376. The King’s Vow
Looking down at the battlefield from the sky, his eyes simultaneously scanned all directions. Fernandez was now performing a stunt close to gambling.
-Clang!
He raised his sword to block the attack. From deflecting the blade to smashing the enemy soldier’s helmet with the pommel, what should have been a seamless flow was now choppy and disjointed.
It was inevitable. His perception was starting to lag. The human nervous system had limits to how much information it could process at once.
But it wasn’t just the expanded field of view that caused this state.
-Thud!
“Ugh!”
A spear lodged into his shoulder. The pauldron crumpled, and his skin tore. He couldn’t counterattack immediately, barely managing to steady his stance. Hearing his groan, Vicente quickly broke the spear shaft and intervened.
“Your Excellency, are you alright?”
“Almost done.”
Fernandez shook his head and regained his posture. Swordsmanship was a skill more influenced by technique than strength. His slowed thought process made his counters and attacks less fluid.
But he couldn’t stop. Fernandez spun the crow, surveying other parts of the battlefield. The crow’s eyes never stopped, scanning every corner of the battlefield.
* * *
At the edge of the infantry formation blocking the northerners, a soldier’s blade swung in a certain direction. The northern warrior’s shield would shift accordingly, distorting the blade’s trajectory.
The heavy infantryman attacking the unnamed northern warrior would lose his head for failing to adjust his blade in time. Three seconds later.
* * *
A spear thrown by a battle priest of the Order of Pilgrimage Knights pierced the chest of a knight from Phaeirn’s 3rd Cavalry. The priest quickly dropped the lance and drew his sword, but his slightly misaligned helmet obstructed his right field of vision.
Because of this, the unnamed battle priest failed to react to a hammer-wielding knight charging from the right, and his crown was sharply struck. Three seconds later.
* * *
An arrow glided smoothly across the battlefield sky. It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular, nor was it shot by an exceptional archer—just an ordinary arrow.
Following a gentle arc, the arrow struck a northern warrior’s helmet, bending and bouncing off unceremoniously.
The warrior, dazed by the impact, shook his head and sighed in relief. He touched the dent in his helmet, grateful to be alive, and raised his weapon again.
Immediately after, another stray arrow slipped under the warrior’s helmet visor. Three seconds later.
* * *
“Cough!”
Blood trickled from Fernandez’s lips. His nerves, on the verge of snapping, were barely held together by superhuman endurance.
His mind grew distant. The sensation of losing himself. Changing perspectives wasn’t just about altering how he saw things—it was about immersing himself in the battlefield itself, where the “self” disappeared.
The more information piled up, the more his mind scattered. This was a technique mimicking the gaze of independent information entities. The mana consumed was minimal, enough to maintain the familiar’s eyes, but the mental strain was another matter.
He had to stop immediately. He was in the heart of the battlefield. Vicente was doing his best to fend off attacks, but he couldn’t handle all the enemy assaults alone.
Fernandez quickly swung his sword to block an attack while manipulating the familiar’s eyes. Over and over. Relentlessly. Until he could see every corner, every skirmish, every movement on the battlefield.
* * *
There’s a saying accepted as common sense among the intelligence agencies of the secular royal families: a sufficient amount of information guarantees the future.
From simple weather or climate changes to the flow of goods, recent political issues, and even the most secretive conspiracies known only to a select few.
As you gather all this information, a picture begins to form. Scattered, but with enough shape to discern. A picture of the future.
In a situation where external interference is blocked, even if you can’t control all variables, once you’ve acquired all the information about a region, you can predict the future.
However, unlike the desk-bound intelligence officers, Fernandez had to analyze all this information in sub-second intervals—
“……Rise.”
On the battlefield, while blocking life-threatening spear blades, he had to oversee the entire battlefield—
“Rise……!!”
And even that was just one factor of the magic he intended.
