It was just as Jeremy was about to offer a rebuttal from the side.
"Shut your mouth! You think we'd bow down to Bretagne's hunting dogs?"
Before Jeremy could get a word in, a peasant soldier — a middle-aged man with a thick, bushy beard — bellowed out louder than anyone else.
Once one man roared back, the rest followed easily. The peasant soldiers nodded along, saying "That's right!" and hurled every curse imaginable at the knight. Some even bent down to pick up stones from the ground and threw them. The knight casually swatted away six or seven stones with his palm.
"Foolish. You've already lost."
The knight spoke.
"The lot of you gathered here are nothing more than stragglers. Are you really going to throw away the mercy that came to you like a gift of fortune? Think carefully. Hand over your commander. I promise safe passage home for all of you—"
"Well now, if you handed over your precious Queen, we might consider it."
A peasant soldier jeered.
"Word has it she spends her days in the palace frolicking with nobles nonstop."
"I heard she built herself a harem and plays around with two hundred beautiful youths! But here's the thing — did you know? Bretagne's Queen doesn't just do it with one youth at a time. She does it with four at once."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Because she's been used so much that one thing can't fill the hole anymore. If one won't do it, you've got to use two!"
The peasant soldiers burst out laughing. I let out a sigh.
The knight's demeanor, meanwhile, had turned menacing. Judging by his reaction, he wasn't the type of knight who'd been ground down in some backwater province. He was the kind groomed at the Royal Academia on the crown's coin. In short, a sheltered princeling. He was trembling with rage at the lowbrow filth.
"You dare—"
"Wait, wait. That's still only two youths. Where'd the other two go?"
"Isn't there more than one place to stick that thing in? Heh heh heh. When Her Majesty the Queen of Bretagne does her business, the youths cling to her from every angle — it looks just like a spider pleasuring herself."
The peasants howled with laughter.
"Aha! No one could survive that! Long live Her Majesty the Spider Queen!"
"Don't you worry, Sir Knight. We may not look like much, but when it comes to laying it on thick in Frank territory, we've got a reputation. Even if our soft cocks couldn't satisfy her, we could send the Queen to heaven in one go. Don't be shy — bring her right over!"
"……."
The knight fixed them with a murderous glare. Then he wheeled his horse around and rode off. The peasant soldiers laughed even harder.
"You limp-dicked virgin!"
"Go skin your sausage casing and come back, you little brat!"
I watched the scene with a bitter smirk. Beside me, Jeremy was equally dumbfounded.
I murmured quietly.
"It seems I was commanding a rather excessive bunch of soldiers."
"Yes, truly."
Here we were with a hastily assembled volunteer militia that was more dependable than the royal cavalry who'd retreated in disgrace — if it were a joke, I'd have laughed it off, but since it was reality, all I could manage was a hollow laugh.
They had taken up arms because I'd incited them. But even if the beginning was built on a lie, their conviction was genuine. They were far more decent human beings than a clown like me. And the Emperor wanted to ignite a civil war on land where such people lived? He couldn't be in his right mind.
I made my decision.
"Gather the wounded separately."
"Sir?"
"We'll use the teleportation artifacts to move them to a city behind our lines. Even if the enemy accepts a surrender, they won't treat wounded prisoners well. They'd just waste away and die, wouldn't they?"
Sending them to a city in the rear would at least get them some crude treatment. Better than nothing. With the aristocratic army effectively annihilated in today's battle, the peasant militia would only grow more important going forward. City officials would treat the wounded just to keep from having to surrender to Bretagne.
Jeremy said with a worried expression.
"But, Commander. How many teleportation scrolls do we even have?"
"Enough to keep at least this body safe."
I patted my chest.
"You know perfectly well how much money I have. Sure, it's an artifact that easily costs several dozen gold, but what's a wealthy man's generosity for if not this? The soldiers who fought bravely deserve their reward."
"Sigh. Yes, well… if you say so."
Jeremy grumbled under his breath — *You really do spend money like water.* He knew that every coin spent feeding and housing the peasant militia had come out of my own pocket.
We gathered the wounded in one place. One uncle was still shouting that he was perfectly fine and to leave him be, but with bones shattered to pieces, all the bluster in the world didn't help… A single bonk from Jeremy knocked him out cold, and he was quietly dragged away. The peasant soldiers roared with laughter at the sight.
Morale was high. Confidence overflowed. There couldn't be a unit better suited to entering battle.
We sealed the gaps in the palisade with warhorses stacked like a mountain. It almost looked like a small fort had been erected. That was also around the time Bretagne's forces began to close in.
No words were needed.
The enemy reproduced the tactic they'd been repeating since dawn — tiresomely, to the point of nausea. They really never got sick of it. Mounted archers rode to within twenty or thirty meters, unleashed a volley, and then cavalry leveled their lances and charged.
But this time, the effectiveness had dropped considerably.
On top of the palisade, the forest trees served as natural obstacles. Both arrow fire and cavalry charges inevitably stalled.
Moreover, the enemy was exhausted. The Saint's hymns, the instantaneous buffs — they had all lost their effect. Cavalry and warhorses that had been charging nonstop for six or seven hours were visibly slower. On open plains, they'd still be formidable, but this was forest terrain. The peasant soldiers had repelled the enemy splendidly — three times over.
"Retreat!"
