The Morning Star (3) Sir Dian August endured the agony of the vile truth serum through sheer will as unyielding as steel.
At least, that was how Isabelle chose to remember it.
What mattered was not that Sir August had screamed at the top of his lungs while hurling every curse imaginable at her, nor that he had grabbed a man named Ivan by the arm and nearly spilled the Knights’ financial records.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, Isabelle had promptly punched Sir August square in the face.
Only after receiving a lengthy lecture from Ivan about how dangerous it was to strike someone who had just coughed up blood did Sir August finally regain the ability to speak like a normal human being.
“…Mommy?” “…Mm.” After examining the neatly reattached wound, Ivan delivered a crisp diagnosis.
“Trauma-induced regression.
Isabelle.
It’s your fault for hitting him.
Reflect on your actions.” “I don’t think Sir August would agree with that.
Can he go back to normal?” “Don’t worry.
It’s a common symptom.
He’ll come to his senses with time.” Ivan briefly glanced outside before speaking again.
“But he screamed far too much.
We’ve drawn attention.
The ones lying in ambush on the mountain should be coming down soon.
We need to prepare.” “What about Sir August?” “We carry him.” Ivan stared silently at Isabelle.
She stared back.
After a brief silence, Isabelle finally understood the meaning behind his gaze and looked at him in disbelief.
“…Me?” “Yes.” “What about you?” “I’ll fight.” “I can fight too!” Looking down at her, Ivan slowly shook his head.
Her talent was undeniable—so exceptional that finding another child her age to match her would be nearly impossible.
But mentally…
She wasn’t there yet.
Her face had turned pale from this single incident alone, and the hand gripping her sword still trembled uncontrollably.
“I’m sure you can.” “…Why do your words and actions completely contradict each other?” “An accurate observation.” Ivan chuckled softly and turned away.
Left alone in the passenger car, Isabelle let out a long sigh before hoisting Dian onto her back.
Heavy.
Not because she lacked the strength to carry an adult man.
The training weights she used were heavier than Dian.
No…
It was the weight of this wounded, weakened man pressing down on her shoulders.
Adjusting him on her back, she stepped outside.
Standing beneath the moonlight, Ivan glanced back at her.
“You’ve got decent potential.” “…That’s surprisingly insulting.
Mister, do you know me?
We’ve never met, so why are you talking to me so casually?” “So your personality takes after your mother.” “…Wow, you’re seriously making me want to draw my sword.
Then is your rotten attitude inherited from your mother’s side or your father’s?!” “Who knows?
I can’t even remember either of their faces anymore.” “…Oh…
I…
see…” Despite his strangely youthful eyes and skin, Isabelle shut her own tightly as she looked at the thick beard covering Ivan’s jaw.
The war had ended only four years ago.
And that war had lasted nearly twenty years.
Naturally, someone of his age could easily have lost both parents during it.
For some reason, she suddenly felt wronged.
So what if someone doesn’t have parents?
Bringing up someone’s parents is incredibly rude!
Or…
is it different in Krasilof?
Is that just how people greet each other here?
(For the record, this sort of comment about someone’s parents is considered a friendly greeting in Droan, but not in Krasilof.) She grumbled to herself for quite a while before suddenly realizing what Ivan had actually implied.
“…You know my father?” “Who knows.” Watching the little girl’s emotions change by the second, Ivan smiled faintly.
Well…
could anyone truly claim to “know” Maximilian?
Shrugging, he said, “Gather the survivors.
Build a fire.
Tear the seats out of the train and use them as blankets.
Winter nights in these lands are far harsher than you imagine.” “If we light a fire, won’t we get attacked?” “That’s not something you need to worry about.” “You’re going alone?
Without even knowing who the enemy is?” “That isn’t something you need to worry about either.” It was Ivan’s first time meeting Maximilian’s daughter.
And he found himself feeling something unexpected.
She looks just like her father.
The talent, too.
But her personality couldn’t be more different.
Maximilian had always boasted every night about the sweetheart waiting for him back home—a gentle, thoughtful woman.
Apparently, Isabelle had taken after her mother instead.
Love was dangerous like that.
It blinded people to the flaws and weaknesses of those they loved.
Chuckling quietly, Ivan departed.
*** Among the tactical doctrines Ivan had learned was a simple saying.
Assume the worst.
Act with your best.
Back then, he had scoffed at it.
It sounded so obvious.
That was before real combat taught him what it truly meant.
Assume the worst.
In other words…
The enemy will always attack in the most difficult way possible.
Act with your best.
Which meant…
If your enemy is your worst possible opponent…
Then you must become theirs.
Therefore, imitate the enemy’s tactics.
The worst attack you can imagine is often the best attack you can launch against them.
That made Ivan’s next course of action perfectly clear.
First…
Assume the absolute worst.
Being ambushed after surviving and attempting to escape…
that’s the worst-case scenario.
And if it turns into a prolonged delaying battle, it’ll become even worse.
Intermittent attacks in the darkness of night steadily wore people down.
Ivan could endure it.
The wounded and the child could not.
Therefore, assuming the worst meant assuming the enemy believed Ivan’s group would attempt to flee.
Logically, anyone whose train had been overturned by an attack would leave the scene and seek reinforcements.
Now…
How would they respond?
Pretend to have plenty of time.
Leave the enemy’s objective in plain sight.
