The captured city guards were quickly rounded up into a makeshift POW camp. Their fight was over; now they would play the unfortunate role of military laborers, tasked with the kinds of work nobody else was willing to do. If they could endure until the end of the war, perhaps they'd have a chance of survival.
Murphy, playing the benevolent good samaritan and with the dukes' blessing, imparted his management skills gleaned from the Happy Plantation affair to the camp commander. The commander's ecstatic expression and nearly prostrate gratitude led Murphy to believe there was hope for improving the survival rate of these prisoners.
"Gotta be the good guy," Murphy mused, proudly watching the prisoners being sorted into teams following his advice.
As for the allied troops, life had been rough for the Bris townsfolk, and the would-be plunderers from the Northwestern Alliance were taken aback to find that Baron Debris had already wrung the town dry. The pasture-dependent peasantry was already living hand to mouth.
This surprising discovery was a bit of a morale buster for the alliance.
What they didn't grasp was that Bris was arguably the safest baronial territory in the kingdom – too poor for even thieves to target without shedding a tear of frustration.
Night blindness was a common ailment among the lower classes in the medieval eras of any world. Hence, despite the dukes' eagerness to advance quickly before the kingdom was on full alert, they had to wait for dawn to press on.
This world's blitzkrieg strategy was all in Murphy's calculations. Owning nearly a third of the kingdom's territory, the dukes had no chance shoving against the kingdom head-on. From Murphy's perspective, ignorant of their reasons to rise, the noblemen were likely angling to grab as many chips as possible before full conflict ensued, hoping for a stronger bargaining position with the king, especially with the ongoing human-demon warfare that demanded their top-tier might.
That night, Murphy and his disciple Pepe attended a modest victory banquet with the dukes and senior officers at the residence of the erstwhile Baron Debris – maintaining the guise of guests.
With the march set to continue the next day, there was no alcohol to lighten the mood – a sober affair more akin to a strategic planning session than a celebration. The menu was simple: roast lamb, the practical choice given the livestock-heavy haul of the soldiers, since in this world, cows and horses were as precious as tractors and airplanes – not easily slaughtered and beyond the average soldier's skill.
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Hence the onlookers' attention shifted to the sheep that couldn't be evacuated in time, which became the night's main dish.
Midway through the makeshift feast, a messenger, having asked permission up through the ranks, came in to report to Arwin: a man from inside the city claimed to have a top-secret message from the capital for the Duke of the West.
Arwin knitted his brows, exchanging a puzzled glance with his comrade, the Duke of the North.
"Let him in," Arwin ordered casually.
A moment later, an unremarkable middle-aged man with dust-laden clothes and tousled hair, looking like he'd just emerged from a dumpster, stepped inside the tent.
"This guy’s a real spy," Murphy thought. "If spies were as handsome as in the movies back home, they'd stand out like sore thumbs." The man before him blended into the crowd like a drop in the ocean, the epitome of 'average' in Murphy's mind – perfect for anonymity.
Raventa asked the disheveled man nonchalantly, "You been chased?"
The spy, kneeling on one knee, shook his head. "No, my lord, nobody on the king's land spotted me. But this afternoon, a sudden whirlwind kicked up."
Recalling the event, the spy winced as though reliving the painful ordeal. "Never saw anything like it. The damned wind was full of tiny stones, each one a slicing menace. I barely managed to protect the secret dispatch..."
Murphy's ears pricked up – something wasn't right. The timing, the location... He eyed Arwin, who was attempting to maintain a straight face, while Raventa barely concealed his smirk.
"That's enough," Arwin interjected. "You've done your job; logistics will take good care of you now."
Understood," the spy answered promptly. Digging into his hemp garment, he produced an unscathed envelope, "For His Grace's eyes."
A guard stepped forward, received the letter, gave it a cursory check—nothing amiss—and handed it to Arwin.
Murphy frowned from a distance. This unfortunate man looked nearly pummeled to death by the reverberating force of Arwin’s punch, his clothes little more than rags, and yet the letter was pristine, almost freshly written - it didn't add up.
Wait, freshly written? Murphy sensed a discrepancy. The letter was too new. The seated dukes were equally sharp, though they didn't show it. Murphy, with demonic intuition, felt Arwin's muscles tense, ready for action, and noticed a surge of magical energy towards Raventa's discreetly worn staff.
Arwin calmly opened the missive, as it wasn't specified for whom it was meant, and both dukes peered over the parchment.
An eerie silence befell the room – Murphy discreetly cast a protective spell over himself and Pepe in anticipation.
Arwin and Raventa's expressions grew increasingly odd until the Duke of the West nonchalantly laid the letter on the table and with a calm demeanor addressed the ragged figure below, "Seems you've had quite a bit of free time on your hands, Ethan Walling?"