As the sun climbed high, on the Coastal Road a force of roughly two thousand soldiers was slowly spreading out across a broad, level stretch of land, marching and forming their battle array.
At the very front of the battlefield, the leading figure wore a dragon helm carved with the shapes of antlers and a lion's mane. He was clad in black armor inlaid with gold engravings and set with red gemstones.
Draped over his shoulders was a cloak of black and crimson. At its center was sewn a gemmed river motif—red on a black field, traced with gilt—its edges hemmed with gold thread, billowing in the wind.
Beneath him stood a dark chestnut warhorse, likewise clad in armor of the same colors. Steam hissed from its nostrils as it snorted heavily, and its hooves pawed at the ground from time to time, having already scraped out a small hollow without anyone noticing when it began.
Beside the man and his mount, a long cavalry lance stood upright, its tip planted in the earth.
On either side of the saddle hung, left and right, a massive greatsword and a warhammer of fearsome design.
Such a knight, armed to the teeth, naturally drew the eyes of the entire battlefield toward him.
Yet Kal merely drew his gaze back from the comet in the sky, letting out a faint snort.
From the moment this red comet had suddenly appeared in the heavens, several days had passed, and it still hung high beneath the vault of the sky, its position having shifted only slightly.
Taking a deep breath, Kal turned to glance at the army behind him as it adjusted its formation, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
Since the appearance of the red comet a few days earlier, he had set out the very next day, leading the newly consolidated army onward along the Coastal Road toward Old Oak.
His current position lay less than twenty-four kilometers from Old Oak.
For before him, another army had likewise appeared.
Having long received word of his arrival, Old Oak naturally chose to march out of the city to meet the challenge.
Thus, this was now the moment when the two armies faced each other in opposition.
The only blemish was that Kal's force, compared to the army opposite, appeared to number barely over half, close to two-thirds fewer in size.
As a result, its outward momentum seemed noticeably weaker.
What weighed on Kal's mind at this moment was how exactly to fight the coming battle.
However, his concern was not whether he could win.
Rather, he was deliberating how to minimize his own losses while still shattering, in a single decisive blow, the combined forces of Old Oak and Highgarden—and at the same time obtain the outcome he desired.
Because although he was fighting outnumbered, as someone who was essentially playing with cheats, if Kal truly unleashed his might and fought without restraint, then at most the several thousand men on the other side would only cause him the kind of trouble of deciding whom to chase first.
Moreover, with the red comet hanging high overhead and the magical tides surging, the magical particles in the air were growing richer with each passing day.
So long as he was willing, even if he used only the spell Lightning, and combined it with the remaining mana potions stored in his inventory to replenish power, he could still shock the several thousand troops opposite into muggles, making them understand what it meant for a thunder god to walk the world.
Even if, once the fighting began, these men were not wooden stakes that did not know how to run, it would only cost him some extra time.
But the problem lay precisely here, because for Kal, he did not actually want to kill or utterly crush everyone on the other side.
He wanted to win this battle while at the same time leaving these men with enough remaining strength.
Only in this way could he absorb and integrate these forces—armies he had long regarded as already in his grasp—and use war to snowball and accumulate manpower, which was what he currently lacked most.
After all, no accumulation of wealth was faster than what was taken by force.
Yes, from the very beginning, this had been Kal's plan.
This was also the main reason why he did not accept the goodwill that House Tyrell offered to him, but instead chose war.
In short, he wanted everything.
A big appetite, with no fear of being unable to swallow it.
Kal thought this way, and his calculations clicked so fast they were almost flying.
But when it came time to face it in person, he discovered that this was still an operation of extremely high difficulty.
Because if he truly wanted to do this, then the first problem Kal had to solve was how to guard against the nearly two thousand cavalry on the other side.
Otherwise, if those men mounted their horses and charged in all at once, then before he could even unleash his might, his own troops would already be smashed apart—what battle would there be left to fight then?
Surely he could not really let his eyes turn red and, in a fit of rage, stop acting like a human and leave all these people here out of sheer frustration?
With no good solution in mind for the moment, Kal could only turn his head back.
He lifted his gaze from the helmet he wore and looked toward the opposite side, less than 2.4 kilometers away.
Facing him, another army—whose total numbers together were likely more than twice his own—was likewise deploying its formation.
Nearly four thousand infantrymen among them were divided into square formations and deployed at the very front of the battlefield.
The remaining cavalry were distributed on the left and right flanks of the infantry squares, temporarily sheltering behind the infantry formations.
Several banners fluttered within the ranks. The most numerous and most striking of them was a golden rose in full bloom upon a verdant green field.
