She Is Not a Witch

Third Era, Year 1684, the Year of the Iron Lance’s March.

This year would be vividly described in future history books. At the beginning of the year, an independence uprising broke out in the northern part of the Western Wind Kingdom, which had existed for centuries. It then spread like wildfire throughout the country.

The Frost Rose was established in Ruluna, beginning centralized rule. In the same year, the Vegar Commercial Alliance, one of the Snow Flower Seven Countries, split. Part of it merged with the Frost Rose, while another part allied with the New Moon Council in the south, breaking away from the Snow Flower Alliance and declaring independence.

In late summer, the rebel army of the Western Wind Kingdom defeated the Duke of Rock Wall in the north and advanced southward en masse. In early autumn, they encountered the legendary Lightning Knight Order on the Windless Plains. Starlight descended, and the Lightning Knight Order was annihilated. The rebel army won a pyrrhic victory, with only a third of their core elites surviving.

The Western Wind royal family summoned 50,000 warriors from the White Horse tribe and hired 20,000 Iron Guards with long halberds from the Black Rock Duchy. With 100,000 garrison troops in the capital and 200,000 conscripted soldiers, they assembled an army of about 400,000 to confront Cransia’s 200,000 troops at Solande.

The night before, a small elite force allied with insiders opened the eastern river gates. Small boats loaded with dry branches and grass infiltrated the city, subsequently causing fires and chaos. The city garrison urgently dispatched reinforcements. Afterwards, on the western plains, the rebel army began their assault under cover of darkness, with drum beats shaking the heavens.

The capital was thrown into chaos. Prince Frick, responsible for defending the city, made a swift decision to leave a small force to block the small enemy force that had infiltrated from the east, while sending the main garrison to reinforce the west.

As the siege began, the rebel army started pushing siege towers and battering rams. Torches moved across the dark plains, causing great psychological intimidation to the defenders. However, after just two rounds, the attacking forces withdrew. Then, fire ships loaded with explosives sailed downstream, blowing open the eastern river gates.

The defenders finally awoke from their daze and redeployed most of their elites to the east. But after most had been moved, the west came under attack again. Now besieged on two fronts, with fires raging inside the city, panic spread. The Western Wind king ordered the garrison to split in two, each guarding east and west, to avoid exhausting themselves running back and forth.

By this time, night had deepened. The northern city gates were opened in the chaos by organized groups within the city. Cransia’s main army poured in, quickly taking control of large areas and engaging the garrison in street fighting.

Although the garrison was numerous, their formation had become scattered due to the earlier back-and-forth redeployments, and they were extremely fatigued. Moreover, the 200,000 hastily conscripted troops were mostly farmers without military training or fighting spirit. In the melee, they fled, defected, or surrendered en masse, leading to a rapid collapse.

At this point, the White Horse tribe camped outside the city also attacked. Their white banners flew, but the night’s limited visibility was unfavorable for cavalry. They were hindered by traps and trenches prepared in advance by the Cransia army. By the time they defeated the rebel forces delaying them outside the city, they only reached the northern outskirts of the capital.

By the light of fires on the city walls, these plains warriors engaged in bloody combat with the rebel forces guarding the city gates. The small rebel garrison was quickly overrun, and the White Horse tribe warriors began to re-seal the city gates, preparing to trap the rebel forces that had entered the city. Dawn was breaking.

At this moment, another white banner appeared on the hill. Facing the rising sun, the pure white flag bore a black sun emblem. They wore full steel armor, their sharp lances reflecting a faint golden light in the morning sun. Though few in number, they possessed an unstoppable momentum.

The pure white battle flags fluttered fiercely in the morning wind, their silver-white steel lances slowly acquiring a golden sheen. Facing an enemy tens of times their number, they began their charge.

It was as if before them lay not a battlefield full of death, but a glorious stage to vent thousands of years of humiliation. The cool morning air rushed into their lungs as they breathed deeply, their chests heaving like bellows. A fire burned in their hearts, so intense, so fierce, so impatient.

From childhood, through books, from others’ mouths, from their elders’ sighs, they had always heard of their tribe’s shame. But who would like such a feeling? Everyone came into this world carrying their parents’ good expectations and blessings. They too had suppressed pride and unwillingness in their hearts.

This pride and longing now burned fiercely in their chests, overwhelming any unease and fear.

The charging knights pierced the enemy ranks like a sharp knife, raising countless bloody flowers. Their fierce, golden lances melted gold and broke iron, piercing through enemy after enemy’s armor and bodies. Facing the enemy’s curved bows and long sabers, they never tired, never retreated, never regretted.

They began to suffer heavy casualties, but they also took down more than ten times their number of enemies.

By noon, bits of flesh and blood slid off their armor. The originally white flag was stained with chaotic dark red. Kanda, his body pierced with arrows, stood on a hill of corpses. His ear had a wide gash, dark red blood slowly flowing. His knight’s helmet had long been torn off by enemies, rolling away to who knows where.

The sword he was equipped with had been broken in the melee. Only the notched lance remained in his grip, planted in an enemy corpse.

Pulling out this solid lance, bringing forth a small stream of blood, he staggered back a few steps before slowly steadying himself. Looking around, there were no living enemies left, nor any comrades still standing.

In the distance, a blue flag with golden stars gradually rose over the castle. Thunderous cheers came from within the city.

He grinned, his blood-stained face making it hard to see his smile, then fell backward.

[Old man, I’ve done everything you told me back then. You can’t blame me anymore now, can you?]

The midday sky was bright, the dazzling sunlight making his vision gradually blur. The wounds on his body seemed to no longer hurt, his limbs slowly going numb.

Is it going to end here? Kanda thought. But his heart wasn’t as excited as before. Instead, there was a sense of peace and satisfaction.

Past weakness, the tribe’s long-cherished wish, his father’s exhortations—these past events had pressed on his heart like wrinkled cloth. But today, they were smoothed out one by one by a hot iron, leaving no regrets. Even death seemed to become acceptable, no longer so hateful and fearful.

He slowly closed his eyes, quietly waiting for the final moment to arrive.

In the Year of the Iron Lance’s March, late autumn, a branch of the beast-folk rabbit-eared tribe joined Cransia. This once despised and weak race in everyone’s eyes shone brightly on the battlefield. Their white steel cavalry scattered Western Wind’s last hope, extinguishing the nobles’ final expectations. In the chaos, the rebel army breached Western Wind’s royal palace, ending its centuries of rule.

The name Cransia officially appeared in history, beginning to compose its glorious and moving epic.

A pair of hands covered Kanda’s eyes, blocking out the dazzling sunlight. Then warm magical power began to flow through his body, and a gentle voice sounded by his ear.

“You can’t rest yet, Commander.”