By the time Raventa had his fill, he noticed Eleanor had slowed down but didn’t stop munching away.
“What's the deal here?” whispered the now-satiated Duke from the North.
“Not sure, could be she's burned through a lot of energy healing up…" Arwin theorized after some thought.
“Really?” Raventa rubbed his chin, “Scared me there for a second. I thought the kid was some kind of Dark Lord.”
“Dark Lord?” Arwin raised an eyebrow, “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“Just pulling your leg.” Raventa chuckled, “I remember reading that each Dark Lord controls one of the cardinal sins. You reckon she might be the 'Gluttony' one?”
“Do you ever finish reading a book?” Arwin asked somewhat helplessly, “Gluttony is about indulgence, hoarding, desecration, and waste.”
“Oh~” Raventa, a bit red-faced, stroked his nose to cover his embarrassment and continued to watch Eleanor wolfing down her meal.
Oblivious to their musings, Eleanor spat out a cleanly gnawed bone and dove into her thirteenth dish.
It wasn't really her fault, after all, even a world's darling Hero needs to eat. You can't expect humanity's mightiest to fight the Dark Lord on an empty stomach, right? If Murphy was around, he'd cheekily add something like, “Not even the King leaves his soldiers unfed.”
She was famished, truly ravenous, as if she had never experienced a full meal in her life. The hunger wasn't merely physical but gnawed at her soul, driving her to consume anything within reach—meat, vegetables, or those unnamed staples. Each item that landed in Eleanor’s seemingly bottomless gut was swiftly digested, the nutrients dispersing to every corner of her body.
This is the price of pushing beyond one's limits, even Heroes aren't exempt.
After polishing off her twentieth plate, Eleanor finally sat back, rubbing her belly contentedly, as news of the Hero’s arrival spread through the camp under the leaders’ instruction. Morale soared all around—from the high-ranking officers to the laboring churls, everyone felt like there was hope in the horizon.
Outside the Carnwen Stronghold, on the scorched earth, a squad of soldiers supervised prisoners and laborers cleaning the battlefield. The workers collected the discarded weapons and gear for repair, while the prisoners had the grim task of lifting the dead and burning bodies.
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“Looks like the Duke's no ordinary man. Can you believe we actually have a Hero on our side—the stuff of legends? Winning this war should be a cakewalk now, eh?”
“Winning? If I were the enemy general, I’d be waving the white flag already. Heck, with a Hero around, the Duke could crown himself king, and no one would bat an eye.”
The prisoners, digging trenches, looked up resentfully at the soldiers’ impudent chatter. Noticing the glare, one of them, perhaps in a good mood, didn't retaliate but simply said, “Eyes on your work, not me.”
But the prisoner kept staring, defiant.
“Stare at your mum like that?” The soldier's good humor faded, replaced by irritation as he marched over with a whip in hand. “Playing tough, are we?”
As the whip arced through the air—“Crack!”
“So, what’re you saying? You think you’re special? According to the Duke, only those missing an arm or a leg get the light tasks. Otherwise, you’re no different from anyone else. What’s the problem?”
The young prisoner stayed silent, wiped the dust from his face, and resumed his work.
Above on the city walls, two old men observed the clean-up crew below.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. That looks like it hurts. Couldn't be me,” Raventa smacked his lips and said sarcastically, “But why keep the lad working? His old man will likely pay his ransom soon.”
“Young Doyle’s the father’s only son. You know, young folks want to make a mark, it’s understandable. A little more experience with the realities of war might make him think twice before starting one,” Arwin commented casually.
“You and your scheming,” Raventa turned towards him, “Do you even plan your grandkids before they're born?”
“Eschell's turned out quite alright, the experience seems to have steadied him,” Arwin replied.
“Because he’s seen some blood?”
“Could be.”
“So, you want young Doyle to get his hands dirty too?”
“Could be.”
“I think you’re just trying to even score for the slight your granddaughter endured.”
“Hmm... could be.”
No one can please everyone, not even a Hero. Inside the royal army's main tent, the atmosphere was as heavy as the clouds pre-storm. Milton was seated at the head, beside a blur that was the partially visible Lahore. Various nobles’ private guards took their seats in silence, none daring to speak.
They didn't know what to say. Who could've guessed a lowly soldier would turn into a Hero mid-battle? Outclassed and unable to snatch victory, the best they could do now was huddle for warmth and sigh in resignation.
Finally, it was a somber Milton who broke the silence: “This battle was a miscalculation on my part. Please, speak freely.”
With that, Milton effectively shouldered the blame, prompting an internal sigh of relief from everyone around him; a collective exhale seemed to echo through the tent.
“The enemy, though numerous at two hundred thousand, didn’t overly extend their supply line, feeding off the land more often than not. My plan was to trap the bulk of their forces at Carnwen Stronghold, to starve and weaken them as we awaited reinforcements for a joint assault. But I never anticipated such a rare occurrence…”
Seeing Milton take on the lion’s share of culpability, words of comfort began to flow. One stood and said, “I bear some responsibility; I couldn’t breach the first wall in the main attack…”
“It wasn't your fault. The rebels’ new weaponry caught us off guard. Even if we had taken the trench or the first wall, we would have faced a second and third one, with the rebels still holding onto their high-ground advantage,” Milton explained calmly.