The battlefield lay between Count Obrisin's Territory—the rebel army's base—and the Imperial Capital. Had it been a few months earlier, the ground would have been blanketed in lush green grass, but with autumn's arrival, only withered traces remained. It was there that the subjugation army and the rebel army finally came face to face.
Three thousand for the subjugation army against two thousand for the rebel army.
In terms of raw numbers, the subjugation army held a thousand-man advantage. Based on that fact alone, their victory seemed inevitable.
Indeed, the subjugation army certainly believed they held an overwhelming advantage. There was no sense of tension among them; instead, a palpable air of battle-weariness and apathy permeated their ranks.
In contrast, while the rebel army appeared somewhat surprised by the enemy's numbers, not a single soul turned tail to flee.
"We've won," a noble of the subjugation army muttered, even as Theoreme of the rebel army said the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
Both spoke with absolute certainty, yet had they heard one another, they surely would have shared nothing but mutual derision.
The subjugation army based their confidence on their superior numbers, while the rebel army based theirs on the knowledge that their opponents were merely a gathering of incompetent fools.
From within the opposing forces, a small party from each side stepped forward.
The purpose was to demand the other's surrender, though if either side were inclined to surrender, the war would never have begun. It was a purely perfunctory ritual.
However, in this particular instance, things were slightly different. The representative from the subjugation army was a noble who had won the right to the role through the usual political maneuvering—that part was standard.
The difference lay in the fact that the rebel representative was Vihera.
As a fellow noble, the man naturally knew who she was. The cavalryman accompanying the noble as a guard, however, did not. He could only stare in shock, eyes wide beneath his helmet at the sight of a woman clad in a thin raiment more suited to a dancer or a prostitute than a soldier. It was an incredibly surreal sight for a battlefield.
The only equipment she wore that looked even remotely battle-ready were her gauntlets and greaves. Combined with her translucent clothing, the effect was jarring.
Still, the guard remained vigilant in case she tried anything strange. But the moment his master spoke, he found himself gaping in disbelief.
"It has been a long time, Her Highness Vihera. It is truly regrettable that we should meet in such a place."
The man spoke as though he were an old acquaintance, but unfortunately for him, Vihera didn't have the slightest idea who he was.
Despite her imperial blood, she had never possessed much interest in the nobility. Had he been a man of some renown or notoriety, she might have recalled his name, but the noble standing before her was no such person.
Then again, this was a subjugation army composed of those deemed incompetent. Naturally, its members were as indistinguishable as peas in a pod, and being addressed by him stirred nothing within her.
Remaining entirely expressionless, she finally opened her mouth.
"Indeed. I suppose it is regrettable—for you."
"Regrettable for us? Forgive me, but does Her Highness Vihera truly grasp the situation? We have three thousand against your two thousand. No matter how you calculate it, you have no path to victory."
For a moment, the noble looked confused, as if he hadn't processed her words. Then, realizing the implication behind her statement, he reflexively retorted.
Vihera merely met his gaze with a glamorous, knowing smile.
"Is that so? Well, if that's what you believe, then our perceptions are simply at odds. Results will soon show which of us was mistaken."
"Do you truly believe you can win with such a disparity in strength? Listen to reason—surrender quietly, and I shall ensure you are treated well. If you are taken as a prisoner of a defeated army, the treatment will be horrific. Furthermore, if you'll forgive my bluntness, Her Highness Vihera is a very attractive woman. Surely you understand what fate awaits a captive of such beauty? You grasp my meaning, do you not?"
Under normal circumstances, this man would never have dared to speak so boldly to her. However, emboldened by the belief that their superior numbers guaranteed an absolute victory, he felt he could take a high-handed tone.
Had he spoken out of genuine concern, Vihera might have thought a little better of him.
But to be addressed with a gaze clouded by lust—a look that seemed to lick her body—was more than she would tolerate. Vihera was not a woman of weak will who would tamely submit to such talk.
Her gaze hardened, losing every trace of warmth. She looked at him now as one might look at a common pebble or a weed on the roadside.
"I'm afraid I've decided there is only one man I will ever give myself to. And that man is not a weakling who would lose even to the commoners in this area. If you want to claim me, you should try coming back after you've beaten some sense into that soft spirit, character, and body of yours."
Having said her piece, she turned her back and began to walk away, not waiting for a response.
Flushing deep red with rage at the insult, the noble shouted at her retreating figure.
"Fine then! I shall thoroughly teach you which of us is the weakling!"
It was the most forceful retort the noble could manage. However, to any observer, the sight of the man screaming with a scarlet face while Vihera departed with cool composure looked like nothing more than a loser's howl.
In the war of words preceding the clash, the rebel army had achieved a total victory.
Watching the exchange from a distance, Count Schola felt the battle had already been decided.
In fact, scanning the ranks of the other nobles, he saw no sign of desperation. They weren't pondering how to win; they were calculating how to secure the largest share of the spoils after the victory. Some, captivated by Vihera's enticing limbs and beauty, were already daydreaming about how to claim her for themselves.
(What am I supposed to do in this situation...?)
