The Mad Spearman of the Northern Front - Chapter 340

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Mad Spearman of the Northern Front (340)
A harsh wind swept across the Snowy Plains.
Over the white-blanketed expanse, the faint scent of blood and smoke drifted and dispersed.
The Imperial Army’s Outskirts Camp, which had blazed mere moments before, now lay transformed into blackened ash, with embers still glowing red and breathing their dying light across the scorched ground.
In the midst of it all.
Two colossal shadows stood facing one another.
A man whose Axe alone, strapped across his back, towered well above human height.
A great Warrior of the Kar Tribe, bearing seven Feather Tattoos etched clearly from shoulder to arm.
It was Draktun.
He kicked at the Corpse of an Imperial soldier sprawled on the Ground, muttering low.
“What kind of pathetic attack is this?”
Thud.
The Corpse flipped, and blood seeped into the earth.
“What difference does destroying one Outpost at the edge of the Northern Region make?”
His voice carried undisguised discontent.
Yet right beside him.
Another Warrior bearing seven Feather Tattoos as well.
Erka spoke to Draktun in a low voice.
“Foolish brute.”
“What?”
Draktun’s eyes flashed at those words.
But Erka paid no mind whatsoever.
“Stop looking only at what’s right in front of your eyes. Try seeing the bigger picture for once.”
“The bigger picture?”
Draktun let out a scoff.
“War ends when you smash things to pieces. Thinking is what the weak do.”
Erka’s eyes narrowed at those words.
She scoffed and spoke.
“That’s precisely why, despite your Ability, you fail to earn proper recognition among the great Warriors.”
“What did you say?”
Draktun bared his teeth, but Erka turned her head and gestured toward the burned Camp.
“Look.”
The blackened palisade.
The collapsed Wall.
And the Imperial soldiers’ Corpses scattered about.
“With this single attack, the Warriors’ eyes have transformed completely.”
Erka’s voice dropped low.
“Until now, we’ve only been pushed back by them. When have we ever swept them away so completely and utterly?”
Draktun fell silent for a moment.
He too felt it.
The laughter of Warriors.
A madness that craved more battle even drenched in blood.
“…Still.”
He spoke again.
“The truly important territory is still in their hands. Why not just strike there directly?”
Erka shook her head.
“Everything has its order.”
Her gaze turned toward the distant depths of the Northern Region.
“Right now, we’re in a situation where we ‘must win, no matter what.'”
“…?”
Draktun’s brow furrowed.
Erka’s eyes grew cold and sharp.
“What do you think would happen if we attacked an important stronghold and failed?”
A moment of silence fell.
When Draktun couldn’t answer, Erka spoke with exasperation.
“The Warriors’ morale would inevitably collapse. That’s also why we’re holding position here on the Outskirts.”
At those words, Draktun silently gazed upon the destroyed Camp.
He too was a Warrior.
He understood in his bones how crucial Warrior morale truly was.
Erka stepped closer.
“And….”
Her voice dropped lower still.
“That Military Strategist’s position would also become unstable.”
In that instant, Draktun’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t mention that bastard.”
Naked displeasure.
He clicked his tongue and turned away.
“I still don’t understand. Why does he put forward such a feeble wretch as a Military Strategist?”
His hand gripped the Axe Handle tightly.
“War is strength. It grates on me to see someone who can’t even properly wield an Axe acting like a Military Strategist.”
Erka laughed softly.
“Honestly, I thought the same way. Until just a few days ago, anyway.”
“You don’t think so now?”
Draktun turned to face her again.
Erka’s eyes had changed.
The playfulness had vanished, leaving only seriousness.
“I looked into it a bit.”
“…Into what?”
“Why Taman places such trust in someone who can’t even properly wield an Axe.”
Erka closed her mouth firmly and gazed toward where the Warriors were gathered.
Then he spoke slowly.
“That Military Strategist.”
At Erka’s following words.
“…What?”
Draktun’s expression began to stiffen as well.
* * *
The vast Northern Region’s territory.
A place where endless Snowy Plains and a cold so bitter it could freeze breath itself dominated the land.
By sheer size alone, it possessed an area larger than the Empire, which comprised 30% of the Continent.
And at the Eastern edge of that Northern Region.
There still existed territories that even the Kar Tribe had not completely subdued.
A highland swept by frigid winds.
The ruler of the Eastern Region where merely drawing breath froze one’s lungs.
The Makuran Tribe.
The moment that name crossed my mind, the air grew peculiarly heavy.
“You know of the Makuran Tribe, don’t you?”
“The Makuran Tribe?”
A voice pitched low.
As Erka asked with his arms crossed, Draktun’s brow furrowed.
“Of course I know. But why are you bringing them up?”
His eyes flashed with sharp intensity.
Certainly they dominated the Northern Region, but only a portion of it.
The territory where the Makuran Tribe dwelled had been left as a sort of forbidden zone.
The reason was simple.
That harsh environment.
And confronting the Makuran Tribe that had survived within it required paying a considerable blood price.
Yet what could be gained in return was almost nothing.
Merely a bit of the abandoned Eastern Region’s land at best.
That was why even Taman had avoided fighting Them.
But….
“Merely one month.”
Erka’s words cut through the wind.
“What do you mean?”
“The Military Strategist led five thousand Warriors and subjugated the Makuran Tribe.”
“…What?”
That single phrase.
That brief sentence froze the air itself.
Draktun’s pupils dilated sharply.
“…Don’t speak such nonsense.”
He growled low.
“From what I know… the Makuran Tribe’s greatest warrior is on par with us.”
