Chapter 219: What He Left Behind
The Alliance Forces established a temporary encampment on the high ground. The mountain range still loomed tall, and the earth was hard beneath their feet. The mere fact of having escaped the battlefield should have drawn sighs of relief, yet no one could easily loosen the tension that gripped them. They were only now, belatedly, coming to terms with their defeat.
A silence drifted through the air—though its texture was different from before.
The wounded were brought down first.
The smell of blood spread slowly. Hastily tied bandages had bled through into a dark, viscous red, and those who had lost arms and legs sat vacant-eyed. The clergy moved without a word. No conversations passed between them. Even asking whether someone could survive felt like a luxury. Who would lie down first, who would drink water first—it all proceeded in silence, in a quietly predetermined order.
The Alliance Forces had suffered heavily. Their formation had not completely collapsed. They had barely managed to pull back before being swallowed by the monsters, holding on just long enough to keep the army from breaking apart entirely. Yet the cost had been paid. No one wished to speak the numbers aloud, but in the end, they had to be said.
"Get the casualties counted."
At the brief command, the lower commanders of each unit filed their reports. With nothing left to write on, they tore strips of cloth and recorded figures upon them.
The numbers came out plainly. They had no choice but to.
"……That is all."
"So roughly a third survived."
When the final report concluded, silence descended again. The casualty count was too great. There was no energy left even for anger.
And yet—the worst had been avoided.
The Kalahim cavalry.
Had they not joined, half of the soldiers standing here now would not exist. Everyone knew that. Kalahim had not brought victory, but they had prevented collapse.
"A relief. Late, but arrived just in time."
From the head of the cavalry, a man dismounted. His armor bore fresh scratches, and his horse's breath still heaved in ragged bursts.
Ranakk paused at the edge of the encampment for just a moment. In that brief instant, he seemed to be retracing the journey it had taken to reach this place.
The urgent timeline. A fractured Kalahim. Within all of that, he had bound the tribes back together. He had secured the support of the Master, and held a memorial gathering in honor of Great Chief Yoman. And that night, Kalahim had once again united beneath a single banner.
Few knew the precise details of what had transpired—but there was no need to.
Adrian stepped forward to meet him.
"……Ranakk. No—I suppose I should now call you Great Chief Ranakk. Is this all of Kalahim's forces?"
"Yes. Beyond this, it is not possible."
No apology. No excuse. He stated only the facts.
"I suppose not. Even so, this is enough."
Adrian gave a short nod and answered plainly. And truly it was. A few thousand cavalry could not reverse the tide of war—but they had carried the final moments of yesterday through.
Immediately after, Ranakk's gaze shifted toward the center of the encampment. It was where the Mountain Rabbits sat gathered.
"And Calix……"
"……He still needs time."
As those words suggested, the Mountain Rabbits needed time. Not to bow their heads in weeping, or to mourn those who had departed. Instead, they had scattered to find what needed doing. Maintaining weapons, tending to the hooves of horses, carrying the wounded, retrieving the gear of the fallen.
Without so much as meeting each other's eyes, each of them stayed busy with something.
To keep from breaking down.
Then, one by one, they gradually gathered around the campfire. Calix was already seated there. The exhaustion of battle had sunk all the way into his bones. Even so, a flame flickered in his eyes.
Soon, Basim and Volga, then Zahira and Hadiya as well—not just the core members, but the entire Mountain Rabbits had come together in one place.
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then Marik let the words fall out, bluntly.
"The captain did not return."
His voice did not waver. It could not. If even the Vice-captain faltered, everything barely held in place would come pouring down with him.
The veteran mercenaries understood that well.
Gregor added quietly,
"Not only the captain……The other Mountain Rabbits also covered our backs."
Those words pierced straight to the chest.
A deep darkness had settled over the encampment. The mood was grim, and the air was heavy. But one thing was certain.
The Mountain Rabbits had not broken.
At least—not in this moment.
***
The campfire burned low, its flames swaying gently.
The Mountain Rabbits sat in a loose circle, but none looked at one another's faces. With the fire between them, each gaze rested on the ground or at the tip of a weapon.
It was around that time that Marik opened his mouth.
"We need to sort things out first."
In a composed tone, he recited words he had long since committed to memory. They had been spoken enough times that he no longer needed to think to recall them.
"If the Captain is absent, the Vice-captain decides whether to continue fighting. The Mountain Rabbits were never made for any particular someone."
At those words, the veteran mercenaries gave the faintest of nods.
Marik kept his emotions from entering his voice. His tone was low, his pace steady. Calix instinctively knew these were not words being invented on the spot.
"This is not a standard made up on a whim."
The Vice-captain added briefly.
"The Captain had long prepared for the moment of defeat."
Crack—the campfire popped. Between that sound, short breaths wove through the silence. Someone bit their lip. Someone else gripped the cup in their hand tighter.
