Both sides find themselves in a precarious situation now.

  The noble Fabio killed was the youngest son of an earl from the Kingdom of Ika.

  The reinforcements that arrived were led by the unfortunate young man's brother.

  Upon learning of his brother's tragic death, he naturally seeks justice.

  As more people get drawn into the conflict, the situation becomes increasingly tangled and chaotic.

  By the time Henwell receives the news, the pins have turned into a chaotic battlefield with tens of thousands engaged in combat due to both sides' piecemeal tactics.

  Among them, two regur army corps from each side are fiercely battling, and other corps from the camp are urgently assembling.

  Other commanders of the peasant army are also mobilizing their elite guards and peasant soldiers, gradually joining the fray.

  As for Henwell, known in the camp as Fabio's attendant, it would be inappropriate for him not to join the rescue efforts, especially since the noble private armies are all heading to assist.

  Is he too young?

  No problem! His height makes up for it.

  To others, he appears ready for the battlefield. Many have seen him train, witnessing his sharp and disciplined swordsmanship, earning praise from numerous officers.

  Thus, Henwell ultimately steps onto the battlefield he has always tried to avoid from the start.

  Henwell decides against riding Fabio's spare warhorse or his mule, opting instead to move with the infantry.

  Standing tall on horseback would clearly be unwise; if a knight targeted him, mistaking him for a noble's offspring, he'd be in deep trouble.

  What would he say if captured?

  Ciming to be a kingdom's commoner taken as a prisoner by the enemy wouldn't fly—what common child gets treated so well as a captive?

  If he ran into someone with a short temper who didn't bother to ask questions before swinging a sword, he'd be in even worse shape.

  Sticking with the infantry seems like the safer bet. But only retively safer, as anything can happen on the battlefield.

  Despite being well-prepared, with chainmail underneath and leather armor on top—making him well-protected against peasant weapons and arrows—Henwell knows the unpredictability of war.

  He's sparred with peasant soldiers and can handle attacks from three of them without being at a disadvantage.

  Yet, as the saying goes, anything can happen in the chaos of battle.

  There are tales of knights being unseated and killed by peasants with pitchforks; Henwell's physique doesn't offer much more protection than that.

  He tries hard to calm himself, but as he gets closer to the battlefield, his heart pounds more fiercely.

  Finally, Henwell and the peasant soldiers charge into the fray, surrounded by screams, the csh of weapons, and officers barking orders.

  All these sounds meld together like the whispers of demons, or perhaps the distant calls of family, echoing deep in his ears.

  The cacophony leaves Henwell dazed, a dizzying sensation making him forget all the pns he had painstakingly crafted.

  He isn't sure how much time passes before a peasant soldier in front of him suddenly clutches his throat and falls back, blood spraying into the air and creating a crimson mist that nds squarely on Henwell's face.

  His vision turns red, and the nauseating scent of blood fills his nose, seeping onto his taste buds.

  Before he can process what's happening, a gust of wind rushes toward his face.

  Instinctively, Henwell leans back to dodge, but his chest is struck hard, throwing him off bance and onto the ground.

  The peasant soldier's spear, having missed its mark, sms down onto Henwell's chest. Henwell rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding another thrust aimed at him.

  In this life-or-death moment, Henwell's survival instincts kick in.

  He grabs the shaft of the spear and uses the momentum of the soldier pulling back to spring to his feet.

  The opponent, pulled off bance, stumbles forward.

  Henwell, now standing, seizes the opportunity and thrusts his short sword into the soldier's chest.

  The man tries to shove Henwell away, but with his heart pierced, his strength drains away, and his hands fall limply onto Henwell's shoulders.

  Henwell is knocked down under the weight, but regains his senses and pushes the soldier off.

  Rising once more, Henwell gazes at this gay, who now lies with a short sword embedded in his chest.

  The man's gaze begins to fade, blood frothing from his mouth as his dying body twitches slightly.

  He's young, probably around twenty years old.

  He must be an adult, Henwell reassures himself.

  Henwell tries hard not to look at the man's face, gripping the hilt to pull out the short sword.

  But the bde seems to be embedded in the man's body, refusing to budge despite Henwell's efforts.

  Perhaps Henwell hasn't realized that his own strength has abandoned him.

  Despite having imagined countless scenarios of killing, when it comes to taking the life of another human, Henwell's mind and spirit are deeply shaken.

  This isn't a game, a movie, or a novel—it's the grim reality of having killed someone. Someone not much older than himself.

  Yet the screams around him force Henwell to wrestle himself out of this emotional turmoil.

  Clenching his teeth, he steps forward and yanks his short sword free, gncing down at the already deceased young man.

  Then, with determination, he strides forward to face his next opponent.

  Henwell doesn't know how much time has passed as he wipes the blood off his face with his arm, gasping for breath.

  This was his fourth kill. The opponent was particurly tough—tall, cd in a makeshift leather armor that, while ugly, provided solid protection, and stronger than Henwell.

  If it weren't for Henwell's smaller frame and nimble footwork, allowing him to slip into the opponent's blind spot and stab through the ribs to the heart, the fight might have dragged on much longer.

  Henwell realizes he can't keep up this pace of killing. It's not about a guilty conscience, but rather not wanting to draw too much attention.

  In this chaotic battle involving thousands, no matter how many you kill, new opponents will always emerge.

  So, he figures it's better to find a safe opponent to engage with at a slower pace.

  Soon, Henwell finds a suitable opponent—a middle-aged man who clearly isn't skilled in combat, attacking only in straightforward moves.

  If Henwell wanted to switch opponents, this man would have been dead long ago.

  Instead, Henwell decides to drag out the fight until the battle winds down, both sides too exhausted to continue.

  As the horns sound, signaling a retreat, the forces slowly pull back from each other.

  At the first note of the retreat horn, Henwell kicks away his unarmed opponent, who was charging at him, and turns to sprint back to camp.

  His opponent, who had resigned himself to death, is left bewildered, not knowing what just happened.

  Back at camp, Henwell removes his armor and chainmail, starting to bandage his wounds. There's a cut on his left arm and a graze from an arrow on his right leg.

  After cleaning the wounds, he begins stitching them up himself, all the while praying that the weapons weren't tainted with tetanus.

  He feels no pain, aware that adrenaline is kicking in. Damn it! I'm still just a kid! He wonders if too much adrenaline might affect his ability to have kids in the future.