Count Schola sighed. He reaffirmed his resolve: his top priority was not victory, but survival.
In his mind, their defeat was already a foregone conclusion. He wanted to flee then and there, but with the cavalrymen of the disciplinary unit watching, such a thing was impossible.
His plan was simple: survive the battle, retire to his lands under the guise of illness, and pass the position of the head of the house to his younger brother. As he was lost in these escapist thoughts of a quiet retirement, the noble finished his verbal sparring and returned to the lines. Both the subjugation army and the rebel army began to move.
"Let's go, boys!"
"Uoooooooh!"
The first to ignite the conflict was Gurgast, likely the most bellicose man on the field.
Leading his men, he charged toward the subjugation army as if determined to claim the first spear for himself.
Tilleul's archer unit provided cover for Gurgast's charge, raining down arrows and even the occasional burst of magic.
"I-Impossible?! They're charging on their own despite being outnumbered?! Do these rebels not even understand military common sense?! Usually, the side with fewer numbers would be fortifying their defenses!" the subjugation noble shouted in disbelief.
His unit was at the absolute front of the army. Normally, they would have held the initiative, launching an attack once the enemy had finished setting up their defenses. He had never imagined that the rebels would be the ones to strike first.
Had the noble in charge of the vanguard been capable of adapting, he could have quickly issued orders to intercept. Had he done so, they might have been pushed back initially, but the momentum would have eventually swung in the subjugation army's favor.
Instead, the noble stood dazed by Gurgast's sudden maneuver. When he finally found his voice, it was only to hurl foul insults at an opponent who refused to behave as he expected.
It was a fatal error.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
With no orders coming from their commander, the soldiers began to defend themselves haphazardly, breeding chaos throughout the vanguard.
"Take this!"
With a roar, Gurgast waded into the fray, swinging a battle axe in each hand.
Generally, a noble would command from the safety of the rear, but such conventions meant nothing to the battle maniac Gurgast and his unit. Every one of them fought like a man possessed, launching attacks at the enemies before them as they pleased.
Had their training been poor, they would have been cut down, but Gurgast's men were the elite of the elite. Between the weapons wielded by Gurgast and his soldiers, the vanguard unit suffered catastrophic casualties. To make matters worse, arrows rained down relentlessly from Tilleul's unit, providing lethal support for the charge.
"Tch, how pathetic! Move! Follow me!"
The shout came from another noble stationed diagonally behind the vanguard.
His unit was supposed to deliver a decisive flank attack once the vanguard had pinned the enemy down. He had been given this crucial role because his unit was composed of high-mobility cavalrymen, but with the vanguard stumbling from the very first step, the original plan was already dead.
Deciding to act, the noble moved his cavalry to strike the side of Gurgast's rampaging unit. Tilleul saw the movement and let loose a volley of arrows in their path, seizing their momentum.
As their advance faltered for a heartbeat...
"Haaaaah!"
A voice rang out from nowhere. A shadow flashed before the cavalry commander's eyes, and in the next instant, his world plunged into darkness.
"...Well, I suppose this is about right," she muttered.
Vihera gave the claws protruding from her gauntlets a sharp flick, sending a spray of blood from her latest kill onto the ground. The man's head had been severed instantly; a massive fountain of blood erupted from his neck, drenching the surrounding cavalrymen.
The riders stood frozen, dazed by the sight of their commander's sudden decapitation. They only snapped out of it at Vihera's mutter, reflexively leveling their spears and swords...
"Uoooooooh!"
Another roar caused them to freeze once more.
Several cavalrymen turned toward the sound to see about twenty rebel cavalrymen charging toward them, weapons raised.
By taking out the commander, Vihera had drawn the enemy's attention, and her own cavalry had capitalized on that opening to strike. Ordinarily, the sound of hooves would have alerted them, but the din of the battle between Gurgast's men and the vanguard had masked their approach.
The subjugation cavalry realized they needed to respond, but their next move was the problem. Some tried to intercept the charge; others tried to pull back and regroup. With their commander killed in the opening seconds, there was no unified plan.
In that heartbeat, the unit ceased to be a cohesive force and devolved into a disorganized collection of individual riders.
Vihera's cavalry tore into them, desperate to reach their commander. They knew she was isolated among the enemy and were determined to regroup at any cost.
The disadvantages for the subjugation cavalry continued to mount.
"Damn it, they're picking us off! Fall back and reform! We need to find another noble to take comm— Wait?"
One cavalryman called out to his colleague. Despite the slaughter happening around them, his friend hadn't moved an inch.
As if his voice were a signal, the silent rider wordlessly lost his balance and tumbled from his horse to the ground.
Confused, the man scanned his surroundings—and spotted her.
Vihera.
She had been the first to plunge into their ranks. Though she was a threat they should never have lost track of, they had been so distracted by the charging rebel cavalry that she had slipped from their awareness.
The moment he saw her, the man reflexively gripped his spear, but it was too late. Vihera struck him through his leather armor with a Magic Impact Palm. His internal organs were instantly pulverized, and he collapsed lifelessly to the earth.