"The reason we are able to be here now is also because of that preparation."
Marik did not look at Calix. This was not comfort directed at any one person. It was words offered to the Mountain Rabbits as a whole.
Then, Basim took up the thread.
"Royce, you idiot. I knew it would come to this."
It began as a rough remark, yet what followed carried a mournfulness that was difficult to put into words.
"That man kept repeating the same things every time. Do you remember?"
His voice was different from Marik's. Rougher—and more emotional.
"Fighting cannot become the purpose. Surviving is the purpose."
The dwarf fell silent for a moment. Volga raised his head, and his eyes met Zahira's. Then, Hadiya continued,
"The Mountain Rabbits do not fight to win. They fight to remain Mountain Rabbits."
Everyone let out a hollow laugh. These were not words they were hearing for the first time. They simply had not expected to hear them like this.
Then, Marik looked across the fire. No—in truth, he had been watching only Calix all along.
"Calix."
"……"
"This is not your fault."
No answer came back, but the Vice-captain paid it no mind.
"This is the Captain's message."
Then, word by word, he conveyed it clearly,
"What matters is not that you do not fall. What matters is how you rise again. Remember the desert night when we spoke of this."
"……"
"And lastly……move like a Mountain Rabbit."
Marik spoke as steadily as he could manage. So that it would not sound like final words.
All the while, Gregor sipped at his warmed water. As if making sure Calix would hear, he drank with more noise than usual.
He, too, had known these words long before now. They had not been let slip in drink, nor were they pre-battle encouragement. They were words that had been repeated time and again in ordinary moments.
Yet as the silence stretched on too long, he clicked his tongue softly and muttered,
"That's why he was our leader, Cook Comrade."
There was no need to add a name. Everyone pictured the same person.
Silence passed once more.
But this silence was different from before. Not the kind of silence where one clutches tight for fear of crumbling—but the kind that asks to confirm the ground on which they stand.
Even after hearing those words, Calix gave no answer for a long while.
‘I had no right to flee. And no right to remain.’
That thought did not change. Neither Basim's words nor Marik's counsel erased that truth. He had retreated, and Royce had not come back.
That alone was the only fact.
And yet—
"……What matters is rising again."
A single sentence stirred something awake within him. Royce was gone—but he had left behind what mattered most. A treasure that had begun from his son, and been passed on to Calix.
The Mountain Rabbits themselves.
‘I will not run from failure. Not a second time.’
In that instant, the question changed.
What had been lacking, why they had lost—none of that mattered anymore.
How will I rise?
At last, Calix lifted his head. Past the flames, he looked at the Mountain Rabbits swaying in amber light. They were still silent. But not one of them turned their gaze away from his.
Calix understood.
What Royce had left him was not the act of surviving—it was the way to endure defeat. And that way was not yet finished.
He had to prove it.
Like a Mountain Rabbit.
***
The first step had simply been hard. Once he had risen, there was nothing left to hold him back.
Calix walked through the encampment. The mood within the Alliance Forces was, unexpectedly, not terrible. The soldiers knew they had been pushed back from the battlefield, but they did not know how Calix had lost. The commanders of each nation had done their part.
And walking beside him was an old man in a robe.
The mage Yelayen.
"De Generitum is……Divided. One part is the faint remnant of its human days, while the other is the self it has become as the Corrupted Lord. What allowed you to be let go was surely the influence of the former."
He spoke in a tone of certainty. Not speculation, not possibility—conviction.
"Yet even it knows this. That no matter how long that moment is postponed, a time will come when the victor must be decided."
Calix did not respond. Yelayen's words were less an explanation and more a confirmation.
"It is not a being shackled by mana. It uses its sword as a means, devours souls, and holds the hearts of men within its grasp."
Yelayen continued,
"If you were to face it again now, defeat is certain."
"……"
"That fact must be accepted, and the next step must be considered."
No one disputed those words. Neither did Calix. He knew the state of his own body better than anyone. His neural network had not yet recovered, and the output of his neural accelerator was no longer what it once was. Stepping to the front again now would be folly.
Even so—there is always an answer.
Calix turned his head and looked at the torches along the outer edge of the encampment. There were still forces capable of fighting. The Mountain Rabbits who had survived, and the heroes who had not been broken, remained.
"Certainly, De Generitum is stronger than I am."
Yelayen studied his face with a quiet, measured gaze.
"But war is not won by the strength of one person alone."
"That means……"
Calix said nothing for some time. Instead, he rearranged Yelayen's cold-eyed counsel within his mind. A foe difficult to face. A body not yet recovered. And allies whose spirit had not yet been crushed.
The conclusion was clear.
"What I possess, and what my opponent does not. I will fight drawing on that strength."
This was not the time to weigh numbers and conditions and the lay of the battlefield. What mattered was what they had, and how they would resist.
Fortunately, he knew that method well.
Better than anyone.