30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue - Chapter 266

The faces of the Jarls were pale with fear. It was already too late to discuss numerical superiority. The warriors charging from the rear were equal in number, visible even to the naked eye.

And in front of them stood three thousand warriors. It was a classic double encirclement.

Ivan looked up at the Jarls and spoke.

“Why are you hesitating? Do you have ample time? I would choose quickly.”

“Ugh…!!”

Surrender, battle, or duel. The choices given to them were limited to one of the three, and even that was rapidly diminishing in time. If the rear’s forces made contact and close combat broke out, there would be great losses… no, victory could not be guaranteed.

Facing an equally numbered enemy while exposing their rear would spell disaster. Even if they attempted to rearrange their formations to prepare for battle, it would be too late. From the moment one of the two sides began to falter, a one-sided massacre would commence.

The reason that hammer and anvil fell out of foundational strategy is a consequence of modernizing weapon systems. This means that from ancient times to the modern era in Earth’s history of war, hammer and anvil represented the most effective basic tactics.

This situation echoes that truth. In a limited pool of troops, intricate tactics and strategies are easily dismantled in the face of individual capability and mass.

Meeting Ivan’s gaze, the Jarls bit their lips and dismounted from their horses.

“Have you decided?”

“I will accept the challenge…”

Baldur spat roughly on the ground and shouted.

“I am Baldur Skegraund of Bloodvar. Baldur with the red beard.”

“I will join as well. Ulrik Einaugar of Skaldholm. One-eyed Ulrik. You won’t call me a coward, will you?”

“Of course. What about the rest of you?”

Ivan nodded readily and glanced sideways. The other two Jarls, who had hesitated, tightly closed their eyes and sighed.

However, they soon leapt down from their mounts, their eyes filled with greater desire than shame.

“If we win, will you break your forces?”

“I promise you. I will guarantee your survival.”

“I am Sven Jotunbahnil of Haskarlpor. I will join.”

“I am Bjorn Wolfhrud of Stormbrak.”

Ivan looked at the four warriors gripping their weapons. None seemed able to even think about summoning a champion.

While it is rare for multiple challengers to face a single Jarl, there have been instances. However, it was unprecedented in Drovian history for a single warrior to challenge multiple Jarls.

With faces flushed from shame, the Jarls stood armed before Ivan. Even without a champion, it was acceptable. All were veterans who had served since the Great War, with two being Huskals, and one even—

“Before I lost one eye to those orc bastards, there was no significant difference between us.”

Ulrik spat and growled. His remaining eye was bloodshot, glaring at Ivan.

“I was in the reserves as well. I thought I could take his place once that madman died!”

Ivan understood. There were few left who could call themselves ‘reserves.’ A tiny number of strong individuals remained in various countries. Most had been consumed in the wars, but there were still some who survived.

A year ago, Ivan had killed a single Huskal from the reserves. Had two still survived in Drovian?

“If Einar isn’t here, then I! Am the strongest in Drovian!!”

Ulrik shouted fiercely, charging forward. His two axes whirled with a ferocious momentum. Was it a choice of weapons conscious of Einar? The way he swung the two axes seemed remarkably similar.

But it was clumsy.

Clash!

“Ugh!!”

Ivan scraped one of the axes aside and slipped his head away. The axe blade grazed past the tip of his nose. Ivan did not even look at the axe looming before him but turned his gaze to the surrounding Jarls.

In an instant, three charged at him. A half-beat late for the ‘superhuman realm.’ Only that brief moment had passed.

However, Ivan’s outstretched axe severed Ulrik’s neck in that interval.

“Following so clumsily, how could you ever hope to ‘reserve’?”

Crack!

Fear, terror, and disbelief filled Ulrik’s eyes. The axe blade that dug into his throat transmitted convulsions throughout his body.

As he recovered the axe, a wild spray of blood floated in the air. Splat, it flew around violently, like a wild brushstroke. Dark red droplets of blood were suspended in midair.

“What—!?”

The three Jarls rushed in horror. In that moment, Ulrik’s body became stiff and stumbled backward, collapsing. He stood there, half-destroyed, frozen in that relative time.

The depletion of mana that was accelerating through his nerves. In the battlefield of superhumans, to stop meant to face death. Ulrik’s remaining life would last a few seconds longer, but at this point, he was as good as dead.

He could no longer intervene in this time.

Ivan’s gaze swept back to the approaching Jarls. Greatswords, maces, and axes with shields. A classic clash.

A greatsword aimed for Ivan’s head. He deflected it with a shoulder swing and countered with a kick. As it clang against his armor, he plopped down to the ground and slipped his left hand into his sleeve.

Swish!

He quickly drew a dagger reverse grip. He lightly parried the falling axe blade directed toward his shoulder and swung his leg from a sitting position. Crack, the opponent blocked with his shield, but the shock still reached them.

“Cough!”

In the shock, the shield slipped from their grasp, exposing their chest. Few could notice Ivan diving in at that moment.

Fear emerged in Sven’s eyes as he watched Ivan’s dagger rush toward his open chest. Death was coming. An embodiment of death was charging in.

