Chapter 393: The Ambush

The army of fifty thousand broke camp and set out, a noisy, boisterous procession filled with a festive atmosphere—and an almost unbearable racket.

Count Hosman and his shining knights were the brightest spectacle in the ranks. Clad in gleaming new plate armor, the knights rode tall horses, while their armored attendants marched alongside, carrying vividly colored banners. As they advanced, they sang loudly the well-known southern folk song, “Tom the Lost Soldier.” The accompanying musicians played bagpipes and hand drums—bright-toned instruments meant to signal the commander’s location to nearby units. Typically, the musicians would play every ten miles to prevent the entire army from falling into chaos.

Yet despite these measures, the army remained distinctly disorderly—an inevitability given its massive size. Crowded together and divided among dozens of noble leaders, coordination was nearly impossible. The long line stretched intermittently along the kingdom’s main north-south road. When the vanguard left the Carol lands, the last units hadn’t even broken camp.

Count Hosman didn’t mind. To him, it was already a great achievement that these provincial minor nobles could at least march in the same direction as the main force. He didn’t expect their peasant levies—recruited from fields and taverns, prone to drunken brawls—to match the discipline and fighting spirit of his knights. Besides, a little chaos didn’t matter now; they still had a long way to go. The army’s main task over the coming days was simply to cover ground. Many remote noble contingents hadn’t yet arrived at Carol, and those stragglers would join in over the next few days. There was no point in trying to impose order just yet.

Let the mess be—he had fifty thousand men. With that, he could probably trample all of Cecil flat.

Besides… those ragtag peasants in worn leather or chainmail weren’t the real force. They were just fodder—meat to fill the trenches on the battlefield. The true power lay with the gifted warriors.

Count Hosman’s gaze swept over the marching columns beside him—his proud knights, the robed mages guarded in their midst, and behind them, the priests in pristine white robes leading the church’s knightly orders. Clad in sturdy armor or elegant vestments, these noble figures carried themselves with a dignified reserve that set them apart from the vulgar, chaotic soldiers around them.

These were the men he truly trusted.

…

In the northern lands of Kant, the artillery positions on the wind-swept hillocks were fully deployed. Sir Philip rode among the firing teams, inspecting each group before returning to the center of the position.

His eyes took in the entire field—not only the disciplined, swift-moving Cecil combat troops and their artillery, but also the somewhat disorganized and nervous Kant regiments (the Second Combat Corps) stationed behind the lines.

The First Corps here numbered three thousand soldiers; the rest were the newly formed Second Corps from Kant. The latter were not the main fighting force. Their job was to help set up the position, handle logistics, and… observe.

Though the Second Corps had begun formal military training, it was still in its infancy. The old habits and mindsets of traditional noble mercenaries ran deep and couldn’t be undone by a few drills. But Philip believed that exposing these men to the First Corps’ battlefield methods firsthand would loosen their stubborn attitudes—a fact already proven among the Kant knights.

The leader of the Kant knights, the middle-aged Walder Perich, stood on a high platform overlooking the hill. Clad in newly issued armor and wielding a new weapon called the “Melt-Cut Sword,” he watched the soldiers bustling about the so-called artillery position. The gently sloping hill had been thoroughly fortified—large swaths of land leveled, trenches and gun pits dug out. The massive “Magic Crystal Railguns” were arranged in a staggered, crisscross pattern within the pits, connected by communication trenches for moving ammunition and personnel. The brightly armored Cecil soldiers darted swiftly between the trenches, their movements governed by simple commands, creating an astonishing order—and even a strange beauty—that Walder Perich had never witnessed in his decades of military service.

The battlefields of his memory had always been simpler, rougher, and far more chaotic.

As for this specialized “artillery position”… it was beyond his comprehension.

He had seen the Magic Crystal Railguns before, even knew their name—“Justice”—but only in neat, open fields during test firings. He had assumed that was how they fought. Now, seeing this strange position and the artillerymen’s skilled preparations, he realized what he’d witnessed before was only the most rudimentary aspect.

A female knight with shoulder-length brown hair climbed the platform and approached Walder Perich. “Sir Walde, I heard… we won’t be participating in the upcoming battle?”

The old knight didn’t turn around. “By order, unless the enemy reaches the hilltop, neither the Kant knights nor the entire Second Corps will fight.”

