Whether in the military camps of the West or the North, the entire day of September 1st passed with the two dukes deliberately flexing their muscles while Murphy and the others put on a forced grin fest.

To appear more chummy, Murphy slipped into performance mode without any prompting, cackling harder than anyone, almost too enthusiastically.

Then came September 2nd, a seemingly ordinary sunny day.

The Duke of the North, Raventa, and the Duke of the West, Arwin, both rose early to soak in the pre-war atmosphere pervading the camps. But someone was up even earlier -

"Captain, Captain, they haven't started fighting yet, no need to rush!" A plain-looking black-armored bodyguard scurried behind the briskly striding Doyle, clutching an exquisitely crafted helmet.

Not even fully suited up in his armor, Doyle marched up the hilltop, which could hardly be called a small hill from any direction, but its peak still afforded an unobstructed view of both camps.

Doyle faced the rising sun, gazing at the orderly ranks of soldiers forming up in the camp a hundred meters away. He had personally planted the flag brought from the capital atop this hill, its red and yellow crossed by a sharp, chiseled eye – one look said it all.

No matter their private disdain for each other, once the nobles took their feuds public, they had to follow the kingdom's rules of engagement - the elegant art of noble warfare.

In this world without great military strategists like Sun Tzu, human lords were still stuck in the conventional routine of issuing declarations, mustering troops, lining up, and head-on clashes. Forget unorthodox maneuvers or flanking, even launching a surprise attack was considered loathsome.

As long as the warring nobles didn't target the king, the kingdom's laws were extraordinarily lenient, requiring all efforts to prevent aristocratic casualties. Even if captured, they were to be wined, dined, and pampered until exchanged for gold, grain, livestock, or commoners - all just numbers on parchment to most nobles anyway.

But despite laws and aristocratic codes restraining the warring commanders, some nobles with bitter blood feuds would still draw blades and hack away, only to cry "accident" or "killed by common soldiers" later.

To prevent such shenanigans in the kingdom's early days, when haughty lords loved mixing it up over nothing, the Supervisory Squad was born - fair oversight, impartial rulings were its mandate. The defiant right eye on its flag belonged to Heracles I, the kingdom's founder who spent a lifetime battling - that old warhorse may have reached superhuman levels, but at the cost of an arm, an eye, and layers of scars from monsters, hidden races, and insubordinate human lords. Those scars ultimately made the old man's presence more intimidating than any hero's divine mandate.

Watching the camp a hundred meters away, Doyle's heart raced with excitement. Though he'd never told a soul, not even his general father who commanded the Black Guards, Doyle's idol was Heracles I himself. That's why he leapt at the chance when the king announced sending a Supervisory Squad - standing under his idol's uncompromising gaze was a dream come true.

Now living that dream under the one-eyed flag, Doyle felt he was about to witness, alongside his hero, one of the greatest human-on-human wars in decades, clear-sighted to even the terror etched on the tardy soldiers' faces.

Let it begin, he thought.

Down on the wasteland below the hill, the armies began an orderly mustering, kicking up swirling dust that partly obscured Doyle's view for the next hour or so as they assembled some hundred thousand fighting men on each side. Doyle could clearly see differences between the ranks within each camp - perhaps what his father often called "an army's spirit."

Once in formation, came the obligatory big talk that everyone loved. Duke Arwin rode up on his young steed, followed by his son Eric, the diplomat Royce from the North, and the ever-paddling Murphy.

On the opposite field, Duke Raventa was flanked by his battle-mage captain and the diplomat from the West as they too advanced toward the center.

The forty thousand soldiers thought they were in for some earth-shattering, demon-crying trash talk. Little did they know the real plan was already unfolding in the exact center.

"Hey, old man, what's the plan?" The Duke of the North smirked at Arwin.

"All normal, you barbarian," Arwin retorted, unfazed.

The ever-paddling Murphy thought to seize this chance and gauge the human elite's power, so he slyly opened the Northern Duke's pane:

[Name: Spencer Raventa

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Race: Human

Level: 85 (Human Lord)

Class: Berserker Battle Mage

...]

Huh?

For a moment, Murphy was dumbstruck. You're telling me this burly, bulky bloke is a mage?

Though from the melee spellcaster branch that trained in weapons too, after meeting the lean and poised (relatively) Connor, Murphy had trouble picturing this one as a battle mage, Berserker spec or not.

"Your last name wouldn't happen to be Gandalf, would it?" Murphy mentally quipped before eavesdropping as the nobles' banter took an odd turn.

"Esteemed sirs," Murphy interrupted, "did you just say you plan to take out the Supervisory Squad first?"

Murphy glanced again at the carefree, lanky figure under the lone-eyed flag. "I would advise against that."

The two dukes turned to Murphy, the Northern one speaking first, not with the expected outrage but, "Arwin, who is this young man?"

