Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 403 - 402: Walking Corpses

The "sweep" order from the leader spread among the Cecil soldiers, and this pursuit battle had entered a stage of near-mechanical operation—at least for the Cecil Combat Corps.

Every day, scouts at the front and spies planted within the Noble Coalition Army would deliver the latest intelligence to the commanders of the combat corps. Even without this intelligence, the chaotic Noble Coalition Army could hardly hide its tracks while fleeing. The Cecil Corps kept the massive enemy forces locked at a moderate distance, ready to bombard them with firepower as soon as they stopped. There was no regular eating, no regular sleeping, and barely any time to pause—in fact, this was a test of willpower for both the pursuers and the pursued, but clearly, the Noble Coalition Army was facing a much harsher test.

The Cecil soldiers had the chance to rest in shifts, and the overwhelming morale from a victorious pursuit drove them forward. Along the way, they destroyed garrisons in various noble territories, securing enough supplies for themselves. After securing the Cecil Homeland, reinforcements came from the leader’s direction a few times, further easing the pressure on the pursuing troops.

In contrast, the Noble Coalition Army... they were rapidly reaching their limits.

In fact, they had already reached their limits. For noble private soldiers who practically had no cohesion or discipline in this era, when heavy Magic Crystal Shells decimated the entire vanguard, and noble lords and knights with transcendent powers died on the battlefield just like ordinary soldiers, the vast majority of ordinary people in this coalition had lost all will to fight.

The reason they were still fleeing today was partly because the knights and nobles within the coalition were striving to maintain the last shred of dignity. Although the Cecil Clan’s "Skyfire Explosion" was terrifying, nearby transcendent strongmen posed a greater deterrent to ordinary soldiers. The intimidation accumulated by these "upper-level people" over a long period had been deeply imprinted in the minds of those serf soldiers, private soldiers, and youthful recruits, barely maintaining the semblance of their ranks.

Another reason was the propaganda spread by Count Hosman before the war, and the rumors still circulating among the remnants of the coalition—many believed that the Cecil Clan rose to power by practicing sorcery and desecrating the gods, and that falling into the hands of the Cecil Clan would be a fate worse than death. The land of the Cecil Clan was said to be rife with lies, sin, desecration, and frenzied chaos. Such baseless rumors should have been laughed off by rational people, but they had taken deep root in the minds of these superstitious and ignorant private soldiers. Due to the relentless pursuit and terrible power of the Cecil Clan, this prejudice allowed the noble private soldiers, who should have had no cohesion, to hold on to this day.

But no matter how long they held out, their strength and will would eventually reach their limits.

The cold night wind blew across the plains, carrying the sweet scent of spring bellflower. Knight Baltar from Critland sat in a cold pit, silently counting time with his two knight companions and nine retainers. Around them were dozens of people, scattered warriors, archers, laborers, and serf soldiers from the Critland region.

These were all the people who had set out from Critland and survived. Their leader was dead; over a hundred of their brothers and sisters had been lost on the road of escape. Even they had lost contact with the main force before nightfall. Under the night sky, no one dared to light a fire to search for companions, nor did anyone dare to call out for other noble troops who might be walking beside them. After being scattered, it was challenging to regroup, and they could only gather silently in this dark and cold night, quietly waiting for tomorrow.

Waiting for a tomorrow that may not come.

No one spoke. Even when the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon, no one lifted their head to look at the horizon. Baltar kept his head down, his bloodshot eyes staring intently at the ground, hunger and exhaustion tearing at his nerves, making him unwilling to utter a word or make a move.

He hadn’t slept for days and nights; neither had anyone else here. Even transcendent beings would reach their limits under such conditions, let alone ordinary people. Baltar only wanted to lie down, sleep, return to his warm estate, sip a hot, spicy ginger wine, and sleep for three to five days. But he knew he had no chance—he couldn’t return to his estate because just yesterday, his troop passed through it and was quickly driven out by falling shells.

Baltar reached into his arms and silently pulled out his last piece of food: a small, coarse black bread that felt like wood. As he moved, those around him also retrieved their last bits of food—small cakes, dry cheese, bread slices, or sometimes nothing at all.

This was not their military ration but food they had stolen from farms or villages along the way. More often than not, they didn’t even have the chance to snatch a bite—the Cecil Clan continually drove them through barren wilderness like wolves herding sheep.

