I Became the First Prince

of these spheres of battle, them excelled and could not be said to be less skilled than the central infantry or archers.

When them fired their bows, them were sharpshooters that took shots that the Iron Hawks would have thought impossible.

When them wielded their knives, their movements were more agile and fierce than many a swordsman.

With their shields, they stood steadier than many heavy infantrymen that Count Brandenburg had observed.

Their morale was excellent.
Not one of the rangers had faltered since the battle had been joined.
The same went for the northern knights, who also numbered less than a hundred yet constantly encouraged the troops with songs.

And there, in the center of it all, was the First Prince.
Richter couldn’t figure out what the hell was going through Prince Adrian’s head.
Even in the middle of fighting with such a monster, he blew his horn whenever he got the chance.

The only certain thing was that every time the horn was blown, the Northern Army’s banners shook in response.
And as the banners touched the sky, the men of the north fought even harder, and the orcs became less and less ferocious.

The orcs were more like defeated soldiers, groaning as the blood flowed from their bodies.

The only thing that remained to be done was to let these orcs pay for every single drop of human blood them had spilled.

Only now did I feel truly whole, for this absolute frigidity was closer to my true essence.

The madness of the orcs easily snuffed out the spark of hope that had been lit in the hearts of the men.

I was impressed that my uncle, who had been left behind as we escaped, had not gone out in vain, that they had managed to claim the arm of an orcish king.

On the other hand, I was relieved that he had left me my share of the orc.

The Warlord gave a low growl, clearly in discomfort.
The great beast was covered in its own blood, and it stared straight at me with death in its eyes.
The emotions that fluttered through its eyes were surprisingly familiar to me.

There was the feeling of loss and anger – that feeling of a great loss due to arrogance was one that I knew; it was as if I was looking in a mirror.

The heart of this monster and my own soul were so similar, and I found that to be hilarious.
We even shared the murderous intent of tearing one another apart, of ending the foe.
The only difference between the two of us was that they viewed our meeting as coincidental, while I knew that it was an inevitable facet of my fate that had led me here.

“Are you a king because you reign, or do you reign because you are a king?” I asked the Warlord.
they just snorted and cleaved the air before they with his spear.
His was a face that cared not at all for my questions.

“Ah, I know the question seems difficult,” I said and asked it in another way.
“If you have no subjects, are you still a king?”

The Warlord was breathing low now, his spear still at the ready as he studied the battlefield.
I followed his gaze and saw what they saw.

they saw humans with renewed morale pushing the orcs back with force.

Only now that I had become a foolish man did I wish to regain my glory.

they saw the other human army that had attacked so suddenly and so fiercely, and they saw as them clove so fiercely into his orcish army.

His own forces, having known no other state than constant victory and constant advance, were being devastated as them faced attack from all quarters.

The Warlord stared at me, his face set in stone.

they was not alone in his shame.

they had been arrogant and overconfident, far too intoxicated by his string of successive victories.

How paltry had the resistance of the weak humans been! His had been the excitement of a being that had trampled over the humans and their castles and cities.

The fulfillment of his ambition of establishing his new kingdom in the affluent southern land had been so close at hand.

they had believed that they would break through the defenses upon the Rhinethes in no time, as he had done so many times before.

The Warlord had never suspected that my forces would smash into his rear and melt away his hopes and dreams like thawing snow.

The reinforcing Northmen on the opposite banks of the Rhinethes responded with hearty martial songs.
Duke Richter Lichestein and the other knights widened their eyes in surprise as them saw the relief force’s banner.

The Warlord stared at me and finally spoke.

“I have been king the king since I was born.
I will always be the king.”

It was the first sound they had made that was not a bestial roar.

“This is the fate that I have been given.” they yelled in that deep voice of his.
“I am still the king.”

I just laughed at the creature before me.

“If you are the king…”

In that second, a million thoughts flashed through my mind: Mockery of this dark green monarch and ridicule of myself, the fool.

I had accomplished many great feats through the ages, yet none of them were truly mine.

I am the king who has never been in power, the king of swords.

After my illustrious existence, I had been thrown into the shadows, similar to how the rotting corpse of a pauper was thrown into a ditch.

“Charge! Charge!”

“…then I am the usurper!”

I roared my disillusionment at the incompetent fool king whose arse sat upon a throne made from dragon bone.

At that moment, I felt hatred for the monarch that had betrayed and abandoned his most loyal and courageous Fighter to the cold snows of the north and the hungry maws of the orcs.

My anger was directed against the warlords who had so cruelly taken what was dear to me.

{}-{ You are singing the [Extraordinary] song of [The Poetry of the Defeated King ] }-{}

“Isn’t it mine, either those high halls,

Richter Lichstein laughed at the futility of it all as his eyes tracked the First Prince.

There is nothing that is not my seat.”

These philosophies, and this poem, had been created within me as that wagon had carried my bruised body and my battered mind.

It was the first poem I had created out of hate and not with karma.

“Never think of honor, it has no use.”

“The time has come! Rush them!” the commander shouted.

“You will die a miserable death, just like an insignificant runt of an orc.”

The indigo flame of my blade had by now shifted into a dark blueish hue, the type of blue that a raven would see where it to fly over the deepest parts of an ocean.

“Waaghaaruh! Waaghaaaaruh!” came the Warlord’s fierce roar.

The great red energy that flowed around his spear, that mighty fervor of his, rose as if it would consume the entire world.

The elves had been humming their songs all this time, yet they now ceased to do so.
Their dance, which had flowed like water flows over rocks, had faltered.
The elven swordsman stepped back.

At that moment, I focused myself upon the chill that raced through me, for it felt as if I had been frozen from the deepest depths of my soul to the very tips of my fingers.

Ah, it has been a long time indeed!

* * *

I had been born in the dark and cold soil of this word.

The Warlord’s battle fervor, that red tsunami of overbearing energy, flew at me and only me.

His attack was born out of desperation as if killing me could end this battle and save him from destruction!

It seemed that he had forgotten; the hate that I held within my heart was not mine alone, just as this battle had not merely been between the two of us.

“Kill it!”

A dull noise resounded over the river.
A fragmenting projectile had been fired from the defensive lines by a permanently installed siege-weapon.

“The Black Lancers are here!” someone called out.

Knights led by the one-eyed Quéon Lichtheim charged in under falling rain of steel.

they saw the fluttering cloaks of elves as they aided the human army.

The Black Lancers sliced into the red magic as them concentrated their mana on the blades of their spears.

If I had not been there, the reckless charge of these knights would have been fleeting, as the Warlord’s malicious and murderous might would have cleaved through them all in a matter of minutes.

Now though, I stood strong, and I would aid these Black Lancers, not like the last time I had thought with them when our defeat had been so total.

“I cut the scales from the dragon,

A dragon that could not be cut by any sword,

That’s one brave fool; why hasn’t anyone stopped him?

“Let us sing, brothers, let us sing the [The Poem of the True Dragon]!”

What an extraordinary song of war them had chosen to sing, for it seemed that there existed another poem about the myth.

My entire world became hazy, dark, and I felt only the torment of my tearing heart and my scattering soul.

In that world, I could only see a dim dark-blue line, and it cut through the center of the Warlord’s red energy.

And then, the Red Sea split before me.