30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?!-Chapter 293: A Knight’s Courage Knows No Recklessness (4)

— A knight is one who can shift the tide of battle single-handedly.

A saying known only in the South.

There were many ways to describe knights. Some called them men with the strength of a thousand, warriors of unparalleled might capable of overwhelming entire armies.

Of course, no knight truly possessed the strength of a thousand men.

But there were those whose presence alone could equal a hundred.

—[Champion].

A knight who had fought and won thirty duels in the name of their territory.

Even among champions, distinguishing the truly exceptional from the rest would be an exhausting debate.

But one thing was certain—

A champion had the power to determine the tide of war.

During territorial battles, a champion’s very presence dictated the morale of the soldiers.

It was the power of renown—the sheer weight of reputation forged through thirty victorious duels.

...And yet, Mordred did not concern itself with champions.

Not because they disrespected knights—far from it.

After all, Ganok, the leader of the Hundred Ghosts, was Mordred’s pride, and he was certainly no ordinary champion.

Yet even so, Mordred’s warriors had long since stopped believing in champions.

Because after enduring over a thousand defensive battles, they had come to a stark realization—

—There is a limit to individual strength. fгeewebnovёl.com

No matter how strong a knight was, numbers always prevailed.

Against a disciplined army, even the mightiest warrior would be swallowed whole.

Especially in Mordred, where the troops were equipped with the most advanced weaponry—

Where a squad of just five well-coordinated soldiers could take down one or two knights with ease.

And more importantly—

No matter how famous a knight was, monsters did not care about human reputation.

Five years ago, monsters might have flinched at the sight of a renowned champion.

But in the present?

No one in Mordred feared a so-called champion.

—No matter how great a knight may be, if the battlefield is the setting, we will win.

For their fangs had been sharpened to pierce the Archfiend’s throat.

...And yet—

"So something like that actually exists..."

A quiet murmur.

Yet everyone who heard it instinctively understood its meaning.

BOOOOM!

Another boulder crashed into the horde, pulverizing the small-class monsters.

SHUNK!

Arrows and spears skewered the mid-to-large-class ones with uncanny precision.

“Bring more arrows!”

“We need more spears!”

“...Since when were spears this deadly?”

One strike. One kill.

Every time he moved—whether swinging an arm or shifting his foot—dozens of monsters were erased from existence.

Within ten minutes—

One man had slaughtered over 3,000 monsters.

The rest of the horde hesitated.

[[.......]]

A single knight.

A presence so overwhelming that even the monsters—beings that should know no fear—were now hesitating.

Even monsters, at their core, had the instinct to survive.

Just as a mob of dozens would go silent if a gun were pointed at them,

Now, 100,000 monsters found themselves frozen, watching the sheer massacre unfold.

As if to move meant becoming the next target.

At this moment—

"A presence that subdues even ten thousand."

Ten-thousand-man commander.

Not the strength of a thousand.

But the concentrated might of ten thousand.

"I’ve never felt this reassured in my life."

For the first time, they truly understood why a champion could influence the morale of an entire army.

The heat surging in their chests, the sheer exhilaration—

The warriors of Mordred could no longer contain it.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

"How much longer are we going to just [N O V E L I G H T] stand and watch? Support the champion!!"

[[WAAAAAHH!!]]

With spirits soaring to the heavens, they unleashed hell upon the battlefield.

Gunfire.

Explosions.

Flames.

Fueled by the heat in their hearts—

***

The one fortunate aspect of fighting a monstrous horde was that, at the end of the day, they were nothing but a disorganized mob.

There was a reason they were called "vile breeds."

They lacked coordination, had no proper chain of command, and their entire existence revolved around devouring and being devoured—a brutal hierarchy of survival of the fittest.

The few monster species that possessed any form of cooperation, such as goblins and gnolls, had the intelligence of mere children at best.

If the entire army of 200,000 were composed solely of goblins or gnolls, it might have been a far greater threat.

But as it stood, this was no real army—just an enormous, chaotic mass.

The problem, however—

[Grrrrraaaaah!]

[Bruuurrrk?]

—was that there were just too many of them.

So many that it was enough to trigger a deep, primal disgust.

Frogmen—monstrous humanoid amphibians—crawled out from the swamps, their webbed feet sloshing through the murky water as they advanced toward the fortress.

