Hearing these words, the messenger, also a shadowy sentinel, felt a cold sweat breaking out on his back. It took a moment for him to gather his thoughts before he responded, "Indeed, the reason is unclear."
"Understood, you may leave now. Do what you must," commanded Milton with a dismissive wave of his hand. The messenger hadn't even stepped out of the tent when Milton had already turned his back, unwilling to spare him another glance.
"As you wish." The messenger bowed and slowly retreated from the tent.
In the spacious confines of the tent, Milton whispered to himself, "Resorting to such despicable tactics is an insult to the Goddess. Only a victory earned in honorable combat is worth dedicating to the Great Goddess..."
---
At Carnwen Stronghold, two dukes were deep in discussion of the next steps in their military campaign. Don't be fooled by the mere presence of 150,000 troops from the capital since, after nearly two months of relentless battle, even the alliance army, who frequently scraped together supplies, had many wounded.
Though most injuries were minor, it was a last resort to send these men into battle again. On one hand, there was a need to rally troop morale and set an example, and on the other, many tasks such as logistics and guarding a significant number of prisoners and laborers required the support of these wounded auxiliary soldiers.
With this in mind, what seemed like a formidable fighting force of 200,000 had a touch of bluff to it. In reality, the effective force numbered only 170,000, while the capital's motley crew, though mismatched, were full of fighting spirit. And don't get me started on their average level; they were one to two levels above the average alliance soldier.
As for the elite Black-armored Guards, no one felt confident to best this military unit, not even the West Frontier Guards or the Lynx Mage Corps. Hailing from a lineage-based force, the nobility with its strong notions of blood believed that a strong descendant comes from a strong line. Thus, the first generation of Black-armored Guards were the cream of the crop, followed by generation after generation taking up the family mantle, much like the Doyle clan. Undoubtedly, their 10,000 elite soldiers were a force to be reckoned with.
All things considered, it's hard to predict who would win this conflict. Although the main force from the capital was slowed by absorbing various troops along the way, this provided a significant boost to their combat effectiveness when the winds were in their favor.
Thus, in open field battle, the alliance's probability of victory was low, suggesting that a defensive war within the city walls was their only viable strategy.
In such a scenario, the establishment of an elite unit was of urgent necessity. Only by resisting the onslaught of the main force could there be a chance to orchestrate a counterattack.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Regarding the siege expected in three days, the two dukes reached three decisions.
The Lynx Mage Corps were already outside the south gate of Carnwen Stronghold, using earth elemental magic to reinforce and thicken the existing walls, and constructing a second and third set of walls for a pincer defense, turning Carnwen Stronghold into a bastion as tough as a bone to chew.
On a cleared field, 1,500 carefully selected soldiers listened attentively to the duke's military officer on the high platform. Following the shouted commands, they practiced with their weapons in hand.
Of course, these soldiers were no dullards. Most needed only half a day to master the ignition procedure of their matchlock guns. Though their supervising officer lavishly praised them, he secretly harbored doubts about their actual combat performance.
These soldiers, of humble origins, had an innate reverence for magic. Learning they'd been chosen to wield new magical weaponry, their faces were a mix of excitement and fear. They cherished and even idolized their matchlock guns to such an extent that some soldiers sought to form a bond beyond comradeship with their magical weapon partners. These men received a swift and personal reprimand of twenty lashes from the furious military judge.
The last decision was to improve the entire army's rations. After all, it's pointless to hoard food if the battle is lost. With this, as they awaited the kingdom's army, every soldier feasted well, waiting for the next day's brutal battle.
---
As evening fell, Milton sat expressionless in the kingdom's army tent, murmuring to himself in a voice only he could hear, "The final peaceful night..."
"Your Excellency, may I begin?" In front of Milton stood an officer, holding a stack of parchment, waiting for a response.
"Go ahead."
"As of today, all the nobles' private forces have assembled. Our total force numbers 155,000. This includes 10,000 Black-armored Guards from the capital, 30,000 royal guards, and 30,000 troops from the southern garrisons..."
The officer recounted the troops diligently, naming forces from every part of the country laid out in order, pausing near the end, "And the 5,000 who arrived half an hour ago from the eastern domains..."
"Wait," Milton interrupted the officer, who babbled on, "Only 5,000 from the east?"
Half an hour ago, Milton had been in devout prayer, during which no one was to disturb him. But with his level of perception, he had sensed a new group's arrival at the camp.
When Milton finished his prayers, he swiftly summoned the officer for details, only to learn it was a troop from the eastern domains.
"Duke Walling, one of the four great dukes of the kingdom, with lands nearly a tenth of our country’s size, sends only five thousand to aid us?" Confusion and anger surfaced on Milton’s face for a rare moment as he continued, "Where is his loyalty? His devotion?"
"My lord, the eastern officer relayed the words of Duke Walling," the officer hesitated as he read Milton's expression.
"And what did Duke Walling say?" Milton asked, his face set.
The officer's face twisted uncomfortably, "Duke Walling claims these five thousand are the finest of the eastern domain, hoping to help Lord Milton Erwin secure a decisive victory."
"Hmph, secure a victory? Did you observe this force? How do they measure up?" Milton asked offhandedly.
"..." The officer’s body shrank, looking like a quailed quail at the question.
"I asked, what is the level of this eastern force?" Milton’s face grew frosty as he sensed something amiss, "Are you deaf?"
With a grimace worse than crying, the officer whispered, "They’re... all old and feeble."
The tent air seemed to freeze, and only the grinding of teeth could be heard. Then, a voice thick with wrath seeped out:
“Ethan Walling! You disloyal cur! You will pay for this!”