Clash!

Baldur, who had pushed Sven aside, swung his mace desperately. As if he had always been there, Ivan, with a step back, evaded it. The mace struck the ground, kicking up dust before settling.

“A monster—!!”

In the accelerated time, the clash of metal was faster than sound. In the midst, conversations were difficult to sustain. However, if adequately trained, they could confirm each other’s intentions even amidst that moment.

Normally, speaking would convey words a beat later. However, the mere shape of their mouth moved at the same speed as time itself.

It could be described as a conversation occurring in silence. To superhumans, such silent communication was not a difficult technique.

Unlike the Jarls rushing in syllable by syllable, Ivan stepped back, securing his axe and remarked.

“You’ve become quite dull.”

“…!!”

Shame washed over their faces. Ivan held the axe again, readying himself.

“Just five years. Have you grown accustomed to peace in that time? If so—”

In the next moment, no Jarl could properly perceive Ivan’s movement. Before long, Ivan had stepped on Sven’s thigh and was plunging his axe into his head.

Crack!

The axe, deeply embedded in his skull, was only pulled out as the Jarls could only gaze at Ivan in fear.

When exactly? And how?

Even superhumans are still human. The limit speed of human nerves is the same regardless of the mana and talent possessed. The maximum speed of electrical impulses traveling through the nerves was bound by physical limitations.

Yet in that brief moment, Ivan had clearly moved beyond that maximum speed. The implication was clear. A being who could slaughter superhumans like ordinary men….

“Rather, why didn’t you challenge Einar five years earlier?”

If they had done that, rather than seizing their family for a civil war.

As Jarls, had they challenged Einar, who was trying to assert the unfamiliar concept of ‘King,’ they could have operated their clans without losing their territories or assets. Einar would not have touched their families even if it meant killing the challenger.

Instead, these individuals, having chosen survival over the traditions of Drovian, could no longer be called nobles, superhumans, or even warriors.

The strongest in Drovian? No, no, absolutely not.

There are many among Einar’s Huskals and even among the warriors lined up at the back who are stronger than these individuals.

They are those who sought peace instead of conflict and, despite that, hesitated to assert their desires courageously. Their prime had long since passed.

The time they could proudly reign as strong was gone. Their days were nearing twilight, and there was no effort to resist the coming night.

Ivan pressed the edge of his dagger firmly against Bjorn’s neck, saying coldly.

“Pathetic.”

“Y-You….”

“Don’t leave an epitaph. You have no right to.”

Crack!

This was no longer a challenge. Even four in peak condition wouldn’t suffice; a rag-tag group, rushing in, stuck in their past, was no match at all.

This was merely mindless slaughter. Without any sense of satisfaction.

Neural overload brought fatigue crashing down. No matter how superhuman, long durations in the ‘superhuman realm’ are impossible. Thus, regardless of each individual’s capability, such essence holds little efficacy in the scope of ‘war.’

In duels and battles, superhumans can only face superhumans. Knights must confront knights. However, war is different.

Even steel holds the fatigue of metal. The time human flesh can maintain performance without fatigue doesn’t even reach four hours.

Ivan turned toward his last opponent, raising his axe in silence.

Baldur rushed forward, driven by profit, vowing not to die.

It took little time for death to approach all equally.

Dust rose. To those not entering the realm of superhumans, the battle seemed like a mere flash.

The shadows of the five dashed toward one another instantaneously, and their clash shook the wilderness, cloaking their bodies in dust.

Under the already risen sun, atop the arid land of late-summer Drovian. The yellow dust troubled the ground only once.

Phew….

As everyone swallowed nervously, the dust started to slowly dissipate. Left were four corpses and one warrior.

The axe and dagger dripped with blood, poised in a stance preserving their integrity.

The four Jarls’ bodies fell as one, twitching briefly before ceasing all movement.

“To face those four without a single scratch….”

“It’s as if… it’s as if I am seeing Einar back then….”

The seasoned warriors sighed briefly as they gazed at Ivan. The wrathful Einar once slaughtering enemies appeared just like this.

A momentary clash, a massacre conducted in perception, and a conclusion thrown without process.

Ivan dusted off his blood-stained hands, wiping the axe blade with a cloth.

“Since Einar has gained such a one as a consort, the royal lineage shall at least carry on for another generation.”

“I hear he’s from Krasilov; who knows what will happen to this land moving forward.”

Anxiety, fear, and awe directed toward him. Ivan calmed his excited nerves with a short breath and spoke.

“Is there another challenger?”

“…”

Before long, the warriors from the northern realm found themselves surrounded. At this point, the Jarls leading them had all been executed, and the warriors would not dare to stand against such a great warrior, akin to the ‘Rebirth of Einar.’

They are Drovian, and Drovian willingly bows to those stronger, regardless of generation or region.

One warrior bearing the flag of Bloodvar quietly knelt on one knee and bowed his head.

“Lead us, warrior.”

Following his words, the previously frozen warriors uniformly knelt, bowing their heads.

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