I Picked Up the Fallen Earth

Chapter 3 The Key to Fate (1)

With a forceful slash, Jeron cleaves through the neck of a Barbarian who had broken through the shield wall.

Hot blood spurts out, drenching his face.

The fort’s ramparts had crumbled, allies and enemies clashing in tight quarters, slashing and stabbing at one another. It was far from the glorious battles seen in movies. Instead, it felt like a tedious push and pull, where a breach in the line of shields would inevitably lead to a rusted axe chopping down on a soldier’s shoulder.

Wearing helmets meant the enemies knew better than to target the head, aiming for other vulnerabilities instead. Once the melee began, it turned into a chaotic brawl.

Thwack!

“Aaagh!”

“Jerick is down! Pull him out quick!”

Despite being morning, intense heat already permeated the battlefield.

A mere 6-meter wide gap was all that separated them, through which the enemies desperately tried to break through, prolonging the melee.

“Garcia! Where are you?”

“Right here, young lord!”

Though often caught in bouts of serious egotism, spouting nonsense, Garcia’s knighthood was not just for show. He darted back and forth, diligently covering areas vulnerable to breaches, his appearance obscured by blood save for his eyes and teeth.

“What about the flanking forces?”

“We’ve hastily gathered a hundred reserves, Sir Jenald is leading the flank!”

“Damn it! Why is it taking so long?”

One by one, their forces began to dwindle. Considering the cost of training a single soldier, the accumulating losses posed a threat to the lordship’s very survival.

In this harsh era, losing more soldiers was not an option.

Behind the frontlines, the wounded were continuously carried off on stretchers. Thankfully, the archers stationed atop the walls provided relentless cover, thinning the enemy ranks with their arrows.

The clashing of weapons, screams from rusted axe wounds, and death cries created a maddening cacophony. Yet, Jeron tried to maintain a clear understanding of the situation.

‘The enemy numbers around 200. We have 100 soldiers and 30 archers. What about the flanking forces?’

In the distance, Sir Jenald was rapidly approaching, having maneuvered around for a swift attack. The loyal knight exhibited a vigor that belied his age, leading the charge. When they were about 300 meters away, he spurred his forces into a full-on sprint.

Watching this, Jeron felt as if his lungs would burst.

A perfect encirclement.

Sir Jenald, leading a hundred soldiers and ten knights, began slaughtering the Barbarians from the rear. The enemies, having only focused on the front, fell quickly. Even though they had been holding their ground, being sandwiched between forces and relentlessly attacked by archers broke their spirit, forcing them to surrender and kneel.

Sir Garcia reported.

“Young lord, rejoice! We have eliminated the enemy!”

“Yaaaah!”

While the soldiers cheered, Jeron felt no joy. The battle had resulted in dozens of casualties.

A single hit from a rusted axe could lead to tetanus or sepsis, stealing lives. Ridiculous as it may seem, on the battlefield, a Barbarian’s axe was a deadly weapon.

The battlefield was quickly cleared up.

Sir Jenald, realizing the problems posed by the gap, wasted no time employing soldiers in makeshift repairs.

Just then, Jeron turned to see.

“The expeditionary force!”

In the distance, flags bearing the gold dragon of their house were visible. About 200 men in total, with many limping or being carted with injuries, the situation seemed dire.

Guarded tightly by soldiers, a carriage carried the baron, who lay wounded.

“Oh no, damn it! Father!”

With a shiver of dread, Jeron bolted out of the castle gates.

As Jeron approached, knights and soldiers amidst the chaos knelt on one knee, saluting him.

“What in the world happened?”

“My apologies, young lord. The Lord was hit by an arrow while subduing the Barbarians. We’ve administered first aid, but…”

Sir James, the leader of the knight order, showed a face full of sorrow.

James, too, didn’t seem in great shape – evident from the bruises and cuts all over him.

Many soldiers and knights were injured.

The force had lost 30% of its troops, so one didn’t need to hear the details to understand the severity of the battles they had faced.

“Quickly, move my father and call for a cleric!”

The whole fief was engulfed in the atmosphere of mourning.

A hundred of the expeditionary force had fallen, their bodies returned piled high on carts.

From what was said, the Barbarians had grown in number since last encountered, and the expedition managed to kill their warlord.

In the aftermath, the survivors had fled south.

Jeron’s guess was correct.

The forces that had invaded his lands were leftovers from the defeated.

It seemed the Barbarian horde was wiped out, but the losses were severe.

Starting with Baron Ark Farrow,

“…I’m sorry to say, my young lord. It seems we must amputate the arm.”

“What? Amputate the arm? Do you realize what you’re saying? Our family has been a family of war nobles for generations. How is a lord supposed to go to war if he’s missing an arm!”

“This is the best course of action now.”

Jeron wanted to punch the balding old cleric, but he managed to restrain himself.

Hitting the cleric would have been satisfying, but then they would never aid their land again.

Baron Ark Farrow was still unconscious, and the arrow wound was festering with metal poison.

