COTBC 38

Chapter 38

Master of Binfelt

Five riders on horseback scattered ash as they galloped across the wasteland.

“….”

Soldiers lined up at the camp entrance watched in silence.

The remains of their fallen comrades were carried away by the wind.

Each wished to hold funerals according to their own homeland’s customs, but the situation did not allow it.

With dozens of bodies, even a month would not be enough.

Cremation had become the only viable compromise.

Some closed their eyes in prayer.

Some watched until the very end, unwilling to miss the final sight.

Whooo—

A horn sounded.

Some believed the horn would drive away evil spirits and guide the souls of the dead to the sky.

Soon, the riders scattering ashes disappeared beyond the hills.

“May you be free.”

Günter murmured.

Faces of fallen comrades flickered through his mind.

Some he liked. Some he disliked.

But none of them could be seen again.

The funeral ended there.

“Everyone move! Training time!”

Carlson spoke like a ghost.

“Mourning is done while you move your body!”

“….”

Günter and the others glared at him, but eventually lowered their eyes.

“If you have complaints, step forward. Prove it with strength. I’d like to throw away this annoying position as soon as possible anyway.”

The soldiers avoided his gaze.

It wasn’t just fear of Carlson’s strength.

They had survived hell wolves together.

They knew he was right.

Grief existed—but so did duty.

Grief solved nothing.

They understood that.

Still, it felt cruel.

“Then move! Don’t cry like women!”

“Damn it.”

One soldier muttered but obeyed.

One by one, the soldiers followed, grimacing.

Fifty-odd soldiers split into two groups.

One rebuilt the camp.

The other trained under Carlson.

Carlson screamed, threatened, and pushed them relentlessly as always.

Running at dawn.

Weapon training before noon.

Dueling practice in the afternoon.

By evening, most collapsed immediately from exhaustion.

With no proper barracks, they slept on the ground under the open sky.

Snore—

Snore—

“Boss sleeps well. How is he sleeping like that?”

A soldier muttered.

Bessemer was snoring deeply.

“Feels like he’s sleeping better these days.”

They whispered among themselves.

The ground was hard and cold.

Uncomfortable compared to the straw mats they used to weave.

“He finally got what he wanted.”

Everyone knew Bessemer’s past.

A madman who defied orders, hunted through the Black Forest for the Wolf King.

A reckless giant who risked death in every skirmish.

A man who volunteered for night patrols because he could not sleep.

A survivor of countless battles with hell wolves.

He was not even twenty-five, yet looked like a veteran soldier.

His face was aged—deep wrinkles, dark circles, unkempt beard.

A monster to look at—but everyone knew:

What he feared most was the night.

He gripped his axe and endured darkness every night.

And now—

He was sleeping peacefully.

“Damn. I’ve seen everything now.”

One soldier laughed bitterly.

Night warfare was normal here.

But Bessemer sleeping peacefully?

That was new.

“Guess he finally got it.”

Günter lay down, staring at the stars.

He couldn’t sleep.

The moon reminded him of that night.

Of screams, transformations, fire, death.

Others were awake too.

Some drank from empty barrels.

Some swung swords in the night.

Some ran around the camp.

Carlson didn’t stop them.

Neither did Isaac.

Because those two were the last ones still awake at night.

“Günter, want a drink?”

“No. I don’t want to remember tomorrow’s training with a headache.”

Oddly enough, even soldiers from Goethe farms now shared drinks with tribal soldiers.

Former hostility had faded.

They had fought together.

Bled together.

Lost comrades together.

They had become something else.

Brothers.

A new Binfelt had been born.

“What caused all this?”

Günter thought.

Then he saw it.

Outside the camp, the blue flames still burned.

Five days straight, never extinguished.

The pit where hell wolf corpses were burned.

And in front of it—

A boy stood like a ghost.

Still.

Silent.

Watching.

At first, Günter thought he was just a child.

Then fear—when he froze an entire Baitur village.

Then awe—during the hell wolf battle.

When despair filled the camp—

The boy shone.

Not literally, perhaps.

But in Günter’s eyes, he shone brighter than the moon.

He gave courage.

He gave resolve.

Soldiers did not die helplessly anymore.

They fought.

They survived.

That feeling became pride.

Binfelt was no longer a dead end.

It was something they had protected with blood.

Günter understood.

The boy was Isaac von Goethe.

The lord of Binfelt.

The Next Day

Twelve wagons arrived at the camp.

The lead carriage bore a shield emblem.

“I rushed as fast as possible, but I regret the delay.”

Schiller looked years older.

No explanation was needed to see how exhausted he was.

“You made it on time.”

“What happened here? More than half the soldiers are gone.”

“A lot happened.”

Isaac explained everything.

“…What were you thinking? Why didn’t you report? Why didn’t you request reinforcements? This could have been avoided!”

Schiller’s voice rose.

He was furious.

A veteran who had once been a shadow of the count across battlefields.

To him, Isaac’s decisions were reckless.

“If you want recognition from His Excellency, this is not the way.”

Goethe already struggled with military expansion.

And now seventy men had died overnight.

Isaac’s life had also been at risk.

“There was a reason.”

Isaac spoke calmly.

Too calmly.

“Reason?”

Schiller frowned deeply.

“Independence.”

For Isaac, gaining the count’s approval was slower than building Binfelt into a self-sustaining land.

Words alone were not enough.

Results were.

“To achieve that, Binfelt must stand on its own.”

“This land was granted by His Excellency…”

“We need people who will bleed for this land. My people.”

Isaac cut him off.

“If we relied on the count’s army, nothing would change. These soldiers would feel no attachment.”

Goethe soldiers and tribal fighters alike.

This place was neither home nor paradise.

Only a temporary refuge.

They needed a reason.

To stay.

To protect.

To build.

And that reason had to be forged through blood.

“….”

Schiller tried to speak several times—but stopped.

Isaac was right.

“…That is very Goethe-like.”

He could only nod.

“I will become the master of Binfelt. And Binfelt will become the richest city in Goethe.”

“Do you really believe that’s possible?”

Schiller was stunned.

“There’s nothing stopping it.”

Isaac answered without hesitation.

Schiller could only stare.

The boy who once could not even control his own body—

Now looked like someone who might truly accomplish it.