under the slightly absurd helmet due to improper fit, Hacksaw closed his eyes and whispered prayers.

”I remember you used to worship Cliff, father.”

Stuart stood amidst the refugee’s wailing as well, calmly looking at the Niflgaard people ahead.

”Yes, the stern, fair, grand Cliff. I once aspired to be such a person, hence worshipped such a god. But today, now, I’m not praying for myself... No, my son.”

Finally, Hacksaw finished his prayers and opened his eyes.

He no longer used that ambiguous smile to mask his mood and thoughts, instead calmly facing the approaching Niflgaard people alongside his son.

”I pray our souls find peace, and for myself... I’ve already prayed to Cliff last night. I hope to accept his sky thunder’s judgment.”

Stuart looked at his father’s profile, saying nothing.

The father and son watched as a finely armored figure emerged from the Niflgaard formation, approaching under escort.

The pompous yet solemn heralding began before they drew near.

”Here comes Duke Adal Epp Dasrcy, hereditary duke of the Niflgaard Empire...”

The herald recited endlessly, while the central figure, even armored, exuded an aura of arrogance.

This used to be his job too.

Hacksaw suddenly chuckled.

”He had a wrong tone earlier; the last syllable of ’Adal’ should extend to rhyme with the titles behind.”

Stuart carefully listened to his father’s explanation, as though what he once found tiresome now sounded as melodious as poetry.

And as the herald ended.

”...Who stands before us? Relying on the duke’s mercy and patience, you’re permitted to state your name.”