While not matching Brakjor, the Deputy Commander, there existed a warrior in that tribe with strength comparable to the Advanced Warriors bearing seven Feather Tattoos.
I knew better than anyone how formidable that power truly was.
Draktun couldn’t help but be astonished.
Yet Erka continued with an unruffled expression.
“But it’s the truth.”
“…Was there someone among us who cooperated with them?”
“No.”
Erka answered Draktun’s question curtly.
“You saw it in Grashkhal. Back then… all seven of us witnessed the Military Strategist for the first time.”
A brief silence fell at those words.
Draktun understood just how significant that statement was.
Without the aid of Advanced Warriors bearing seven Feather Tattoos.
“…Surely not.”
“Yes.”
Erka’s eyes grew cold and sharp.
“Without our help. He crushed the Makuran Tribe with only regular Advanced Warriors.”
“….”
Words failed me.
Only the sound of wind sweeping across the Snowy Plains echoed hollowly.
The Makuran Tribe.
Certainly a small tribe operating on an entirely different level than ourselves.
I understood their total numbers didn’t exceed three thousand.
Yet having survived the harsh Eastern Plateau, each and every one of them was a monstrous warrior.
Against them, without even the aid of Advanced Warriors….
‘In merely one month….’
He’d subdued them?
“…He’s insane.”
Draktun muttered quietly.
Erka chuckled at those words.
“Now do you understand? Why Taman places such Trust in him.”
Draktun said nothing.
He simply nodded once.
“…I’ll admit it.”
A brief statement.
Yet it carried a clear shift within it.
Erka tapped his arm.
“So stop talking and follow orders. Taman’s already driven the nail home.”
Anyone who disobeys the Military Strategist’s Command will be beheaded.
Draktun exhaled sharply.
“I’ll follow Taman’s Order, though I can’t say I like it.”
Erka let out a laugh.
“I feel the same way.”
Both their gazes drifted into the distance simultaneously.
For a Kar Tribe Warrior, the Feather Tattoo is far more than mere Decoration.
It represents Strength and Honor—something the Warriors themselves could truly respect.
The difference between one Feather Tattoo and two.
And the difference between two and three.
It was not a simple matter of numbers.
It was literally the difference in the ‘standing’ of a Warrior, and thus those bearing six or more Tattoos command respect wherever they go as a Taman of their tribe.
But then….
“That guy has none of that.”
Draktun spoke in a low voice.
Erka nodded in agreement.
“Right.”
Berkal.
For him, the Feather Tattoo was merely a ‘symbol’.
Neither respect nor courtesy could be found in his eyes.
What mattered to him was but one thing.
Results in War alone.
Was it not proof that those of us bearing seven Feather Tattoos had come to this Outskirts region?
A Battlefield where there was no need to deploy Advanced Warriors.
Yet we ‘stand ready’ because of the ‘possibility’ of unforeseen variables that might arise.
This alone revealed how cautious Berkal was about failure and how calculatingly he moved.
To him, an Advanced Warrior was nothing more—and nothing less—than ‘a Warrior possessing great Strength’.
Draktun clicked his tongue and spoke.
“We can find no courtesy from that guy toward us.”
“…That’s true.”
But the Order had already been issued, and the Operation was already underway.
Now came what came next.
Not a Fight in this Outskirts region, but real War.
We would reclaim the lands stolen by the Empire and march southward to conquer theirs.
And the starting point of that….
“Is Belikezel.”
Erka’s eyes trembled coldly like the Northern wind.
* * *
Wolfheim in the late hours was silent.
The wind moaned softly against the Castle Wall, while the frozen Ground seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something.
Within the Lord’s Castle too, only faint Firelight flickered, and the Presence of people was scarcely felt.
Within that Silence.
Creak.
The Office door opened with deliberate care.
A figure draped in a black Robe slipped silently inside.
And the moment the door closed.
Whoosh.
Shadows twisted subtly, converging into one.
“Have you identified them?”
The figure emerging from the Darkness was Arteon.
His voice pitched low.
At those words, the robed figure immediately bowed her head.
“Yes, Master.”
Her voice was calm and measured.
Slowly, she removed her Robe.
Beneath the soft light, her face became visible.
It was Rishiven.
She spoke directly to Arteon.
“I’ve detected Kar Tribe movements north of Preldior in the Northern Region, but….”
Her fingers trembled faintly as she paused.
“…the situation is far more chaotic than anticipated.”
Rishiven possessed the ability to command all information across the Continent.
Yet even for her, understanding the deep Northern Region’s circumstances was no simple task.
She then withdrew a folded note from her garment.
“Their Formation is… deliberately scattered.”
Tap.
She placed the note on the desk.
“Deceptions abound, they deliberately expose Openings, and conversely, they’ve hidden Troops in places that appear vulnerable.”
As if they were mindful that they themselves might be under surveillance.
Only someone of meticulous design—excessively so—could have orchestrated this.
Arteon’s expression hardened as he scanned the note.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“…I see.”
A brief utterance.
Rishiven nodded.
“However… I cannot claim to have grasped everything. There appear to be things still hidden. But….”
She lifted her gaze toward the Map of the Northern Region hanging on the Office wall.
“There is one thing I can state with certainty.”
She moved closer to the Map and pointed to a specific location.
“The Imperial Army’s Northern Base Camp that those Bastards are targeting is….”
Tap.
“Aikuled.”
Helikel Gorge, Aikuled—alongside Elvarfiel Lake, one of the three great strategic points piercing through the Northern Region.
At Rishiven’s words, Arteon’s gaze grew cold and distant.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————