I'm the Crazy One in the Family-Chapter 338: River of Blood, Mountain of Screams (1)

A new military branch had officially been formed within Sefira: the Crusaders, a group of marksmen who were led by Keter and used rapid-fire crossbows, which were engineered by Volkanus.

Their primary mission was one Sefira had previously lacked almost entirely: intelligence. Acting as an espionage unit, they were dispatched across the kingdom to gather shocking information and relay it back to Sefira.

In Sefira’s grand conference hall, with all vassals assembled, Hissop shot to his feet and stared at Taragon in disbelief.

“Repeat that, Captain Taragon.”

Taragon was the head of the Crusaders. Now that he held the position, the hesitant man of the past was gone. With a hardened expression, he took a breath and reported again clearly.

“Rukan’s army is estimated at two million. Rakan’s army stands at eight hundred thousand. More than half of them are child soldiers, and half of the remainder are retired soldiers and elderly men.

“Additionally, the southern noble families Garcia and Luban have mobilized their entire forces to Sefira’s border. They have even recalled the knights stationed at the frontier. The estimated number is twenty thousand, including all knights and even commander-class personnel.”

This was not a war of strength; it was total war—a war with no retreat.

“...How can they be so reckless?”

Thud!

Hissop slammed his fist onto the table, teeth clenched.

“How can they send boys, the future of the nation, and elders who devoted their lives to it, into certain death...!”

Hissop trembled, not because of the enemy’s massive forces.

“Abandoning border defenses to focus on civil war? What strategy is this? Do the princes not care at all for the nation’s survival?!”

As Hissop’s anger rang through the hall, the vassals lowered their heads. They themselves had been intimidated by the princes’ vast armies; their first fear had been for the nation’s survival.

Yet Hissop felt anger before fear. Even at the brink of disaster, he thought first of the country rather than his family. In that moment, the vassals felt ashamed of their narrow focus on immediate survival.

Seeing morale falter, Reganon quickly stepped forward. There was nothing good that would come of them becoming discouraged.

“Captain Taragon. We had been monitoring the movements of Garcia and Luban and prepared early. Please elaborate on where each prince is deploying their forces.”

“Only minimal monitoring troops are left in the south, and the bulk of their forces are concentrated in the east and west. The atmosphere suggests that full-scale war could erupt at any moment.”

“A full frontal war is the worst possible strategy—the most casualties for the least effect. To send boys and seasoned elders to slaughter... I cannot fathom the princes’ intentions.”

The Lillian Kingdom was not rich, but neither was it poor. There was no famine, so there was no benefit in reducing the population. Reganon could not comprehend why both princes had chosen such reckless strategies.

Encouraged by him, the vassals began offering their own analyses.

“Could this be a deception? Once armored, it is difficult to distinguish conscripts from regular troops.”

“I believe it may be a show of force. Even if the princes fight for the throne, victory would leave the kingdom crippled. Foreign powers would invade the moment the war ends.”

“A show of force? Who tears off their own limbs for show? They mean it. The princes have gone mad! They aren’t fighting for the throne—they are idiots waging war in a fit of rage!”

“Mind your words! Even if they are enemies now, we once served them. Do not insult the princes needlessly!”

“What did you say? Are you a spy? Defending them now? Guards!”

“I’m not defending them! I’m saying we should not waste energy on useless emotion!”

The council hall descended into chaos. Some believed the princes truly intended total war. Others insisted they would never go that far.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Hissop struck the gavel sharply. The vassals immediately returned to their seats and fell silent.

“Whether the princes are serious is irrelevant. Even if it is bluster, we must prepare. That is what war demands. The moment we assume it is fake and fail to prepare, that becomes reality.”

“...!”

“Indeed... the patriarch is correct.”

“Our insight was lacking, my lord.”

No one called him the deputy patriarch anymore. He had not ordered the change. It happened naturally. At some point, Hissop had become not the heir but the patriarch.

Hissop looked toward the newly installed seats in the hall. Three new chairs had been added. In them sat the commanders of the knight orders. But they were no longer knight commanders.

“Generals, give your counsel. How should Sefira respond?”

Previously, knight captains commanded knights, while the Order of the Stars commanded soldiers. That structure had sufficed until now. With the need to command large-scale forces, a new position had become necessary—a general. Former knight commanders had assumed the role.

However, the commander of the Order of the Galaxy remained in secluded training. As such, the commanders of the Sacred Order of Sefira and the Order of the Stars filled two seats, while the final seat belonged to Pekda of the Seven Stars of the North.

Despite the grand title, they had been generals for less than three months. Brilliant strategic solutions were unlikely.