A spell of fewer than two words, a beastman of fewer than two syllables, a pinch of mana. A “low-level magic” utilizing only the most basic computational functions. A single casting so trivial that no combat mage would even notice.
No, if you weren’t paying close attention, you might mistake it for natural mana. His fingers grasped the air, seizing the final beastman.
Simultaneously, a thread of his mana extended toward the sky, toward the familiar flapping its wings above.
* * *
Kirhas was anxious. The ambush had been perfect, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the numerical disadvantage. The frontline, which had seemed to be pushing forward, had now stalled into a grueling war of attrition.
The enemy command was quickly regaining control. Even if they tried to coordinate with the knights in the rear, there was no way to synchronize with the commander in that direction.
Even if they did, the situation wasn’t hopeful. The northern forces, gathered to their limit, numbered just over three thousand, and the Order of Pilgrimage Knights had a similar number. Meanwhile, the enemy’s total forces numbered thirty thousand.
A fivefold difference. The advantage of formation and the element of surprise were the only factors keeping the frontline intact. And yet—
‘Your Excellency is over there…!’
Fernandez and Vicente were holding back the enemy’s onslaught with just the two of them. Of course, “holding back” was an understatement. Phaeirn’s vanguard had already bypassed them and was advancing toward Altberth.
But it was clear that Fernandez was isolated and struggling in that direction. They had to help him immediately. But how?
“Push forward! Are we going to let these pale southerners push us back? Hey, Gunnarsson! Raise that axe high!”
Aeren was running across the battlefield, shouting continuously. Despite her efforts and the individual skills of the warriors, the northerners couldn’t easily advance due to their numerical disadvantage.
If the frontline stagnated and the enemy formed a proper formation to launch a systematic counterattack, it would be the northerners who would be isolated. This wasn’t good. Kirhas was growing impatient.
Each approaching sense of defeat and constant worry for Fernandez made him restless.
At that moment, his tail shot up.
“Huh?!”
It could be attributed to the sharp senses unique to beastmen. Or perhaps it was her instinctive sense of victory. She unknowingly looked up at the sky.
Something blue was floating beyond the sky. Squinting her eyes, she saw a crimson crow with a blue aura flapping its wings alone in the high sky, unreachable by any arrow.
“Your Excellency…?”
The deep blue figure had long been a symbol of Fernandez. Kirhas stared blankly at the sky, then suddenly jerked her head back in reflex.
-Whoosh!
A blind arrow grazed her cheek. She didn’t see it coming. It flew from outside her vision, and under normal circumstances, she shouldn’t have been able to dodge it so perfectly.
But it wasn’t luck or some amazing instinct. She clearly ‘saw’ the arrow piercing her cheek.
“What is this…?”
She gently touched the unscathed area around her cheek with her fingers and looked around.
The air was changing. Blue lines were darting around from all directions. A sense of victory was rushing across the frontline. Just a few seconds ago, the leading warriors were gradually losing their impact!
* * *
One warrior, in shock, instinctively bent his waist. In that split second, a spear blade scraped through the air where his body had been.
The warrior, without a moment to thank his incredible luck, reflexively swung his axe and struck the soldier’s neck. Then, he unknowingly touched his own waist. There was no wound.
“What on earth…?”
* * *
A pilgrim knight quickly turned his head. An arrow narrowly bounced off the iron plate beside his visor. The knight adjusted his crooked helmet, looked up at the sky, and made the sign of the cross.
* * *
Mages sometimes say that magic requires more than just mana. Some call it concentration, others call it mental strength.
In truth, it’s nothing special. Of course, all actions consume mental energy. Whether it’s a farmer tilling the field, a blacksmith forging steel, or a merchant flipping through account books.
But the mental strength mages speak of holds a more fundamental meaning.
Mages forcibly insert acquired nerves called magic circuits into their bodies, using mana to pull concepts into reality, thus manifesting magic.
