Chapter 403: Consolidation

Unlike the noble coalition forces, who could only flee in panic across the wilderness and hills, the Cecil Combat Corps consistently received reinforcements and supplies from their homeland as well as from the Leslie and Kant regions. Although delays due to poor roads and transportation were inevitable, these reinforcements were enough to give the soldiers brief respites and allow for rotations under the circumstances.

On the afternoon of the tenth day, Sir Byron arrived in the west, leading a thousand troops from Cecil’s heartland along with a large cache of supplies. They smoothly linked up with the First and Second Mixed Corps under Sir Philip’s command. At the same time, Walder Perich was overseeing the Second Corps’ soldiers as they rounded up groups of captured noble coalition troops, binding them and sending them to the rear.

Byron sought out Philip. “I brought more of those ‘Persuader’ light shells and replacement acceleration rail components. Looks like things are holding up well on your end.”

Philip’s face showed signs of weariness after days of marching and fighting, but his spirit remained high. “These arrived just in time. We can manage food with carried rations and what we seize from the enemy, but shells are definitely running low.”

Byron looked up at the prisoners—hands bound, faces blank, moving like lifeless corpses. From their hollow expressions, he knew the chase was nearing its end.

“Make sure as many of them survive as possible. That’s the lord’s order,” he told Philip. “Most of the noble coalition are conscripted farmers and hunters, plus serfs and slaves—they’re valuable labor.”

“I understand,” Philip nodded. “But honestly… the enemy’s scattering more and more, especially once they hit open ground. Several nobles led groups fleeing in different directions. We used artillery to wipe out and intercept some, but at least a quarter to a third slipped into the forests further west.”

“That was expected,” Byron agreed. “We have powerful artillery and ray guns, but our numbers are limited. It’s unrealistic to wipe out or absorb every last one. Don’t worry—the lord said before I left that nobles have castles and estates they can’t abandon. They can’t run forever. One day, we’ll deal with those who got away.”

“Let’s hope so,” Philip exhaled deeply, gazing at the endless line of prisoners. “Once this war ends, the entire southern kingdom will be unified…”

By the twelfth day of pursuit, the core of the noble coalition—the knights and mages who were the supernaturals, along with the overseeing nobles—finally collapsed completely.

The noble mercenaries, lacking organization and discipline, couldn’t have lasted this long on their own. Their prolonged flight was largely due to the supernaturals’ iron will and deterrent presence holding things together. But once their resolve broke, the entire coalition disintegrated in an instant.

Mass surrenders followed, led personally by knights, mages, and even noble lords.

Normally, nobles surrendering on the battlefield would expect lenient treatment—captured nobles were usually granted status-appropriate respect, their lives guaranteed as ransom bargaining chips, sometimes even treated as honored guests in the victor’s castle. But the terrifying tactics of the Cecilians and Lord Gawain Cecil’s disregard for noble conventions had terrified them. They dared not entrust their lives to Cecil’s soldiers.

Yet after days of exhaustion and broken will, no amount of fear or hesitation could get them back on their feet.

These defeated noble soldiers—knights and conscripts alike—stood like frightened goats on the plains. Most had eaten their last scraps, even resorting to their warhorses and the rats they caught along the way to stave off hunger. Unable to lie down or rest properly for days, their minds filled only with the thunderous roar of exploding shells. They gathered in scattered groups of dozens or hundreds, everywhere.

The Cecil soldiers’ task was simply to run across the vast plains, rounding them up and handing them ropes to bind themselves.

Walder Perich and his Second Combat Corps were mainly responsible for gathering these prisoners and escorting them to the rear. The sheer number of captives was so overwhelming that the guards escorting them were outnumbered. Yet there was no worry about escapes—these men had lost all will to resist after days of flight, and even if they tried, unarmed conscripts couldn’t stand against the ray guns and plasma swords wielded by Cecil’s combat troops.

As the number of prisoners grew and the front stretched longer, an awkward and unexpected problem arose: the Cecilians were short on manpower.

The Second Combat Corps’ escort teams were stretched thin. Walder Perich even requested a thousand reserves from the Kant region’s knights to help handle the prisoners at the front, but it was still far from enough—not only to escort them, but even to guard the thousands of noble conscripts scattered across the plains.

While Philip and Walde fretted over this unforeseen dilemma, Sir Byron volunteered to lead a detachment south to gather reinforcements.

Philip, who usually disapproved of Byron’s carefree, unknightly ways, had to admit that his old mercenary comrade always came up with surprisingly effective solutions to unexpected problems—though sometimes his ideas were as baffling as they were brilliant.

After a few days of waiting, Philip and Walde finally saw Byron return from the rear—still with the same detachment he had taken away, no extra men.

On the increasingly chaotic plains of the Hosman region, Philip stared in disbelief at Byron, who seemed to have come back empty-handed. “The lord didn’t send you reinforcements? Even trainees would help…”

“I never went back to Cecil, or I wouldn’t have returned so fast,” Byron said proudly. “I just made a trip to the Leslie territory to see Viscount Andrew…”

“And?” Philip asked, glancing behind Byron. Aside from the original detachment and several horse-drawn carts, there was no sign of reinforcements. “Did Viscount Andrew send troops behind you?”