No grill, no cooking pot; rising smoke would attract the Cecil Clan’s "Skyfire," one of the few useful lessons from their days of escape. This small band of fugitives brought the last morsels to their mouths, silently eating before the first light of dawn shone on their faces. Baltar bit forcefully into the inferior black bread he would never have eaten in the past, his bloodshot eyes filled with fatigue.

He only wanted to sleep, whatever the cost. He just wanted to eat his fill, lie down, and have nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop him.

A sharp whistling sound came from afar, flew overhead.

This sharp whistling was the devil’s language, the voice of death, disaster, and curse-bearing gods. At the moment it sounded, every pore on Baltar’s body instinctively tensed. Yet, before his muscles could reflexively push him off the ground, another reason, more intense and devoid of reason, halted his action.

He didn’t want to get up; he just wanted to rest, to stay here quietly, to hell with life and dignity! He did not want to get up!

Baltar’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked almost gritting his teeth at the ground beneath his feet. Around him, two knight comrades, nine attendants, and dozens of private soldiers, all remained in place after a brief tremble and tension.

Not a single person stood up; only a few pairs of numb eyes lifted, casting lifeless glances around.

A sharp whistling sound pierced the sky, and terrifying explosions came from a distance, making the ground beneath them tremble slightly. It was a force terrifying enough to leave high-level knights and mages lifeless. Baltar listened to the explosions that didn’t seem too far away, picked up the food in his hand silently, and brought it to his mouth.

His companions beside him made the same move: after a brief hesitation, they continued dining.

The second round of howling came from the air, and moments later, the second round of explosions echoed across the heavens and earth.

The tremors from the explosion and his own physical weakness caused the hard bread in Baltar’s hand to fall to the ground. He stared numbly at the dirt-covered bread, expressionless, reaching out to pick it up and continued shoving it between his teeth, biting down viciously as if chewing on wood.

The third round of howling came, and this time the explosion seemed a bit closer.

Even if the "Skyfire Explosion" fell on their heads, he didn’t want to get up! They didn’t want to get up!

They tore at the last of their bread and pancakes, and a spirit of human sharing even emerged in some people’s minds. Those who still had food split it into two portions, offering it to the mouths of their starving companions beside them. Amid the deafening roars of the Skyfire explosion, knights from Critland and the soldiers they led silently ate this last bit of food until the explosions subsided, until the unique acrid scent of the magic power explosion drifted over to them.

Then they just quietly sat or lay between the dirt pits and stones, thinking of nothing, doing nothing.

When a "recovery team" from the Cecil Clan discovered this unit, the team leader was greatly shocked.

Several aristocratic knights with dozens of private soldiers sat just a few hundred meters from the last bombardment, with half the people already fallen asleep, while those who stayed awake looked at the Cecil warriors appearing before them with numb expressions. The death-like eyes left a deep impression on the recovery team leader. Years later, the recovery team leader described the scene he saw as:

"...After crossing that limit, their (Noble Coalition Army’s) will was completely destroyed, and they moved like walking corpses on the plains. When they ran out of stamina, they just stopped, sat down anywhere, our shells landed beside them, and they were completely unmoved, they would finish their last food, and then just wait. Surrender? No, they weren’t going to surrender, they weren’t even thinking about it, they were just there, but once we arrived, they cooperatively threw out their weapons, their only request was to sleep... It seemed that as long as they could rest peacefully, they’d do anything."

On the eighth day after the battle at Broken Stone Ridge, the fleeing Noble Coalition Army began to surrender en masse—or rather, they stopped and quietly awaited the Cecil Clan’s "reorganization" of them.

Sir Philip and Wald Peric witnessed the most incredible scene they had seen since joining the military: people utterly losing their fighting spirit, wandering the plains in droves like walking corpses. Capturing prisoners required no battle, just firing a few shots at their feet or tossing a Crystal Grenade into the distance.

They would naturally stop, and if given a rope, they would even bind their own hands.

On the tenth day after the battle at Broken Stone Ridge, the Cecil Combat Corps advanced into the western region of the southern borders. Through a series of maneuvers, they bypassed a long arc around the Carol-Consko area, and continued to "pursue" towards the Hosman Territory. In the afternoon of this day, Sir Byron led a thousand support troops from the Cecil Homeland and a large supply of materials and provisions to rendezvous with Sir Philip’s corps.