Since concepts belong to the realm of the mind, when a mage’s mental strength is depleted to its limit, it brings side effects entirely different from those of ordinary people. Unlike ordinary people who simply faint from exhaustion, mages experience physical collapse.
Colloquially, this situation is described as ‘crossing the line.’ It means crossing the line between imagination and reality, or between life and death.
“Ugh…!”
And Fernandez was now crossing that line. In this brutal battlefield where even the minimal computational functions had to be invested for survival, he had to oversee the entire battlefield, conjure magic, and even wield a sword to block attacks.
His thoughts were fragmenting. But that was only his body. His mind was now soaring through the sky, covering the battlefield. This disconnect was consuming his flesh moment by moment.
It was a concept unimaginable to ordinary people, and even ordinary mages wouldn’t attempt it. Even the legendary Faijashi wouldn’t have done it.
Beyond possible and impossible, it was a meaningless act. What he was doing now was closer to a tantrum. If it required consuming that much mental strength and mana, Faijashi would have rather chanted a large-scale killing spell to turn the tide of battle.
But Fernandez tried a method Faijashi would never have chosen. Unlike Faijashi, who would kill everyone to eliminate the source of threat, Fernandez was now consuming himself to save everyone.
“Is this the magic of respect?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Vicente laughed hollowly. The tension and burden had already disappeared from his body. He was dodging arrows without looking, deflecting swords, and parrying spears.
It wasn’t due to miraculous martial arts. It was because he could see. Every attack that would touch his body, though only for an instant, was clearly ‘seen.’
“This is insane. Is this even possible? Surely it’s not just me? How many have gained such eyes?”
“Everyone has.”
“…Everyone? Everyone who wields a sword in this battlefield?”
“At least, everyone who wields a sword for the survival of Dane. Yes, everyone.”
“Hah… Haha. Hahaha!”
Vicente laughed heartily and swung his sword. There was no need to think to grasp the enemy’s attack and execute the appropriate swordsmanship. As the paths of the enemy’s attacks touching his body entered his mind one by one, all that was left was to attack as he pleased and move as needed.
If this state was happening to everyone across this battlefield, then—
“One could easily take on ten people single-handedly. What is the name of this spell?”
“The Vow… King Vicente’s Vow. That’s what we decided to call it.”
A vow to not turn away the hands of the weary and powerless, even if they couldn’t stand against all the injustices of the world.
Among the many knights who decided to take to the battlefield after seeing that noble oath, he himself was included. Fernandez decided not to put his name on this spell.
A spell that offers three seconds of future to all warriors destined to die. Despite the limited conditions and extreme self-consumption required, and the fact that the caster would be completely incapacitated by the backlash the moment the spell was completed, Fernandez did not release the magic.
Even as his legs gave out and his head fell. Even if he had to helplessly offer his body to the enemy’s spear blade.
Because he had traveled back in time to make a different choice. Because even as a soul stained with sin that pushed the world into hell, he vowed to save this land once more.
It wouldn’t hurt to do something foolish just this once. Fernandez couldn’t hide his smile even as he staggered and collapsed. Somehow, he felt relieved.
Even if this was just a desperate self-consolation. Even if doing this couldn’t erase his past and sins. But isn’t hypocrisy always better than outright evil?
-Thud.
Someone’s shoulder supported his. Vicente laughed as he held him up.
“This much gilding is worth it. Since I only have one hand now, I can’t support you properly, so adjust your steps yourself.”
“Your Majesty.”
“We’re going to end the war. I can’t leave you here.”
Fernandez smiled at Vicente’s hearty laughter and took a step forward.
* * *
“By the way, why did you hide the fact that you’re such a great mage?”
“Being called a great mage is often an insult.”
“True. Hahaha! If a man rises with a purpose, it’s better to be a knight than a magus!”
That wasn’t exactly what he meant, but Fernandez didn’t hold any grudge against Vicente, who laughed heartily. Even if his past as a mage was insulted now, his pride wasn’t hurt.
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