“I borrowed five thousand axes,” Byron said, pointing to the carts he’d brought. “Andrew will also send some food supplies soon for temporary use. That’s all—Leslie doesn’t have many men either. They’re busy guarding the thousands pulled from the Whitewater River.”

Philip blinked, stunned. “Axes? You brought five thousand axes for what?”

“To hand out to the prisoners, so they can chop down the woods east of Hosman and build a POW camp on site. Also, later you should find any survivors from Count Hosman’s retinue among the prisoners and have them take charge of nearby farms and granaries. If none are found, bring a few more cannons over.”

Philip was speechless, utterly unable to fathom where Byron’s wild ideas came from. “You mean… have the prisoners build their own camp and lock themselves up?”

“You can already hand them ropes to tie themselves up, why not have them build a camp to lock themselves in?” Byron waved his hand. “These people’s will is completely broken. At least for now, they won’t recover. We need to use this window to control them quickly, then transport them to Cecil in batches—that last part is the lord’s order.”

Philip had no argument and had to admit Byron made sense.

So, on the final day of the long pursuit, the last remnants of the noble coalition ended their painful flight in an unprecedentedly dramatic way.

Under the watch of thousands of Cecil soldiers, the captured coalition troops wielded the axes lent to them, working around the clock in shifts to clear a patch of forest on the edge of Hosman territory. Then they built their own POW camp and locked themselves inside.

Meanwhile, as the last group of coalition prisoners were taken in by the Cecilians, Viscount Carol and his final loyal companions trudged through the muddy wetlands north of Hosman.

Once a proud young noble, Carol was now a shadow of his former self. His once-luxurious coat was filthy, his breeches and boots torn by thorns, and his intricately patterned cloak riddled with holes from the heat ray guns. His unwashed hair clung oily and matted to his forehead. Beside him were the even more disheveled Viscounts Konsko and Mariolan.

They had narrowly escaped the ravenous Cecilians but had no idea where to go next. Exhaustion was crushing their minds; they felt their lives were as ruined and hopeless as the muddy wetlands they crossed.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves thundered from behind, making Carol and his companions freeze in tense fear.

But when they turned, it wasn’t Cecilians who appeared.

Lady Ropeni Grant rode up before them, followed by a sizable retinue.

“Lady Grant! You escaped too?!” Carol stared in surprise at the noblewoman. She looked better off than he did—though still disheveled, she had a horse and well-equipped guards. He wondered how she managed that amid the chaos. “And these people…”

“I gathered those who got scattered on the plains,” Ropeni smiled. “Viscount Carol, looks like you’ve lost your group again.”

The scene was eerily familiar. Carol vaguely remembered how, when the army fell into chaos on the rocky mountain path, Lady Grant had appeared and rallied the scattered troops. Now, the same thing was happening again. He couldn’t help but marvel at fate’s strange ways. “You always seem to catch me at my worst…”

“Come with me—I have a few extra horses,” Ropeni offered to the ragged nobles. “We need to stick together now.”

A handful of fallen nobles and their last loyal retainers had joined Ropeni’s ranks. The Viscount of Mariolan couldn’t help but voice his curiosity about their uncertain future. “Where exactly are we headed?”

“North,” Ropeni Grant glanced back at the Viscount. “We’re going to Rockhold Fortress.”

“Rockhold Fortress?” The Viscount of Carol’s ears perked up at the familiar name, hesitation creeping into his voice. “But that means crossing through my lands… and those Cecilian forces…”

“They’ve already left,” Ropeni said firmly. “They wouldn’t expect us to return after barely escaping their pursuit. Their numbers are limited; they can’t possibly hold every noble’s territory all at once.”

“They’ve left…” Carol’s heart stirred at her words. “Then I…”

“Don’t even think about going back to your castle, Viscount,” Ropeni cut him off sharply, reading his thoughts. “Remember, those Cecilians blew up your first wall right before your eyes—they can just as easily demolish your entire fortress.”

She turned back, her gaze steely and unwavering. “There’s no safe place left in the southern lands. Gentlemen, our only hope lies in seeking aid from the Holy Spirit Plains, from Count Pompey. That means heading to Rockhold Fortress—a fortress unlike any other. Its walls are reinforced with mage-metal, capable of withstanding attacks from the greatest sorcerers. It’s nothing like the walls in your lands, Viscount Carol. The Cecilians cannot breach it.”

Perhaps it was her unwavering confidence in Rockhold, or perhaps the exhaustion weighing on him, but Carol found himself easily convinced. He nodded. “Very well. We’ll make for Rockhold Fortress…”

“Of course,” Ropeni smiled, a warmth that was contagious. “But before that, we must gather any scattered allies we can find. Several groups escaped the Cecilian pursuit alongside us. We need to bring all the lost nobles together. Only when our forces are large enough, when enough nobles stand united, will Rockhold understand the gravity of our situation—and only then will they receive us with the seriousness we need.”

(These next few days, I probably won’t be able to post double chapters =.=)

(End of chapter)