Chương 35: Victory Was Too Expensive

Before Sieghart could settle upon a strategy to help his grandfather, he felt the temperature around the camp begin to fall. The change was subtle at first, little more than a cool breath passing across his sweat-covered face. He initially assumed that one of the defenders had activated a wide-range ice enchantment. However, no blue light appeared above the battlefield, and the cold wasn't coming from any particular section of the defensive formation. The oppressive heat was simply disappearing.

Flames still burned across the shattered barricades, but they no longer bent toward the Firians with the same intensity. The shimmering distortions surrounding their bodies weakened, allowing Sieghart to see their movements more clearly. A moment later, the enemy began to retreat. The withdrawal didn't resemble a panicked rout. The Firians closest to the defenders released several final waves of fire, forcing the Aura users to protect themselves instead of pursuing.

Those farther away collected their wounded and moved toward the scorched hills in small groups. Even while retreating, they maintained enough distance between one another to reduce the effectiveness of arrows and magical bombardments. Several defenders cheered when they realized that the attack was ending. Others fired after the fleeing enemies, desperately attempting to kill a few more before they escaped beyond the enchanted bows' effective range. Sieghart didn't join the celebration.

He focused his eyes upon the retreating Firians and examined the red light beneath their skin. The glow had become weaker, especially around their arms, legs, and chests. Some of the warriors who had fought most fiercely no longer radiated enough heat to distort the surrounding air. Their movements had also slowed, although they still possessed enough strength to retreat in an orderly formation. Sieghart raised one hand and felt the wind moving across the battlefield.

It remained warm, but the unbearable temperature produced by the enemy's arrival had already dropped significantly.

"Perhaps they gather heat from the sun during the day and spend it during battle." The theory sounded absurd when spoken aloud, but nothing else explained the pattern as cleanly. The Firians had attacked shortly after sunset because that was when their bodies contained the greatest amount of stored heat. During the day, they probably remained beneath the sun and absorbed energy continuously. Once darkness arrived, they could release that energy without losing anything they might otherwise have gathered.

That also explained why they hadn't waited until midnight or attacked shortly before sunrise. By then, much of the heat stored within their bodies would have dissipated naturally or been consumed by whatever processes kept them alive. The Firians had chosen the best possible moment. They entered battle immediately after losing access to the sun, used their stored heat to overwhelm the defenders, and retreated before exhausting themselves completely.

"They need some energy left to heal their wounds too." Sieghart watched one retreating Firian place a glowing hand over an arrow wound in his thigh. The light around the man's palm faded gradually while the bleeding slowed enough for him to continue walking. Flames and healing didn't sound like things that should belong together. On Earth, intense heat damaged tissue, destroyed cells, and made wounds considerably worse. In this world, the Firians appeared to convert heat into something their bodies could use.

Perhaps they weren't healing with fire directly, but transforming thermal energy into vitality. Sieghart wanted to call the entire process insanity and leave the explanation there. Unfortunately, his curiosity refused to accept such a convenient answer. If the Firians could transform heat into physical strength and healing, then their power followed rules. Anything governed by rules had limitations, costs, and weaknesses waiting to be discovered.

Their ability reminded Sieghart of his own magic in an uncomfortable way. He used emotion to give mana a particular form, while they absorbed environmental heat and converted it into something resembling Aura. The process was different, but not entirely unrelated. Both powers required an external condition to produce a supernatural result. If heat becomes vitality, what happens inside their bodies during the transformation? More importantly, what happens if the process is interrupted halfway through?

Sieghart wished he had access to a library filled with books about the Firians. The few historical volumes he had read described fallen humans, forbidden methods, and terrible wars, but they rarely explained the mechanics behind those powers. Most writers seemed more interested in condemning the enemies than understanding them. Calling someone an abomination required far less effort than carefully recording how their abilities worked. Unfortunately, ignorance was expensive during battle.

The defenders had known that the Firians would attack with heat, yet they had still suffered heavy losses. Their ice weapons slowed the enemy, but every magical tool possessed a strict limit. Meanwhile, the Firians had arrived carrying an entire day of sunlight within their bodies. They didn't need supply wagons filled with mana stones because their own flesh served as both weapon and fuel. Sieghart looked across the battlefield as the remaining flames gradually weakened.

With the enemy retreating, healers and soldiers moved beyond the barricades to recover the wounded. The true cost of the battle became visible. Bodies lay among the shattered wood, broken weapons, and patches of blackened earth. Some belonged to Firians, but most wore the armor and colors of the defending army. Sieghart counted as carefully as the distance allowed. Only a few dozen Firians appeared to have died.

The retreating groups carried several wounded warriors, but many of those injuries were already beginning to heal. The defenders had lost close to three times that number. At least a hundred soldiers remained motionless upon the battlefield, and several others were injured badly enough that they might not survive the night. Even more had suffered burns that would prevent them from fighting again soon. The battle had lasted only a short time.