Even in the fourth charge, the enemy gained nothing and pulled back. The mounted archers — many of them former hunters — picked off the expensive warhorses one by one. Those carcasses became fresh obstacles blocking the enemy's advance.
"Ha ha ha! Father, these guys are nothing!"
"All shiny on the outside but weak on the inside!"
"Ah. Splendid."
I laughed in a hoarse voice.
The volunteer army had fully regained its confidence. But this favorable tide wouldn't last long.
The enemy still had an infantry division. An infantry division that hadn't participated in battle and was at full strength — full energy and stamina. Once they closed in and fought hand-to-hand, we would inevitably lose. In the end, we were nothing more than the final flare before the flame dies out.
The best possible outcome was for the Bretagne army to offer surrender terms once more. This time sincerely, with reasonably generous conditions. Bretagne had already won the battle. There was no way they'd want to waste their infantry for nothing. That was the only hope.
After one final cavalry charge, the enemy sent an envoy. It was a noble dressed in a magnificent red cloak. The young noble shouted from near the palisade.
"I am Garçon de Deze, sub-baron of Bretagne! Who commands your unit!"
"The one who commands us is the Goddess Artemis!"
A peasant soldier declared proudly.
"And the one acting on the commander's behalf is Father Jean Volle!"
"Jean Volle… Ah, the Mad Priest Jean Volle."
The noble nodded as though something had clicked into place.
It was the first time I learned what alias they used for me on the Bretagne side. The Mad Priest! The worst possible name. Well, I suppose expecting taste from Bretagne's sows was asking too much…
"Father Jean Volle. I wish to speak with you!"
"As I understand it, you and I have already been in intimate conversation for seven hours."
I answered while stepping forward between the pikemen.
The noble removed his hat and bowed respectfully. I returned the gesture following priestly etiquette. A natural, temporary ceasefire fell over both armies. The noble put his feathered hat back on. He got straight to the point.
"Father Jean Volle. This war is already over. Is that not so?"
"I believe Her Majesty the Queen of Bretagne once said that for a soldier, war is an eternal struggle? Perhaps my aging ears deceived me."
I shrugged.
"Time truly does age a man on the battlefield. Wouldn't you agree, Sub-baron Garçon de Deze?"
"Oh, noble priestess of Selene. There is no need to prove to me that you are one of the great orators among speakers."
The noble smiled helplessly.
"Your reputation is well known to us, after all. Her Majesty was fond of indulging in philosophical speeches before she took direct rule. To a noble like me, those speeches feel both noble and fitting. But right now, I stand before you not as a noble, but as a soldier."
"Very well. Then what message does Garçon-the-soldier wish to deliver?"
The noble took a deep breath and spoke.
"Honorable surrender! Or a wretched death!"
"……."
It was a blunt demand. Would we surrender, or would we die like dogs here?
When I remained silent, the young noble beyond the palisade spoke earnestly.
"Father Jean Volle. I know this may seem like a monkey performing tricks, but allow me to say this once. What do you believe is the difference between conviction and obsession?"
"Conviction is rational. Obsession is emotional."
"A textbook answer."
The noble smiled.
"As a soldier, I believe this: to believe in the possibility of victory in battle and press forward steadfastly is conviction, and to hurtle in a straight line toward nothing but defeat is obsession."
I understood the noble's argument.
"There are things one gains through defeat as well."
But now was the time to push back a little. A simple "Yes, understood" followed by meekly stepping aside would only make the surrender terms harsher. I deliberately adopted a stern tone.
"If that is a nation's pride, then it is hardly a wretched death. I see no reason why surrender would feel more honorable to me personally."
"Of course, history books will praise Jean Volle and his peasant soldiers. But is the adulation of the masses not the same as washing your body in mud? The sin of letting innocent civilians die on the battlefield while hiding behind the nation's pride — the sages of later generations will never forget that."
"……."
I pretended to deliberate, putting on a show. Thinking he'd struck home, the noble pressed his advantage.
"Value the lives of your people, Father Jean Volle. There is no reason whatsoever for civilians to bear the responsibility of a civil war — certainly not with their blood and flesh."
From behind, the peasant soldiers erupted.
"What the hell are you talking about? You bastards invaded first! You're the ones who imprisoned His Majesty the Emperor!"
"Father! There's nothing to listen to! Let's flatten that pretty-boy's face!"
"We won't close an eye until every last Bretagne brat is dead! Woooo!"
I slowly raised my right hand. The soldiers fell silent as though someone had flipped a switch. In the quiet, I spoke.
"…And a guarantee that surrendered civilians won't be harmed?"
"I swear on every goddess. …Though I imagine that still leaves you uneasy."
The noble smiled sheepishly.
"Her Majesty has her attention elsewhere. The remnants of the Gi family's ducal forces and the Republican army — her goal is to chase them down and annihilate them to the very last. To be frank, your volunteer army is merely a thorn in our side."
"Uncomfortable, but merely uncomfortable."
"Precisely."
The noble placed his hand over his heart and swore.
"Lay down all arms and surrender. After all, there isn't a single soldier in your ranks worth paying ransom for. With your hands freed and your feet freed, head east. I swear on the honor of my house and my lord — my squad will serve as your guarantors and escort you to the nearest city."
"……."
I closed both eyes.
The midday sun seeped darkly through my eyelids. I savored the sun of the Saint-Denis plains on my face, through my entire body. The sunlight bore into my skin, searing. It carved into me that this was my first defeat.
I opened my mouth.
"We surrender."