The woman frowned, her spirited face showing displeasure. “Isn’t that an insult to us?”

“This is training for the Second Corps, young Margarita,” Walder Perich finally turned to face her. She was the most talented and closest to mid-tier among the Kant female knights, but still too young and inexperienced. “Don’t forget, the Second Corps hasn’t completed basic drills. They haven’t even memorized the new combat protocols. Do you want them to cause chaos on the battlefield?”

“They haven’t memorized them, but we have,” the female knight protested indignantly. “Right now, our brothers and sisters are leading soldiers digging trenches, hauling stones, moving shells and magic network plates behind the Cecil lines. But when the fighting starts, we’re sidelined… It’s obvious they don’t trust us. We’ve sworn loyalty and strictly obeyed our lord’s orders…”

“Then keep obeying, knight,” Walder Perich interrupted. “If a knight can’t even follow his lord’s commands, no matter how skilled in battle, there’s no honor in it.”

The female knight fell silent, lowering her head slightly. Walder Perich knew Margarita’s resentment was shared by many Kant knights, so he continued.

“Margarita, what do you think of your new armor and sword?”

“Armor and sword?” She paused, then looked down at the alloy armor stamped with the Cecil steel seal, faintly glowing with magical energy in the seams, its unusual but elegant design—and at the Melt-Cut Sword at her waist. She nodded instinctively. “They’re very good… I was a bit reluctant to give up my family heirloom armor for this ‘standard issue,’ but now I think it’s excellent—especially this sword. It’s much better than my old steel blade.”

“See those soldiers?” Walder Perich nodded toward the busy Cecil troops. “Each of them has a set like that. I’ve checked—their armor and swords are almost the same as the officers’. The officers just have a bit more gilding and slightly better magical materials. Do you know what that means?”

The female knight looked thoughtful.

“It means that with this armor and sword, five or six ordinary soldiers can take down a superhuman knight like you—counting your skill and experience advantage. If they use thermal ray guns and grenades, you probably couldn’t handle two of them. Superhuman knights might be able to fight a hundred elsewhere, but here, you’re at best just a better soldier.”

Margarita was speechless.

“So the lord’s refusal to let us fight isn’t distrust—it’s because he doesn’t need us,” Walder Perich said, gazing into the distance and exhaling softly. “But he lets us watch and learn because he hopes one day we’ll be useful. What he needs isn’t just skilled knights, but ones who can learn actively and keep pace with him. Do you understand?”

“…I understand.”

“Good,” Walder Perich smiled and nodded. “Then let’s quietly watch and see how the Cecilians fight…”

A messenger arrived at the hilltop, running up to Philip and handing him the latest intelligence.

Philip unfolded the note, reading the neat feminine handwriting:

“Count Hosman leads fifty thousand southward, via Kingdom Road—Shattered Stone Ridge, expected arrival on the XX day.”

Philip nodded and casually let the paper dissolve into drifting dust.

“Send out scouts to Shattered Stone Ridge for early warning. Use smoke signals.”

…

At the same time, on the southern bank of the Whitewater River near the forest edge, Byron stood on a camouflaged artillery position, watching soldiers cover the acceleration rails of the railguns with woven leaves and vines as concealment blankets.

This middle-aged knight, a mercenary by origin, lacked any noble bearing. He leaned against a half-dead black beech tree, chewing on a stick, pondering how to pass the dull hours. Firing the guns was thrilling, but waiting for prey before the first shot was agonizing.

As if hearing his thoughts, a messenger parted the bushes and approached.

Byron waved from afar. “Hey, Barnico, any news?”

“Sir, confirmed intelligence,” the messenger reported after saluting. “Count Peibo leads twenty thousand men crossing the Whitewater River, expected to pass the ambush point in two days.”

“Whoa, twenty thousand,” Byron whistled. “Not bad. We’ve got two thousand here against twenty thousand—that’s way easier than Philip’s side. He’s got three thousand against fifty thousand, right?”

The messenger started to reply, “Sir Philip also has the Kant knights—”

“Those guys aren’t fighting,” Byron waved him off. “Alright, with this news I can relax. Now we just wait for those bastards to show up. I’ll find a place to sleep… and then blast the hell out of them in a couple days!”

(End of chapter)