Chapter 249: Death Moves People

Lord Faust von Polydoro stood fully armed in the center of the Colosseum’s circular arena.

Clad in fluted armor, he carried on his shoulder an unadorned, rugged sword—a family heirloom imbued with the simple blessing of being “unbreakable,” a gift that seemed more like a curse. Its only merit was its sheer durability.

Even with fifty people, there would likely be no chance of victory.

As a young Landsknecht, that was how it appeared to me.

I am, after all, of noble birth—one of the third or fourth daughters who received an adequate education. But my lineage is of no significance here.

Discussing it would serve no purpose.

What matters is the memory of witnessing him deflect a cannonball fired from the Falcon cannon of Lord Inotsuki, the Reckless.

There’s no way anyone could defeat a monster like that.

The human body simply isn’t made to deflect artillery fire.

But he could.

That beast, whose muscles packed so densely even his cheeks appeared fortified, accomplished such feats effortlessly.

It’s for that reason our legend among the Landsknechts, Lady Claudia von Reckenber, was killed by him.

I’ve heard tales of Lady Reckenber’s legendary prowess.

Her orders supposedly echoed across entire battlefields.

It was said she could tear a man’s head off, helmet and all, with her bare hands, leaving behind helmets crushed under the sheer strength of her grip.

She single-handedly defeated the superhuman battalion “Knights of the Mad Boar,” led by Duke Temeraire.

The legends were many.

And all of them were probably true.

Yet even she was defeated—by that demon, Lord Faust von Polydoro.

So, then—what’s the point anymore?

There’s no meaning to such an act.

This fight, where fifty of us are set to attack him—even those directly involved have dubbed it little more than an opening act for Baumann.

It doesn’t have to happen.

There’s no chance of winning.

You’ll all die, and that’ll be the end of it.

But they’ll still do it.

As an offering to educate the Landsknechts who can’t grasp reality, who don’t understand the strength of Lord Faust von Polydoro.

“I call upon Lord Faust von Polydoro! Accept our all-out battle with every fiber of your being!! This is our last plea—though in five minutes, we’ll not even be breathing!!”

A shout resounded, one so loud it seemed to tear the speaker’s throat apart, spraying blood.

It was the cry of an experienced veteran among the Landsknechts.

A sharp metallic clang followed.

Sparks flew, and iron shavings scattered in the air.

The front-line veterans had struck their personal Zweihanders together, creating the sound.

As if to evoke the spirit of the Landsknechts’ initiation—their path of the sword—with unrelenting force.

As if hoping the meaning would reach every Landsknecht watching in the Colosseum.

“Come.”

Lord Polydoro awaited them.

His mouth was covered by a scarf, protecting him from the sand, blood, filth, and guts splattered by his opponents. His expression was hidden from view.

Whether he was laughing or merely disinterested was impossible to tell.

At last, our strongest force began to move.

The Landsknechts, the personal guards of Lady Claudia von Reckenber, the veterans who prided themselves on their unparalleled strength.

“Ngghhh!!”

A roar reverberated.

It was a cry so fierce it caused blood to leak from the speaker’s torn throat.

No act of defiance, no reckless assault, could ever break through the disciplined, orderly ranks of the Landsknechts.

They were an army.

Illiterate, uneducated brutes who could do little but mock others with crude songs.

They reveled in drink, often descending into madness, spewing hatred for the world and spitting on humanity.

They burned peasants’ homes for amusement and smashed dishes with their feet while standing on tables.

They were little more than apes.

But now, sober and focused, they looked every bit the part of an army.

Did they have esprit (honor)?

They did.

What they held was pride—the pride of having served as the strongest subordinates of Lady Claudia von Reckenber.

Of having been directly acknowledged and included under her command.

Did they have geist (spirit)?

They did.

What they now possessed transcended mere spirit—it was an existence called the soul.

It was the resolve to face death within five minutes.

Did they have morale?

There was.

It was the morale of soldiers ready to die.

There exists nothing greater in this world.

Thus, they were perhaps the strongest army.

Completely disciplined.

Even if cannonballs from mounted artillery reached right before their eyes, they would advance without fear.

Once the cannonball struck, half of them would be obliterated into dust.

But before the next cannonball could hit, the remaining half would slaughter their opponents.

No act of recklessness could ever shatter the orderly, disciplined ranks of such a unit.

That is what an army is.

The embodiment of rationality, born to produce violence.

And now, the Landsknechts were exactly that—violence born of perfected rationality.

But the problem lay elsewhere.

Standing before them was a monster.

A monster that even cannonballs from mounted artillery could not harm.

“Hoooh!!”

Pure madness—no, it was a mass of muscle and violence, as if even the brain had been replaced by sheer strength.

Lord Polydoro advanced.

He held his sword.

With both hands, he swung it with pure, brute force.

It was as though a great ocean wave, something I had never seen, surged forward with a spray of water—but this wave was the swing of his sword.

The pride of the Landsknechts shattered into countless fragments.

Their Zweihanders—used in initiation ceremonies and held tightly by the front-line soldiers—were smashed to bits.