Undead creatures, ghouls, sprinted mindlessly across poison-filled traps and spiked pits, completely indifferent to their rotting flesh being torn away.

And so—

"Fire!"

"Don't hold back—throw the firebombs!"

BOOM!

BOOOOM!

Explosions rippled across the battlefield, tearing through the enemy ranks.

But as quickly as they were torn apart, more monsters rushed in to take their place.

Some creatures feasted on their fallen kin, regenerating grotesquely as they consumed flesh.

And worse still—

CRACK!

"A—a Giant Frogman?!"

"Shit! It evolved?!"

Some monsters devoured their own kind—or higher-ranked creatures—and rapidly evolved, accelerating their growth from juvenile to fully mature in mere seconds.

What was once a small-class monster could suddenly become mid-class, or even large-class in the blink of an eye.

And the jumping ability of a Giant Frogman—

Whoooosh!

—allowed it to leap nearly a thousand meters in a single bound.

Straight toward the fortress.

Or worse, over it.

It was a dire situation.

And yet—

SLICCCH!

"How dare mere monsters dream of breaching our walls?"

The Frogman was bisected in midair, its corpse collapsing before it could touch the ground.

"You will not pass through us."

[[WIIIIIIIIII!!]]

A bone-chilling wail swept across the battlefield.

The Hundred Ghosts Shieldbearers—Mordred’s immovable guardians—stood their ground, spectral warhorses shifting beneath them as they formed an impenetrable line of defense.

They were knights who had bound themselves to spirits.

Men who wore helmets shaped like wailing phantoms.

Mounts that spewed spectral mist as if breathing death itself.

These warriors, clad in armor infused with ghoststeel, held an absolute advantage against physical attacks.

But—

CRACKLE!

[GRRRAAAAH!!]

—monsters had no hesitation when it came to shattering absolutes.

"Damn it, if they're monsters, they should act like monsters and use physical attacks!"

"Frost Ghouls... Ha! They say they're rarer than Yetis."

"They aren't rare—it's just that no one who encounters them survives to talk about it."

One minute ago, Frogmen were evolving.

Now, ghouls were mutating as well.

The Frost Ghoul, an undead creature that wielded ice and frost, had begun its slaughter.

And if that wasn’t bad enough—

FWOOSH!

"A—a Giant Ghoul?!"

"Since when did ghouls breathe fire!?"

"They do now, apparently. As of today."

This was why monster hordes were terrifying.

Disorganized? Uncoordinated?

Sure.

But they kept evolving.

They felt no fear of death.

They consumed each other, mutated, and transcended.

This was why there was no limit to monster species.

Even the weakest of them could rise to unpredictable heights.

And yet—

"This... this isn't normal."

Even by monstrous standards, their rate of growth was unnatural.

No matter how quickly they evolved, there were limits.

Even monsters were still living creatures—growth took time.

Unless—

"They're burning through their own life force to evolve?"

Was it possible?

Were they sacrificing lifespan for power?

A knight hurriedly turned to report this to his commander—

Only to be met with a quiet response.

"It’s fine. I already know."

"...Huh?"

"That wretched insect... It seems it's resorting to every trick in the book."

The old knight's gaze locked onto a distant point.

And there was no need to ask what he was looking at.

Because there was only one being in this world that could ignite such pure hatred in the eyes of Mordred’s former Grandmaster.

"How long do you intend to lurk in the shadows like a thief?! If you dare to call yourself a god, then show yourself, you vermin!!"

WHOOOOOSH!

A voice too powerful to have come from such an old body.

It wasn’t as destructive as a certain lion’s roar, but it carried a gravity that was just as inescapable.

A shout infused with spiritual energy—

Strong enough to force something into existence.

CRACK!

And then—

It appeared.

[You've aged.]

[It’s almost tragic.]

A voice, smooth as silk yet more repulsive than nails on a chalkboard.

A voice that made ears ache, that sent phantom chills slithering down spines.

Even hearing it was wrong—as if it didn’t belong in this world.

[You were once so beautiful—but look at you now. I told you, didn’t I? You should have become my vessel. If you had, you wouldn’t have grown so... pitiful.]

A whisper of mockery.

And then—

[And stop calling me ‘vermin.’]

A sulking complaint, spoken as if genuinely offended.

[I've already told you my name.]

A pause.

And then—

[Inanna. That is my name.]