Chapter 223: An Honorable Execution |
The Silvermoon Knight and Allen stood outside the infirmary tent, listening to the brothers' argument within.
Though the siege had been brief, casualties were inevitable. The magitech cannons were no mere decoration—no matter how outdated, a single shot could still punch through several armored soldiers.
This wounded man had been particularly unlucky: shrapnel had torn off his right leg. He survived, but that limb was forever left outside the walls of Sweetdew City. Even so, he was fortunate compared to others. Several soldiers struck by the same blast hadn't even left intact corpses behind.
The accompanying priests had to conserve their divine power. They dared not expend it on regenerating lost limbs; that would have to wait until after the war, once he was sent back home.
For many soldiers of Lyon, being wounded in battle was the highest honor, a testament to their devotion to the Lord of Dawn. But this man's younger brother had been terrified by the gruesome injury, so much so that he claimed not to want to return to the battlefield.
What met him was a vicious slap across the face. To his elder brother, such cowardice was a stain upon their family's honor.
"Brother, I'm happy to serve as rear support. I'll give up all my inheritance rights. Everything I would have received, I'll donate to the army. But I don't want to go back to the battlefield. I can't even hold my sword steady… I really am afraid."
A red handprint burned across the boy's face. Tears filled his eyes. The memory of flesh and blood exploding under cannon fire made him tremble uncontrollably.
Not everyone could face death with courage.
But his wounded brother didn't think that way.
He drew his sword. Roaring in fury, he pointed the blade at his younger brother. "Coward! If you're going to desert, I'll kill you myself! I won't let you disgrace our family or defile the holy light!"
Allen rushed forward to stop the tragedy, but the Silvermoon Knight was faster.
By the time Allen entered the tent, the Knight had already seized the glowing blade.
He coughed violently, his complexion growing ever more ashen. Already drained, the sudden exertion left him even weaker than before.
Allen hurried to his side, casting a vitality spell on him to restore a bit of his strength.
Only then did the Silvermoon Knight steady himself. He turned to the trembling boy and said calmly, "Report to the auxiliary corps. When this war ends, retire and go home."
The boy froze, as if unable to process what he'd heard. Then he dropped to his knees, panic-stricken. "General, I was wrong! I-I didn't mean it, I just… I'm not betraying the holy light!"
"I will not repeat myself," the Knight said evenly. "This is an order. It is not to be disobeyed."
After speaking, he glanced around the infirmary. More than a dozen soldiers lay there maimed, missing arms and legs. Every one of them looked at him with fervent devotion.
Moments ago, they had watched a man attempt to execute his own brother, and none of them had objected. To them, it had been perfectly justified.
The Silvermoon Knight said nothing more. He simply turned to Allen. "Let's go."
Allen followed him out.
The Knight remained silent the entire way, his coughing growing harsher, his breathing weaker.
Allen considered what he had witnessed. Something about the scene had felt wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
A boy, fresh from the battlefield, terrified by carnage—did that truly warrant death?
As the Silvermoon Knight lay down to rest, he suddenly broke the silence. "Allen, what do you think of what just happened?"
Allen answered immediately, "The older brother was too harsh. This doesn't warrant death. With proper guidance, the younger brother could recover. Given time, I believe he could become a qualified soldier."
"And if he cannot?" the knight pressed. "Should he die, then?"
Allen hesitated. "Then… he shouldn't have said it aloud. His fear could damage morale."
"And should those whose morale is damaged die as well?"
Allen paused again. "That… doesn't seem necessary?"
The Silvermoon Knight let out a faint chuckle.
"If those struck by cowardice do not deserve death, then why should the boy who was frightened by the battlefield? He did not falter in battle. Only after leaving it did fear take hold. Do we deny our soldiers even the right to feel fear?"
Allen frowned. Even against the empire's most revered paladin, he was willing to voice his doubts. "But we are at war, General. Discipline must be strict. If we show mercy out of pity, how can we win future battles?"
The knight did not argue. Instead, he countered, "Are we principally believers of the Lord of Dawn, or soldiers? By our doctrine, this novice does not deserve death. Yet no one in that tent spoke up against this purported ‘execution of honor.' To them, a brother killing his own brother was perfectly reasonable."
"Perhaps… because it is wartime?" Allen said uncertainly. "Stricter measures might be understandable."
The knight shook his head. "If our doctrine can be compromised for war, then it can be compromised for ten thousand other reasons. If we find excuse after excuse to bend our faith, can we truly be devout? What meaning could lie within such flexible doctrine?"
Allen opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut again.
Perhaps because he had spoken too much, the Silvermoon Knight broke into another violent coughing fit. Lacking the strength to continue, he waved Allen away.
"Don't stay here. Go take a walk. Think about what I've said carefully."
Allen stepped out of the tent, confusion written all over his face.
He wasn't much older than the frightened boy. This wasn't his first battle, but it was the first time he had witnessed a direct conflict between doctrine and reality.
As a paladin sworn to the Oath of Devotion, he could not deceive others, nor himself. Unlike black knights, his morality was not flexible. He had to remain fair and just in all things, or he would lose his power entirely.
Deep down, he felt the Silvermoon Knight was right. Executing a frightened boy did not align with their faith.
The Lord of Dawn would never force sacrifice upon others. Otherwise, what would distinguish Him from an evil god?
Yet something else troubled Allen. Such "executions of honor" were not rare. He had heard of at least ten similar cases before. How many more might he be unaware of?
Why did the Empire tolerate such practices?
Why did his father, the High Inquisitor, allow such cruelty?
Were those branded as blasphemers—traitors to the Light—truly deserving of death?
The suffocating weight of these questions pressed down on him. In the end, he forced himself to stop thinking. Now was not the time for such questions. He had to focus on the battle ahead.
Allen took over patrol duty, wandering the camp alone. If another "execution of honor" occurred, he could intervene in time.
Fortunately, he saw no such occurrences over the next three hours. Instead, he heard something strange.
Following the sound, he found a soldier lying on the ground, throat slit, body twitching.
Allen froze for a moment, then rushed forward and cast a healing spell to close the wound.
He saved the man, but when he looked in the direction at which the soldier was pointing, he found several more bodies. Their throats had been cut as well. Their blood had long since drained; they no longer moved.
Without hesitation, Allen drew his sword and released a burst of holy light at the sky.
The explosion rang out: it was an alarm signaling enemy attack.
The Lyon camp sprang into motion, but the assassinations did not stop. If anything, exposure only made them more frantic.
Explosions erupted. Several tents burst into flames.
Cries of battle filled the air as hidden enemies revealed themselves.
Allen hurried to protect the Silvermoon Knight, only to encounter a translucent figure, poorly concealed, its outline still faintly visible in motion.
With a Sacred Slash, he immediately severed one of the figure's arms.
The attacker materialized: a red-skinned orc. Even with one arm gone, he fought ferociously, hurling a dagger at Allen.
Allen deflected it and pressed the attack.
After finally killing the orc, he spotted a panicked figure, the very boy who had wanted to desert.
The boy ran blindly, only to be tackled by a dwarf that sprang from nowhere. Before he could even struggle to his feet, his body was riddled with wounds.
Heart, throat, liver—all his vital points were pierced.
By the time Allen reached him, the dwarf had already vanished.
Allen knelt beside the boy, trying to save him, but his healing magic could not mend such devastating injuries. He could only watch as the boy died.
When Allen rose again, his body was drenched in blood. His eyes blazed. Gripping his sword tightly, he charged toward the thick of the fight.