As if mocking everything—their esprit (honor), their geist (spirit), their morale (resolve).

“How dare you!”

Such a thought welled up.

With a single swing, the formation was broken.

The weapons of the front line were rendered useless.

“Magnificent. Truly, this is Lord Polydoro,” someone remarked.

Magnificent?

Impossible. Those weren’t the words I wanted to hear.

The words you should be saying are—

“Katzbalger!”

Why not surrender?

Why not acknowledge everything and lay down your arms?

Discarding their shattered Zweihanders, they drew their Katzbalgers—a weapon whose name originated from the phrase “catfight.”

The soldiers in the front line gripped these short swords and surged forward.

“Pierce through us if you must!”

They screamed, commanding the second-line pikemen to thrust forward—even at the cost of their own lives.

How foolish.

Enough already. The outcome of this battle is clear.

There’s no way they could win against such a monster.

Lord Polydoro remained silent.

Instead, he sheathed his sword.

Why!?

I couldn’t understand at first, but then it dawned on me.

“Hoooh!!”

If on horseback, he might swing his sword, shoot arrows, or throw a spear.

But in true close combat, weapons are merely a hindrance.

Lord Faust von Polydoro’s raw power was not in the weapons he wielded.

It was in the violence born purely of his physical abilities.

That, combined with the custom-made fluted armor given to him by Anastasia—the “Man-Eating Elector.”

Lord Polydoro moved forward.

With enough force to crack the Colosseum’s floor, he charged in a low stance—a devastating tackle.

The formation collapsed.

It was as though they had been struck by a cannonball; the front line was blown away by Lord Polydoro’s charge.

What sprayed into the air was not seawater.

It was blood—Landsknecht blood.

How many had died!?

How many had been killed? I couldn’t even tell.

Some were so thoroughly disfigured they no longer retained their original form.

Fingers and limbs were scattered about.

This wasn’t a battle.

This was the product of violence, stripped of the brilliance and mystique often romanticized in war.

“Reform the ranks! It is shameful to stand disorganized!”

The Landsknechts moved.

Our leaders moved.

Some young Landsknechts even cried out, “Please, stop this already!”

They knew. Everyone knew.

There was no defeating that monster.

Lady Claudia von Reckenber had been defeated by this man.

So let us admit it. Let us accept defeat.

But—

“Ours is a proud, small community—the Landsknechts! Look at us! Witness us!”

The ancient warriors of the Colosseum shouted, pleading to be seen.

And they continued to fight.

“Reclaim your pride. We were strong once. We never faltered, no matter the opponent!”

It was true.

Even against that monster, they refused to retreat a single step.

They only advanced.

“We are twisted and dishonorable. Cowards and scoundrels without virtue. Yet, we were braver than anyone!!”

Blood sprayed in the air.

Landsknecht blood.

None of it belonged to that monster.

But—

“Look at us! Acknowledge us! Witness the proof that the Landsknechts are fearless and valiant!”

They hadn’t given up yet.

Even the dead moved.

I saw the corpses on the ground—hands grasping at the monster’s feet.

Many hands.

Weren’t they already dead?

Their bodies were incomplete.

Not a single one of them was intact.

Some were missing parts of their heads.

And the monster—Lord Polydoro—looked at them with astonishment.

His armor was soaked in their blood, hindering his movements.

Even in death, they moved—driven by some lingering regret—and it left him motionless in disbelief.

“Now’s the time!”

Several veterans clung to Lord Polydoro, Katzbalgers in hand.

Not to slash.

But to thrust their blades into the gaps of his armor.

“Magnificent,” the man’s genuinely admiring voice rang out.

The Katzbalgers pierced the gaps in Lord Polydoro’s armor.

But—

Blood gushed from his body, yet it wasn’t fatal.

His armor was designed to prevent mortal wounds. No matter how deep the blades went, they wouldn’t kill him.

Any other knight would’ve been rendered immobile.

“I apologize. I underestimated you. It was disrespectful of me. I will respond with all my strength.”

But that wouldn’t work against Lord Polydoro.

Because he was a monster.

“Maelstrom.”

The monster muttered something resembling the name of a technique and shook his body.

Like a great wolf shaking off raindrops, he spun, flinging off the Katzbalgers and the veterans clinging to him.

The sound of muscles twisting.

Was it the sound of his wounds healing as his flesh knitted back together?

Or perhaps both.

“I will no longer underestimate a single one of you. I acknowledge you as equals to the Death Knights of Virendorf.”

The monster declared, his words solemn.

“Thus, die with pride.”

It was a proclamation of death for the veteran Landsknechts before him.

None of them would flee.

Each would meet a glorious death.

I couldn’t look away.

From this scene of unrelenting cruelty, I felt an inexplicable sense of elation.

Even we, the Landsknechts, could accomplish such feats if we possessed the resolve.

I will never forget this feeling for the rest of my life.

These veterans will remain forever in the memory of our small community, the Landsknechts.

One day, they will become legends.

No words beyond admiration were spoken.

Silence followed.

And we bore witness to their deaths.

Understanding everything.

They died to restore courage and pride to us, the Landsknechts.