Grand Duke Fernández's expedition was nothing short of grandiose, with tens of thousands of troops paving the way in protection. This time, he had learned from past mistakes, ensuring there would be no chance for the enemy to assassinate him again.

Although the Saint-Milre Province had yet to fall, the Grand Duke had already begun assigning officials and nobles to govern the reclaimed territories. Ostensibly, it was a political move to announce his dominion over the land. Of course, that was only on the surface.

As the army marched, no one dared to provoke such a massive force. The Grand Duke himself rode in a grand, open carriage drawn by eight horses, engaging in cordial conversations with the nobles who supported him.

“I heard the one commanding the Augusta Domain is a lowly commoner named Simon?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” a noble replied respectfully. “It is said he was a freedman from the lands of the Derek Viscount family. After earning some minor merits, he was promoted to an officer. The Derek Viscount himself is trapped in Birchwood Castle, leaving Simon to command the nearby troops.”

Lounging comfortably on soft cushions, the Grand Duke glanced lazily at the nobles seated in his spacious carriage. They instinctively shifted further back to grant him more room.

“A man of courage but no wisdom,” Fernández sneered. “This Simon may have caused me some trouble, but he is no more than a caged bird flapping its wings in vain. The superiority of noble bloodlines is self-evident; it cannot be challenged by the fleeting luck of the lowborn.”

As a staunch believer in bloodline superiority, Fernández held nothing but disdain for someone of Simon’s origins. Being a beneficiary of this system since childhood, he couldn’t help but be shaped by its ideology.

Yet, his cunning was undeniable. What seemed like a mere political tour to assert his authority actually served a different purpose.

The Grand Duke’s caravan crossed the tacitly acknowledged boundary between their territories, prompting the Rockmen scouts to follow from a distance. However, against such a formidable army, the combined forces of the Augusta Domain were no match.

Standing on the raised platform of his carriage, Fernández surveyed the horizon. Amid the fluttering Saint-Feather banner, he could barely make out scattered black figures in the distance.

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“Send someone to chase away these pesky flies,” he ordered. “I shall make camp here tonight.”

“Your Grace, this is the front line; it’s dangerous!”

The nobles turned pale with fear, dreading any mishap.

But Fernández, resolute in his decision, declared, “This is the territory of the Holy Cross Kingdom. I am the Grand Duke of Saintlight. There is no place here where I cannot stop.”

His word was law, and the nobles had no choice but to reluctantly arrange the camp and tighten security.

If they had known he would be this bold, they would never have agreed to accompany him. But it was too late now. No one present could dissuade the Grand Duke from his whims.

Unsurprisingly, his audacious move provoked a strong reaction from the Rockmen. Soon, a Rockman force established a camp on a nearby hill. When the Holy Cross soldiers attempted to drive them off, they were repelled decisively.

Fernández’s ambiguous stance only fueled speculation among his troops. Was he planning to launch a decisive battle to crush the Rockman resistance in one stroke?

With roughly fifty thousand troops on their side, the odds of a swift victory were uncertain. Reinforcements would be necessary, but any strategic stalemate would work to the enemy’s advantage.

Indeed, the Rockmen began to assemble a force of two thousand. Even though many were poorly trained recruits, they stood their ground confidently.

Adding insult to injury, Simon, a knight under the Rockman banner, brazenly taunted from the frontlines. Fernández, visibly irritated, demanded, “Where are my knights?”

Eager to redeem themselves, the nobles sent knights to respond, only for them to be unceremoniously defeated one by one.

Cheers erupted from the Rockman ranks, their jeers growing louder with each fallen knight. Fernández’s face darkened, and his temper flared.

“Send a thousand troops!” he commanded.

The Rockmen matched the numbers, and the outcome was disastrous once again.

“Barbarians, fools, idiots!” Fernández cursed, his anger spilling over. None of the gathered nobles dared utter a word, knowing that silence was their safest choice.

After regaining his composure, Fernández forced a smile. “This Simon is indeed a lowborn fool. Gathering two thousand men may look impressive, but I doubt the Rockmen have any reserves left nearby. Their militias must also be here. One decisive battle, and everything east of Pran City will fall into my hands.”

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent. While Fernández’s strategic acumen had yielded territorial gains, his troops had rarely won small-scale skirmishes.

In the days that followed, Fernández refused to engage. He ignored the Rockmen’s provocations, even as they drummed and shouted throughout the night to disrupt his camp’s morale.

The Grand Duke was waiting—for confirmation of a secret weapon provided by his ally, Count Lovett.

When scouts returned with promising news, Fernández’s confidence soared.

“Excellent! Count Lovett’s information was accurate,” he exclaimed.

Although he had doubted the unity of the Rockmen, Fernández still exercised caution in verifying the intelligence. With most of the enemy forces gathered nearby, key supply points, such as granaries, were left vulnerable. It was the perfect opportunity to strike.

This bold maneuver would cement Fernández’s reputation as a military genius, echoing his name across the southern kingdoms.