This was the sigil of House Tyrell of Highgarden.
Then there was the banner of House Oakheart of Old Oak: on a field of gold, three green leaf-like patterns.
As one of the Reach's most ancient houses, and one that still held power even under the Baratheon dynasty, the forces they could field were no fewer than those brought by Highgarden's host.
Garlan Tyrell, known as Garlan the Gallant, was likewise mounted at this moment. Over his silver armor he wore a green surcoat, bearing a device of two golden roses upon a green field.
This was the symbol he used to indicate his status as a second son.
"I never thought this war would be fought."
Garlan Tyrell—though he knew perfectly well why he had come—stared at the figure opposite. Yet his expression was filled with annoyance, bitterness, and resentment.
He wanted to curse something, but he also had no choice but to maintain his bearing.
Kal Baratheon's utterly shameless, rule-breaking, disgusting maneuver.
Not only did it ruin their plans, but now the only thing they could do was be forced to choose a side.
With something like this, who would feel at ease?
But the most disgusting part still was not that.
It was that the Highgarden rose who should have become Renly Baratheon's queen—his own younger sister, House Tyrell's most precious pearl, the beautiful and noble Margaery Tyrell—had been taken by Kal Baratheon, that damned bastard, and devoured clean to the last.
And now, not only was he refusing to acknowledge it, he was even claiming that he had found a hair in the bun afterward and was demanding compensation.
Where in the world was there such a principle?
Was there no law?
Was there no justice?
And the house that had originally intended to use Margaery to jump ship to Kal, because this matter had been dragged into the open, had directly soured its relationship with Renly Baratheon.
Then his own house also had no choice but to spend even greater effort to display its loyalty, in order to recover Renly Baratheon's trust.
It was simply going from being stuck in one rut to being blocked on both ends.
Originally, it had only been a choice between a cake that tasted like shit and shit that tasted like cake.
They not only had no choice left now, but on the contrary had to throw away both of their original options and instead choose to eat shit outright.
And while eating it, they even had to shout that it tasted good.
So how could this not make one furious?
It could be said that at this moment, as Garlan Tyrell looked at Kal Baratheon opposite him, he hated him so much his teeth itched.
Fortunately, this matter was about to be over.
In a moment, he would see whether this bastard truly had grown three eyes, whether his courage was really that great, and whether his head was also filled with stones and unable to turn—so blind to what was proper.
As for the miraculous incident that had occurred when Kal Baratheon was still just Kal Stone, back when King's Landing fell into crisis, Garlan Tyrell was of course well aware of it.
He had even personally witnessed this man's strength during the jousting at the tourney.
But that had only been a tourney, and a miracle brought about by a somewhat inexplicable accident.
This, however, was a battlefield—a real battlefield.
And the place where the two sides faced off was broad and boundless, with everything laid bare to the eye.
In any case, when it came to troop numbers in open battle, it was six thousand against two thousand. The advantage was on their side.
Unless that bastard born out of wedlock on the other side could use magic, he could not imagine what chance this Kal Baratheon—who seemed already mad—could possibly have of winning.
"This truly is a war that should never have happened."
As Garlan Tyrell spoke in a tone that sounded somewhat strange, another voice followed from beside him.
Lady Arwyn Oakheart—who, many years after her husband's death, had succeeded him as head of House Oakheart and Lady of Old Oak—was likewise looking toward the most conspicuous position within the opposing army.
However, her gaze was not on the black, crimson, and gold-clad figure, but rather on a white-armored knight at his side.
As she looked at that figure, she spoke with a tone tinged with resentment at wasted potential.
"But no matter what, now that matters have come to this, it is already over."
"Kal Baratheon truly should not have agreed to inherit the Iron Throne. The Westerlands are already large enough for him."
As one of those who had attended King Renly Baratheon's small council, Lady Arwyn Oakheart had, prior to the incident involving Kal, been counted among Renly Baratheon's loyal supporters.
Thus, she too had appeared on the battlefield now.
After all, not far behind her stood her family's ancestral seat, Old Oak. Whether she wished it or not, she had to be here.
And the Kal she spoke of was originally the king to whom she would also have sworn loyalty, after secretly learning of House Tyrell's choice.
But for some reason, this bastard had personally strangled that choice with his own hands.
Given an opportunity, and yet he was useless enough to waste it.
Looking at the white-clad figure, Lady Arwyn Oakheart cast a sideways glance at the man in black armor inlaid with gold, and could not help but mutter a reproach in her mind.
If benefits could be obtained without war, no one would be foolish enough to truly push for one.
But once fighting began, House Oakheart—standing at the very center of the storm—not only lost all room to choose, but instead had no option but to commit with full force.