Sieghart felt his stomach tighten when he understood what those numbers meant. The camp contained a few thousand Aura users, but not all of them were healthy enough to fight. If the Firians attacked every evening and produced similar results, the defenders would be weakened steadily. Reinforcements could replace some losses, but the eastern territories couldn't continue sending people forever. The Firians didn't need to conquer the camp tonight. They only needed to make the defenders pay more for every battle.

These people are crazy fuckers, but they are playing the long game. The thought was more frightening than any fireball. Fanatics were dangerous, but fanatics who planned carefully could destroy entire kingdoms while their enemies continued dismissing them as savages. The Firians knew exactly how much heat they could spend without endangering their retreat. They understood the range of enchanted weapons, the limitations of defensive formations, and the exhaustion suffered by the Aura users.

They had probably repeated these attacks at other camps and fortified towns. Every battle gave them more information, while the defenders lost experienced soldiers who could have used that information against them. Several officers ordered the archers to stop firing. Pursuing the enemy across unfamiliar terrain after sunset would have been foolish, especially when the Firians still possessed enough stored heat to fight back. The cheering gradually died.

Without the sounds of combat to conceal them, the cries of the wounded spread through the camp. Healers shouted for bandages, assistants carried water, and soldiers called the names of companions who no longer answered. The retreat suddenly felt much less like a victory. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Sieghart searched the returning soldiers for his grandfather.

Numerous people moved through the broken defensive line, forcing him to examine each figure carefully. For several painful seconds, he couldn't find Edric. A wounded archer passed between the tents while holding one hand against his burned face. Two more men followed, carrying someone upon a makeshift stretcher made from spears and a torn cloak. Sieghart's heartbeat accelerated. He told himself that his grandfather was probably helping the others.

Edric had been selected as the representative of their group, so he couldn't simply abandon the soldiers under his command and return immediately. The explanation was reasonable. It did nothing to make Sieghart feel better. He took several steps toward the front before remembering Edric's order. The battle had ended, but the field remained dangerous, and hidden enemies could still be waiting beyond the smoke. Sieghart stopped beside the final row of tents and clenched his hands.

His control over his expression weakened each time another group returned without his grandfather. If he doesn't appear in the next minute, I am going there. He can complain about disobedience after I confirm that he still possesses enough lungs to complain. Then Sieghart saw a familiar head of white hair among the returning archers. Edric walked with the enchanted bow resting across one shoulder. His clothing was dirty, and the edge of one sleeve had been scorched, but he moved without limping.

Sieghart released the breath trapped inside his chest. He hadn't realized how much tension had gathered in his shoulders until it vanished all at once. His grandfather looked unscathed at first glance, but the heat had turned his face deeply red. His hands and forearms were discolored as well, appearing only a few moments away from developing light burns. Edric had avoided any direct fire attacks, but remaining near the front line had exposed him to enough heat to damage his skin.

Another battle of similar intensity might leave him in far worse condition. He noticed Sieghart waiting and changed direction immediately. His tired expression softened, although the smile he attempted didn't reach his eyes. Sieghart examined him from head to toe, searching for hidden wounds. Edric's steps remained even, and there was no blood visible beneath his clothing. That didn't mean he was fine.

Aura users and experienced soldiers could continue moving after suffering injuries that would leave ordinary people unable to stand. Edric had also spent years pretending not to be tired whenever work needed to be finished on the farm.

"You're hurt."

"Only a little warm." Edric stopped in front of him and placed the enchanted bow against a wooden crate. When Sieghart continued staring at his arms, he casually pulled his sleeves down to cover the reddened skin. The attempt would have been more convincing if his hands hadn't been trembling slightly. Whether the shaking came from exhaustion, pain, or the remains of fear was difficult to determine. Edric noticed where Sieghart was looking and quickly reached forward.

He ruffled the boy's crimson hair, scattering the golden-tipped fringe across his forehead.

"I can still fight, so you shouldn't look so worried." Sieghart narrowed his eyes while Edric continued messing with his hair. His grandfather was clearly attempting to make the situation appear less serious than it was. The gesture had probably worked when Sieghart was younger. Now, it only confirmed that Edric didn't want to discuss whatever had happened on the battlefield.

"Your hands are shaking."

"They've been holding a bow for a long time."

"Your arms are burned."

"They're slightly red."

"You smell like smoke."

"Everyone smells like smoke." Sieghart couldn't argue with the final point because the entire camp smelled like burned wood, heated metal, and something far less pleasant. He still didn't appreciate the attempt to avoid his questions. Edric withdrew his hand and looked toward the battlefield. The forced lightness disappeared from his expression once he saw the bodies being carried through the broken defenses. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Sieghart had never seen his grandfather look so old.

Edric remained physically strong for his age, but exhaustion had deepened every line across his face. The battle hadn't merely drained his strength. It had reminded him of something he probably preferred to forget, perhaps from the war he had fought decades earlier.