Equally puzzled, the Western Duke replied as he waited for Murphy's explanation, "From the little marquessate down south that's now an earldom. One of theirs they sent over."

"An ally?"

"Yes."

"Then let's hear it."

"Duke Raventa, sir, I'm an arcane adept skilled in Eagle Eye spells, among others."

"So?"

"I've had a brush with the Supervisory Squad's captain over there. I'd hope Your Graces could capture him alive, rather than kill him."

A swirl of magic crackled around the Duke's riding crop. "I could take that as you pleading for the enemy on the battlefield?"

"Not at all, Your Grace." Murphy smiled. "Do you know who that young captain is?"

"Who he is won't change his impending fate." The Northern Duke was dismissive yet intrigued.

"His name is Rodz," Murphy grinned. "Rodz Doyle - of the Black Guards' Doyles."

Arwin asked, "How can you be sure? How do you know him?"

"Oh, I'm sure alright," Murphy said confidently. "The sentencing writ the former marquis got was brought from the capital by him."

The two dukes exchanged a glance, both realizing the strategic value of capturing Rodz Doyle alive might exceed even a prince - kings had spare sons aplenty, but old man Doyle only had this one heir.

A king could disown a captured prince on principle, but having one's sole offspring hostage could sow temporary doubt between the king and his Black Guards despite their sworn oaths – for who could guarantee they wouldn't crack when their only child dangled in someone's grip?

The berserker magic dissipated from the Duke of the North's arm. Laughing heartily, he said, "Good lad, keep at it – you might just make a great mage someday!"

Murphy chuckled nervously and nodded. "What are Your Graces' plans, if I may ask?"

Snapping his crop, Raventa replied, "Was just going to send the men, but didn't expect such a big fish. Might as well go ourselves - give the Black Captain in the capital the proper respect, eh? What say you, old man?"

"No objections here," Arwin answered flatly.

The two wheeled their mounts toward the nearby hill, leaving Murphy and the others behind in bewildered silence.

Even more confused were the forty thousand soldiers and commanders wondering - what was going on? What were their supreme leaders up to? Should they just stand by?

The order to stand ground filtered down from captains to sergeants to grunts as all eyes watched the receding figures of the two highest-ranking officers.

Before long, the pair rode up to the Supervisory Squad's hilltop flagpole where that fiery young man stood. Arwin sighed inwardly - the flames of youth, for him to extinguish firsthand.

"Good day, Your Graces," Doyle greeted them with the customary noble address, never having met a living duke before.

"A good day to you too, young captain. I'm Grey Alwyn."

"Spencer Raventa."

"Rodz Doyle, at your service."

Arwin smiled thinly. "My sympathies for you getting tangled up in this old feud of ours."

Doyle frowned, instincts tingling. Keeping an even tone, he said, "Resolving aristocratic conflicts is precisely the Supervisory Squad's mandate alongside the Black Guards."

"Understood, understood." Arwin nodded. "So I trust you'll understand us too."

"What do you..." Fighting instincts overruling speech, Doyle twisted his body right to dodge Raventa's whistling crop, leaving himself wide open to Arwin's side.

"Swish!" Too late to see the accelerated crop, too late to brace for the incoming hammerblow, Doyle curled up instinctively as elemental forces and concussive impacts slammed him unconscious in an overhead arc.

"Old man, I think you might've overdone it - he's barely under thirty."

"I know my limits."

The Black Guards couldn't process what just transpired. The higher-ups never shared full intel, and analysis utterly eluded Doyle's hot-blooded head.

Why would the once warring parties gang up on them? The Guards had no time to ponder as they realized - we're next!

To the octogenarian dukes, the young Guards were indeed lambs to the slaughter. Arwin punched them out one by one, not needing his knightly sword, while the arrogant Raventa resorted to whipping the fully-armored soldiers in utter disdain for the high-end battle staff strapped to his back.

Less than a minute later, the hilltop held only the two dukes, plus the Supervisory Squad's unmanned flag flapping in the wind.

"No fatalities, right?"

"I should be asking you that, you reckless barbarian."

Seeing the remounted dukes approach, Eric promptly ordered his Royal Guards to bundle up the unconscious Black Guards.

Riding back to the center, the brief skirmish left the dukes energized. With a knuckle-bump, they announced in unison:

"From this moment, the West and North formally establish a military alliance!"

"We have gathered here today because someone in the capital has misled, deceived, and controlled our great king Your Majesty, leaving Your Majesty deaf to our voices, blind to our loyalty."

"To prove our unwavering devotion to the sacred Heracles Human Kingdom, I, Grey Alwyn (Spencer Raventa), hereby swear - even if it costs us our lives, we shall liberate King Your Majesty!"

"All troops, listen up: Break camp immediately! Form ranks and march east, on to the Royal Demesne!"