"Yes. Let this farce end as soon as possible."
Garlan Tyrell, of course, understood the meaning behind Lady Arwyn Oakheart's words. How could he not think the same?
Seeing that the opposing side had also more or less finished deploying its troops, he turned his head and issued orders to the signal officers beside him.
On the battlefield, Lady Arwyn Oakheart, being a woman, naturally would not advance. She remained in place with a small escort.
Then the remaining forces of the Reach maintained their formation and slowly pressed forward toward the opposing battle lines of the Westerlands army.
With nearly six thousand men facing two thousand, as the side holding the advantage, neither Garlan Tyrell nor Lady Arwyn Oakheart would ever choose to turtle up inside a castle and fight a defensive battle.
Meeting them head-on and flattening them in a single push was the fastest way to bring matters to an end.
Besides, even if Kal had not come, they would have gone personally to Crakehall to look for trouble with him.
After all, ever since Kal sent that letter from Crakehall, this war—which should never have happened—had been driven into a situation where it could not be avoided.
Both sides understood that at a moment like this, there was no longer any room for negotiation. Only after fighting a battle could they then discuss who was right and who was wrong.
Because the reason this war had become unavoidable had long since shifted—from the surface-level matter of honor to a struggle over positions that had to be openly demonstrated.
"I remember that Ser Arys Oakheart is your child, is he not?"
Before leaving, Garlan Tyrell lifted his lance and suddenly asked Lady Arwyn Oakheart.
Hearing his question, Lady Arwyn Oakheart paused slightly, then shook her head.
"He is my child, but he is also an honorable Kingsguard."
Garlan smiled faintly at those words and said nothing more, riding off on horseback.
On the other side, Kal naturally also noticed the movements of the Reach army.
With several thousand men and horses advancing in orderly motion, the ground could not help but tremble slightly, and the rumbling sound could be heard even from this distance.
Kal then withdrew his gaze from the game panel that only he himself could see.
"Oh? The enemy not only refuses to surrender, but actually dares to attack me?"
Looking at the long, stretching column of men and horses ahead, raising clouds of dust, Kal flicked his finger lightly, and the panel vanished from view.
Then a faint glow lit up in his hand.
This was the solution he had come up with.
At his words, Arys Oakheart and Balon Swann, who stood beside Kal, could not help but cast him a speechless look.
But bound by their oaths, they could only grimly tighten their grips on their reins and weapons.
"Your Grace, we will be the most loyal shield at your side," Balon Swann vowed in a low voice.
Kal merely glanced at him, then reached out and firmly grasped the cavalry lance planted in the ground.
The faint glow on his hand spread at the instant he seized the lance, flowing along the entire shaft and growing ever brighter.
[Weapon Enchantment]
This was the method Kal had devised.
Since killing them all would not do, and not killing them would not do either—
Then let these people witness a god's miracle.
As the cavalry lance gradually began to glow, even Arys Oakheart and Balon Swann, who moments earlier had still worn solemn expressions—and even the battle formation that had just finished deploying behind them—could not help but turn their gazes toward that lance, which had been drawn from the ground and raised high in one hand, radiating a brilliance like warm sunlight.
Beholding a miracle, everyone's eyes widened unconsciously at that moment, their mouths slowly falling open in silent shock.
From within his helmet, Kal quietly took all of this in. This was exactly the effect he wanted.
Since he could not strike the enemy down physically, he would shatter them mentally.
He would show them who the true authority was.
"I do not need you to become my shield."
"I only ask that you keep pace with me."
Already having taken his potion early, Fawkes, whose head now felt slightly light and sharp with excitement, could no longer restrain himself.
He felt only boredom. All he wanted was slaughter.
So the moment Kal spoke, Fawkes—whose intent was in perfect accord with his rider—carried his master forward, breaking into motion. After letting out a high, ringing neigh, the instant his hooves struck the ground again, he had already become a streaking afterimage, charging out.
Like a gust of wind, man and horse—Kal and Fawkes—launched a lone charge toward the opposing army.
Behind them, the red-and-black cloak streamed, the S-shaped gemstone river pattern upon it appearing and vanishing, like a banner of victory.
The radiant lance, raised high and glowing like a sun upon the mortal world beneath the light of the crimson comet, was leveled straight toward the enemy.
At the same time, lightning erupted out of nothingness around the man and horse, spreading through the air around Kal like a divine field of thunder. Bolts struck the ground, scattering clods of earth.
An invincible momentum surged forth, growing stronger and stronger with the speed and distance of the charge.
And that S-shaped gemstone river seemed already to be telling the world the story that belonged to it.
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