Pus had already begun trickling out, and not amputating the arm would likely lead to death within days.

Even with the arm gone, it was doubtful whether tetanus or septicemia could be fended off.

“We need to decide.”

The vassals were pressing Jeron for a decision.

Even his mother and sister awaited his call.

If the arm was to be removed, it was on Jeron to do it.

The knights could not bear to sever their lord’s arm themselves.

Gritting his teeth, Jeron meticulously cleaned his sword and sterilized it with fire.

The furnace was stoked even hotter, and a cautery iron prepared.

The wound had to be burnt immediately after amputation to stop the bleeding.

“Hold him tight.”

A somber mood enveloped the room.

For a son to amputate his father’s arm was no easy task.

But this was not a matter of choice, so Jeron steeled his heart.

Any hesitation could jeopardize the Baron’s life even more.

“I’m sorry, Father!”

Swoosh!

Splurt!

Blood sprayed in all directions.

It was impossible for the amputation to be clean with no medical equipment.

Sir Jenald, experienced in such matters, immediately applied the cautery.

“Arghhh!”

Even unconscious, Baron Ark Farrow screamed.

The cleric poured divine energy into the wound, but soon after, the Baron lay still, as if dead.

The mental blow to Jeron, who held memories of a more advanced era, was truly immense.

Who could cut off his father’s arm and remain unaffected?

Most likely, it would leave a deep trauma.

In this barbaric world, such traumas were continuously created, yet one had no choice but to endure and live on.

Even after leaving the castle, Jeron could find no rest.

From dealing with the aftermath of the day’s battle to tending to the wounded from the expedition.The makeshift, ramshackle barracks were crammed full of the wounded.

As mid-June approached, the relentless sunshine rendered the inside of the barracks no different from a steam room.

With all the injured packed inside, one couldn’t help but wonder if this place was not so much a sanatorium, but rather, the worst environment imaginable for exacerbating their conditions.

Those who had been injured today were somewhat better off, but with the hot weather and over a week’s travel, wounds had festered and burst, emitting various foul odors.

The methods used to treat these patients instinctively made one crinkle their nose. The rotting parts were crudely cut away with a knife and sewn together with a needle before being wrapped in bandages.

If all else failed, amputation was the only option. Blood dripped continuously from a large bowl filled with assorted severed limbs and other parts of the body.

Jeron had insisted that people wash their hands and at least boil the bandages, but it was uncertain if these measures alone could prevent infection. All they could do was rely on the divine power of the priest to survive.

“I am unworthy, milord,” said Commander James, his head and arms wrapped in bandages, as he approached with a humble expression and saluted.

Jeron did not miss the look of despair hidden in his steadfast eyes.

“Follow me.”

Outside the barracks, under the shade of a tree, Jeron listened to Commander James’ report.

“Through this expedition, we have discovered that the Barbarians are far greater in number than we had anticipated.”

“Greater in number?”

“Until now, the Barbarians had sent small groups to raid and then return northward. However, they are now moving southward in large numbers with intentions of settling. It will surely become a significant problem by the end of the year.”

“Commander James, you must have heard that we might soon be going to war with the Kingdom of Lapis.”

“Yes, I have heard.”

“We cannot afford to focus on the Barbarians as well.”

“However… if we do not increase our military strength, we will face grave consequences.”

Commander James’ eyes wavered, and Jeron saw fear in them. Considering the worst-case scenario, if they went to war and the Barbarians took advantage of this to move southward in mass, the likelihood of their lands being destroyed was very high. Regenerating lost troops was not as simple as it seemed.

It required at least six months of training and provisioning of equipment, not to mention actual combat experience to become somewhat useful.

Recruiting an excessive number of young men could also disrupt agricultural work. This wasn’t a game or a novel where things just magically happen.

“How many troops do you believe we need to prepare for the future?”

“At least two thousand.”

“Sigh, this is an accursed situation.”

This wasn’t something that could be resolved by consulting with the head of the knights alone. Later that evening, Jeron was informed that Baron Ark Farrow had awakened.

The atmosphere was exceedingly solemn. The knights rigorously guarded the lord’s room. The faces of a teary mother and a visibly swollen sister were also there, indicating that the condition of Ark Farrow was critical.

‘If only we had a few antibiotics, none of this would have happened.’

Despite having his arm amputated, the father’s condition had not improved, but worsened. His complexion was pale, and the pus oozing from the bandaged arm showed no signs of recovery.

“Father.”

Jeron took his father’s hand, which barely had any strength.

With a gurgling voice, the Baron barely managed to speak, “There’s… not much time left.”

“You will recover, I will make sure of it.”

“I know my own condition, cough! It’s time for you to succeed me.”

“That won’t do! I still have so much to learn!”

His words were earnest. There were still so many things he had yet to adapt to. Could Jeron truly handle it?

Ark Farrow opened his mouth again, “My son…. You must now carry on the power of our family.”

“The family power you’re referring to…”

“The dragon vein, the power that has been passed down from father to son in our family for generations.”