Make it look helpless.
Doing so would force the hidden enemy to recall the personnel they’d scattered for pursuit.
Their tactics would shift from pursuit…to encirclement.
This world wasn’t a strategy simulation game.
Unfortunately, it was an academy story.
Issuing a command didn’t mean soldiers instantly carried it out.
That meant recalling the pursuit teams inevitably created a delay.
From that very moment…
Ivan gained the tactical advantage.
And armies conducting an encirclement usually fought with psychological confidence.
They would think of their prey as rats trapped inside a cage.
Naturally…
They would become even more cautious about choosing the perfect moment to strike.
Once the pursuit teams had regrouped…
They would wait for the ideal timing— A single unavoidable blow that guaranteed their target could never escape.
That was the second-best option.
The “worst attack” the enemy would likely devise.
So Ivan copied it.
He would turn the enemy’s best plan into their greatest disaster.
Preparing an ambush.
Patiently refining his assault.
Establishing an encirclement.
“…Hoo…” Deep within the forest, swallowed by the darkness of night…
Ivan gripped the cold pistol in his hand.
He inhaled quietly.
Exhaled only halfway.
Crouching beneath a tree…
He stopped breathing.
Slowly raising his arm.
Carefully aligning shoulder and fingertips into one perfectly straight line.
Suppressing every tremor caused by the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Click.
Slowly squeezing the trigger over the momentum of three measured breaths, ensuring the front sight never wavered beneath the finger resting inside the trigger guard.
Then— Bang!
Pistol sniping.
A shooting technique developed by agents of the Extermination Unit, who often had to conceal their weapons while operating inside enemy cities, allowing them to launch accurate long-range attacks even with nothing more than a handgun.
Beneath the moonlight…
A silhouette no larger than half a fingernail collapsed silently.
There was no need to rush a reload.
The first shot had landed.
Almost immediately…
A sinister tension spread throughout the forest.
The enemy understood.
The ambush had begun.
And very soon…
They would realize something else.
It wasn’t merely an ambush.
It was an ambush by the Extermination Unit.
In the darkness of night…
Within a familiar forest…
Armed with weapons they knew as extensions of their own hands…
The Extermination Unit could do something impossible.
A single person…
Could surround an entire army.
*** Bang!!
When the gunshot echoed from deep within the forest…
Isabelle hid the trembling of her hands as best she could while preparing for the enemy’s assault.
It was unmistakably…
The opening shot of battle.
Even the birds sleeping among the trees burst into panicked flight.
The survivors gathered around her shivered before the campfire.
“…We’re all going to die now, aren’t we…?” “I’m scared…
I’m so scared…
Mom…
Mommy…” The sounds of sobbing surrounded her.
Every survivor had suffered at least broken bones.
Overwhelmed by confusion, responsibility, and guilt, Isabelle lowered her head.
They were innocent people dragged into this because of her.
Out of that enormous train…
Only around a dozen had survived.
That crushing fact weighed heavily upon her shoulders.
Then— A quiet voice spoke from behind her.
“We call a Hero a Hero not because he is the strongest…but because he is the bravest.” “Sir August?
You’re awake?” Still slumped across her back, Dian continued in a dazed voice.
“Therefore…we must never try to become Heroes.
Nor should we wish to.
For we must always recognize our own weakness.” “Sir August…” “We must stand where the weak stand.
See the world through their eyes.
We draw our swords not because we are brave…Not because we are strong…Nor because we are better than others.” There was still no clarity in Dian’s eyes.
Yet every word he spoke was strangely precise.
As though he wished to engrave each syllable into her soul.
“We draw our swords because it is right.
Because it is just.
For the sake of the cause that deserves protection.
Therefore…Drawing one’s sword is no different from giving alms to the poor…Or helping an injured stranger back to their feet.
Because it is the natural thing to do.
Because it is right.” “Sir August…” “So draw your sword.
But do not seek to become a Hero.
Knight of Thyles… You stand here not because of bravery…But because of humility.” Only then did Isabelle understand.
This was an ancient…
Traditional knighthood ceremony.
Not the kind in which a monarch bestowed noble rank upon a vassal.
But the final lesson a wandering order of knights gave to one of their squires.
Dian August had come from one of those traditional knightly orders.
Even having lost his reason…
The deepest memory remaining within him was still these words.
“Raise your sword for righteousness.
To do good is always simple.
Always natural.
Raise your sword not because of your strength…But because of your goodwill.
From this day forward…Your name is Knight.” After those words…
Dian fell silent once more.
Only his weakened breathing remained.
Isabelle knew his history.
He was a veteran knight who had served since the war against the Demon King’s army.
And now she finally understood why words spoken perhaps only once, over a decade ago, had remained within him so perfectly—without distortion or misunderstanding.
Because she knew…
She herself would never forget this moment for the rest of her life.
Slowly, she rose to her feet.
At last, she lifted her head.
Many eyes were watching her.
People suffering from cold.
Fear.
Pain.
Hunger.
People driven into this situation because of her.
The guilt still weighed upon her shoulders.
Yet…
Even so…
“I shall.” Gently lowering Dian to the ground…
Isabelle stepped forward and stood before them.
The sword in her hand felt heavier than before.
But the hand that had trembled only moments ago had grown perfectly still as it tightened around the hilt.
Within her eyes…
The Morning Star burned brightly.