“We should strengthen defenses and vigilance, and conduct guerrilla warfare using the foreign forces stationed in Sefira,” suggested Alon, former commander of the Sacred Order of Sefira, aiming to minimize damage.

“The enemy is unaware of Baen Kingdom airships. If we seize their undefended homeland via airship and strike from both fronts, we could end the war quickly,” said Jeremy, former commander of the Order of the Star.

Pekda, the most seasoned among them, did not answer immediately. He frowned, thinking deeply, then spoke slowly.

“...What is Lord Keter’s condition?”

At the question—one Hissop had unconsciously been avoiding—his heart sank.

* * *

Thud. Thud. Thud.

A ragged beggar was viciously kicking something. From a distance, it looked like a bundled sack, but up close, it twitched. Clearly, something alive was inside.

“You brat! You dare steal my bread? You think just because I’ve got no arm I can’t catch you?!”

Thud! Thud! Thud!

What seemed like a bundle was actually a boy. He had pulled his hands and arms tightly inward and curled his head down, protecting his vital points as best he could.

“Huff... huff. Give me my bread back. Now.”

Even after being beaten for a long time, the boy neither groaned nor loosened his posture.

“I already ate it. Want me to poop it out for you?”

“You little!”

Thud thud thud thud!

The beggar began kicking him faster and harder.

Nearby, Keter watched the scene.

“...What is this?”

He looked around. The scenery was familiar—filthy, oppressive, hopeless. It was the Lawless City of Liqueur. And the boy being beaten senseless over there was himself.

“...Ah. Is this the flashback you have before you die?”

Keter examined his body. It was intact, exactly as he remembered it. He was half-naked, but his right arm was different in color. It was not his arm—it was Eslow’s arm.

This was due to Reconstructive Surgery, Chimeric Healer Franken’s secret technique, and Reversal, Keter’s second Authority.

Eslow had believed Keter’s power was one of position swapping, since he switched places with the White Cloud, but at the end, he realized it was not. Keter’s Reversal allowed him to use an opponent’s Authority exactly as they do. The reason Eslow felt Keter’s power resembled his own was that it truly was identical.

However, this did not mean he could steal any Authority at will. Strict conditions existed—rules Keter himself established. Unless those conditions were met, he could not use another’s power.

“...Anyway, I guess this isn’t one.”

He had never experienced one, but he was certain they were not this long or this vivid. He could move freely, yet he could not interfere with the scene before him.

“Well... not like I need to interfere...”

The beggar paused, exhausted from kicking. In that instant, the young Keter sprang up like lightning and rammed his head into the beggar’s groin.

“Gak!”

Normally, one would flee after such a strike. But Keter, at that time, was not ordinary. As the beggar collapsed to his knees in agony, the boy unleashed a rapid barrage of tiny punches into his face.

Thud thud thud thud!

He was only four years old. Malnourished and underdeveloped, his fists were tiny. But their strength was not. His hands that should have been soft and tender were hardened with calluses, and Keter knew exactly where to hit to cause pain.

“S-stop... I was wrong... ugh...”

Beaten by tiny fists, the beggar resorted to his specialty: begging for forgiveness with his feet.

Smack!

The young Keter delivered one final kick to the groin, and opened his mouth. Watching, present-day Keter spoke at the exact same time. “We’re even now. Nothing happened between us.”

Of course, the beggar later came back seeking revenge, and Keter eventually killed him.

“How many years ago was that?”

Keter watched his younger self trudge down the alley.

“It’s nostalgic, but...”

It wasn’t a flashback, and it was too vivid to be a dream. However, it was impossible to interfere.

“Let’s piece it together. Dork brought me to Sefira, right? And my heart was shattered... I was about to die... Oh!”

Keter clapped his hands as realization struck.

The dragon heart.

“It got pulled into my chest on its own.”

A priceless treasure given to him by Alter, a powerful figure in the Syndicate, as part of a wager. Keter had stored it away, but it flew to him and embedded itself in his heart. This was not intentional. He had never imagined the dragon heart would attempt to replace his destroyed one on its own.

“...So I lost consciousness and ended up here... Well, I suppose I’ll walk around.”

It wasn’t dangerous, and there was nothing else he could do. He moved to explore Liqueur for the first time in ages when...

“Keter.”

...someone called his name. It was a woman’s voice he had never heard before, yet somehow, it felt familiar.

“...”

He turned. A woman stood there. She looked very young, but she radiated an overwhelming aura of maternal warmth. Keter had never seen her before, but instinctively, he knew.

“...Akrah?”

The woman who had given birth to him and abandoned him.