"How many people from your group died?" Edric remained silent long enough to make the answer obvious.

"Grandpa?"

"Seven." Sieghart looked toward the returning reinforcements. Their group had reached the camp only hours earlier, and seven people were already dead.

"How many were injured?"

"Fourteen badly enough that they won't fight tomorrow." That meant more than twenty members of Edric's group had been removed from active duty during their first battle. If the other groups suffered similar losses, the reinforcements had already lost a significant portion of their strength. Sieghart understood why Edric had tried to appear unconcerned. Admitting the truth wouldn't change anything, and he didn't want a five-year-old carrying the weight of those deaths.

Unfortunately, Sieghart's mind had stopped being five years old long before his new body was born.

"We lost." Edric frowned.

"The Firians retreated."

"They killed more of us than we killed of them. They also took most of their wounded, and some of those people will heal before tomorrow." Edric glanced around, perhaps checking whether any officers were close enough to hear. Declaring a battle lost when the enemy had withdrawn wasn't the sort of statement commanders enjoyed.

"We held the camp."

"And what happens when they return tomorrow?" His grandfather didn't answer. That silence carried more weight than any explanation. Edric knew that the defenders couldn't continue exchanging lives at the current rate. Even if the camp survived for another week, it would emerge weaker. The Firians would retreat whenever their stored heat ran low, recover beneath the sun, and return after sunset. They had turned the daily cycle itself into a weapon. Sieghart looked at the enchanted bow beside the crate.

Its runes had lost their glow, confirming that Edric had exhausted every stored arrow during the battle.

"Give me the bow." Edric hesitated before handing it over. Sieghart touched the string and began transferring mana into the weapon, refilling the arrows one after another. The familiar work required almost no effort, yet Edric watched him with a troubled expression. Sieghart understood why after only a moment. The bow could be fully charged again within minutes. His grandfather couldn't. Weapons could be restored with mana, but the defenders needed sleep, food, medicine, and time.

Even then, some injuries would never heal completely. The Firians had developed their entire strategy around that difference. Sieghart finished charging the bow and passed it back. Edric accepted it silently, apparently unable to find anything reassuring to say. Around them, soldiers gathered every depleted magical weapon they could find. The pile waiting for Sieghart grew rapidly as the survivors prepared for another attack. The sight should have made him feel useful.

Instead, it emphasized how desperate the situation had become. His infinite mana could recharge every weapon in the camp, but that wouldn't replace the people required to wield them. If the current strategy remained unchanged, Sieghart would eventually stand surrounded by fully charged weapons and nobody alive to use them. Things couldn't continue like this. He watched healers carry another burned soldier past the tents.

The man's armor had partially melted against his side, and each movement drew another weak groan from his throat. Sieghart turned toward the dark horizon. The last Firians had already disappeared beyond the hills, taking their wounded and whatever knowledge they had gained from the attack. They would spend the night healing. When morning arrived, they would expose themselves to the sun and begin gathering heat again.

By the following sunset, their bodies would be full, their wounds would be closed, and the defenders would still be exhausted. Sieghart folded his arms and considered everything he had witnessed. The enemy's strength depended upon sunlight, stored heat, and control over when the battle began. That meant the defenders were making a mistake by waiting for them. If they are strongest after spending the entire day beneath the sun, then we need to fight them before they finish charging.

The obvious solution would be to attack shortly before sunrise, when the Firians' heat reserves should be at their lowest. Unfortunately, the enemy probably guarded its camp carefully during that vulnerable period. Convincing the commanders to risk an offensive would be another problem. Sieghart was a child officially present to recharge weapons, and military officers rarely accepted strategy lessons from someone who couldn't see over most tables. Still, he didn't need to command the army to improve its chances.

He needed information. Sieghart looked at his grandfather's reddened hands, then toward the distant hills hiding the retreating Firians. If the commanders refused to investigate the enemy, he would have to find another method. Edric appeared to recognize the direction of his thoughts. His expression immediately became stern, and he placed one hand upon Sieghart's shoulder before the boy could move.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't." Sieghart looked up at him.

"I wasn't thinking anything."

"That worries me even more." Sieghart almost smiled, but the screams coming from the healing tents kept the amusement from reaching his face. He had no intention of running into enemy territory alone. At least, not without preparing properly first. For now, he would charge the camp's weapons, examine the Firians' abilities, and determine how much heat they could store. He would also need to learn whether cold merely weakened them or prevented their healing entirely. The problem had rules.

Sieghart only needed to discover them before his grandfather's luck ran out. Beyond the eastern hills, the first distant flames appeared beneath the darkness. They were small, scattered, and far too numerous to belong to ordinary campfires. The surviving Firians had begun replenishing one another. Sieghart watched the red lights pulse and felt a cold certainty settle inside him despite the lingering heat. Tomorrow's battle had already begun.