Building A Human Empire By Creating A Clan [EN]: Chapter 67

Time drifted by in this hazy, undefined way.

Winter loosened its grip, yielding to a fleeting spring, which, in turn, surrendered to a long, languid summer.

And it was on a day when autumn tentatively peeked its head at the tail end of that long summer.

At the border between the Oroko Great Plains and Germania [a region roughly corresponding to modern-day Germany], the resonant sound of drums echoed.

Thoom— Thoom—

The lord of the fortress, who had been indulging in drink since midday, lurched to his feet.

The drumming, which vibrated through the very stones of the fortress, instantly cleared his head.

“What in the world is this commotion! Who dares beat the drums without authorization…?”

“Enemies!”

“What?”

At the soldier’s urgent cry, the lord blinked, his eyes struggling to focus.

A horn blared from the watchtower, its piercing note cutting through the air.

It was the signal for battle readiness.

“Wh-what…?”

Enemies, you say?

It had to be a mistake. Surely.

This was Germania’s border fortress, a bulwark against the wild.

A border fortress adjacent to the Oroko Great Plains.

What enemy would emerge from the Great Plains to attack the fortress?

The lord repeatedly asked himself the question as he clumsily ascended the ramparts.

“······!”

His eyes widened in disbelief.

The plains stretched out before him, an endless expanse of green and gold.

And upon that expanse, there was indeed an army.

An army was advancing from the Great Plains, their numbers a dark stain on the horizon.

Their numbers easily exceeded thousands.

“M-maybe they’re deserters?”

The soldier beside him stammered, his voice laced with desperate hope.

“Those are deserters?”

For a fleeting moment, the lord allowed himself to entertain the possibility.

But that hope quickly dissolved into despair.

Their appearance became clearer as they drew nearer, the details sharpening with each step.

Even from a distance, it was evident that their attire was not the tattered rags of deserters.

They were a regular army, better equipped and armed than the fortress garrison itself.

Thoom— Thoom— Thoom—

The sound of the drums grew louder as the army approached, each beat a hammer blow against the lord’s dwindling courage.

With each echoing thump reverberating through the fortress, the lord trembled.

He had inherited the fortress, a legacy passed down from his father.

He had no interest in defending the border, no stomach for war.

He had never even conceived of the possibility that the fortress would be attacked.

There had been no invasions even in his father’s time.

“Why… why now? Why me?”

The lord muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t know the identity of the army arrayed before him.

He didn’t know why they had appeared before the fortress, their banners a challenge against the sky.

And he certainly didn’t know if they could possibly stand against them.

‘It’s impossible….’

The number of soldiers stationed at the fortress was a paltry two hundred, at best.

A poorly trained and poorly armed group, more suited to guarding sheep than defending a fortress.

Naturally, they had no capacity to fight a real army.

Thoom—

The drumming abruptly ceased.

At the same time, the army halted its advance.

They stopped at a distance where arrows fired from the fortress would barely reach, their shots falling short and harmless.

As if deliberately aiming for this range, the army stood in orderly ranks, a silent, menacing presence.

The lord swallowed hard, his throat dry with fear.

“T-they’re coming!”

The soldier in the watchtower shouted in a fluster, his voice cracking with panic.

Three men on horseback detached themselves from the main force and approached the fortress gate.

“W-where are you from?”

The lord asked, his voice trembling so violently that the words were almost unintelligible.

It was a foolish question, born of fear and desperation.

Who wouldn’t know they came from the Great Plains?

But the lord and the soldiers were too consumed by nervousness to realize the absurdity of the question.

“We came from the Great Plains,” the man in the center replied, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Wh-why did you come? Do you even know where this is…?”

“I am Edar Lundringen. No, Edar of Thridrett.”

Edar?

Edar of Thridrett?

A thunderbolt seemed to strike the lord’s mind, momentarily paralyzing him with shock.

Only then did he recall a forgotten memory, a whispered tale from his youth.

Edar, the eldest son of Thridrett, a bastard son abandoned to the harsh realities of the Great Plains.

And wasn’t he the very same great lord who had conquered northern Wallachia [a historical region roughly corresponding to modern-day Romania] with ruthless efficiency?

The lord’s face turned ashen, all color draining away, and his body trembled like an aspen leaf in a storm.

“Go to your master, Marquis Roese, and tell him this: The abandoned son wishes to return to his homeland. Open the way, and there will be no bloodshed.”