Chapter 149: Conflict Within the Allied Army, the Final Decision

Sir Pascal’s gaze rested on Hudi.

There were no obvious wounds on the trembling man. Aside from some dust staining his uniform, he was almost surprisingly clean. His face held nothing but panic, without even a trace of the hardened resolve one might expect from someone who had clawed his way out of a pile of corpses.

No matter how one looked at him, he did not resemble a hero who had survived a bloody battle.

“You said there were fifty men on the enemy side? All gathered just to ambush your mere eight-man scout squad?”

The eyes of every officer in the tent shifted from Hudi to Pascal, then back to Hudi again.

Indeed. If the enemy truly possessed fifty elite soldiers equipped with heavy crossbows, then even for an ambush, their target should have been a supply convoy or perhaps a small patrol force.

Using fifty men to surround eight scouts? Either the enemy had lost their minds, or the allied army had a spy leaking even their reconnaissance routes.

The lie Hudi had just woven instantly cracked under Pascal’s questioning. Cold sweat burst from his forehead and back.

“M-maybe…” Hudi’s lips trembled uncontrollably as he frantically searched for an excuse. “Maybe we accidentally stumbled into their ambush zone! They… they operate like bandits. Perhaps they were trying to ambush passing merchants and happened to run into us instead!”

The moment he finished speaking, he wanted to slap himself. Everyone knew the situation around Coldsteel City was tense. What merchant caravans would still be traveling along the Somme River?

Yet while he shook in terror, Hudi noticed from the corner of his eye that Pascal’s expression had not changed. Two of the officers had even nodded slightly.

He… got away with it?

“That’s enough.”

The old knight did not continue questioning him and merely waved a hand.

“You may leave.”

Hudi felt as though he had been granted a pardon from death itself. He practically crawled out of the command tent, and only after the flap closed behind him—cutting off the gazes inside—did he finally feel alive again. The relief of surviving nearly caused his legs to give out beneath him.

Inside the command tent, however, the oppressive atmosphere left behind by Hudi still lingered heavily.

“My lord, do you truly believe that boy’s story?” the bearded officer finally asked. “To me, he looks like someone scared out of his wits.”

“Perhaps we’re being overly cautious,” another officer added. “Undisciplined troops blocking roads and looting travelers isn’t exactly uncommon, especially for mobs like these rebels. They probably can’t even understand the overall situation and only want to make a quick fortune. That explanation isn’t unreasonable.”

Pascal did not answer immediately. He slowly walked toward the massive sand-table map and picked up a black chess piece representing the rebels, placing it upon Coldsteel City.

After a moment of thought, he reached into the box again and took out three more black pieces, placing them one by one beside the first. Four black pieces now stood side by side atop Coldsteel City, radiating an ominous presence.

“Whether that man was frightened senseless or not is irrelevant.” The old knight’s voice was hoarse, but his hand remained steady. “His fear was real. The destruction of our scout squad was also real.”

His gaze slowly moved across the sand table before stopping at the winding curve of the Somme River.

“What does that tell us? It tells us the enemy has both the capability and the willingness to deploy a mobile force far from the main city—one capable of annihilating our scouts completely. Our original estimate placed the rebel army at roughly five to eight hundred men. But if they can spare troops for operations like this, then their total force must at least double that.” 

He tapped the four black pieces with a finger.

“My estimate is no fewer than fifteen hundred soldiers.”

He raised his head slowly.

“Perhaps all of us fell into the same trap from the very beginning, assuming they were weak, poorly trained rabble.”

Pascal’s expression hardened as he made his decision.

“The full assault scheduled for seven days from now is canceled. Our enemy is not merely a band of brigands. Their leader…”

“Canceled?” a rough voice interrupted him abruptly.

A man dressed in a dark blue combat outfit stepped from the shadows in the corner. He was tall, with sharp features and cold gray eyes that resembled a lone wolf hunting across frozen tundra.

It was “Frost Wolf” Fenrir.

“Old man, what kind of joke are you playing at?” Fenrir’s tone held not the slightest respect. “What difference is there between eight hundred pieces of trash and fifteen hundred pieces of trash? Why take a bunch of rabble this seriously?”

Such blatant insubordination caused every officer aligned with Pascal to glare furiously at him.

In the military, openly insulting a commanding officer was a capital offense punishable by immediate execution.

Yet not a single one of them dared speak up. Because Fenrir was one of the archduke’s men—and a Gold-rank powerhouse. They dared not challenge him.

But someone else did.

“Heh.”

A soft chuckle broke the tension in the tent.

Another man approached leisurely, dressed in extravagantly refined clothing that seemed far too elaborate for a military camp. He appeared completely oblivious to the tension around him, wearing the expression of someone who had merely come to enjoy the entertainment.

“So your title is Frost Wolf, yet your temper is this explosive?” He looked at Fenrir with amused mockery in his eyes. “I should remind you that the Executioner Yuri, another Gold-rank fighter stronger than you, died at the hands of these so-called ‘pieces of trash.’” His lazy tone sounded utterly out of place in the army. Someone unfamiliar with the setting might have mistaken this place for a noble pleasure house in the royal capital.

Pascal glanced at him.

Kost.

That was all the old knight knew about the man. He disliked him instinctively—glib, slippery, and shrouded in mystery. But the giant bodyguard standing behind Kost constantly radiated savage pressure, and more importantly, Kost carried a special decree personally signed by Archduke Demont. Its contents consisted of only a single sentence: Free to act within the allied army. Answerable to no one.

“Hmph. I don’t need reminders from a stage clown like you.” Fenrir’s face darkened further after having his sore spot poked. “Yuri was just a slow-witted, arrogant fool! I’m nothing like him. Even if my opponent were only a rabbit, I would still go all out!” He shot Kost a vicious glare. “And besides, who’s stronger between the two of us isn’t settled yet!”

Turning back toward Pascal, he pressed aggressively forward.

“The rebels’ actions prove exactly one thing—they’re united under some so-called strong leader! Kill the man at the top, and this so-called army will scatter instantly! The archduke is pressing us hard, Pascal. We need to advance immediately!”

Kost merely smiled and said nothing further. He closed his folding fan elegantly while the towering giant behind him remained silent as ever, standing motionless like a statue.

On one side stood the impatient Frost Wolf, eager to finish the campaign and claim credit.

On the other stood the perpetually smiling and unreadable Kost.

Pascal, the old veteran soldier, felt his temples throbbing painfully. Ever since receiving the archduke’s mobilization order, he had been plagued by an inexplicable sense of unease.

Especially recently, when that mysterious “Declaration Calling for the Suppression of the Traitorous Rebels” had suddenly spread throughout the allied camp like wildfire, throwing morale into turmoil. Its contents had been shocking, directly accusing Archduke Demont of treasonous atrocities. If even half of what it claimed was true, then the archduke’s actions had already strayed far beyond the honor and righteousness expected of nobility.

To prevent morale from deteriorating further, Pascal had already forbidden all discussion and circulation of the document. Several soldiers who repeatedly ignored the order had even been executed.

No one dared mention the declaration anymore. But the damage had already been done. Though the accusations remained unverified, even Pascal himself could not shake the feeling that they might actually be true, especially when he saw the name “Hank Corot” written upon it.

Mandala War. Southern Legion. Third Heavy Infantry Company.

Back then, they had once entrusted their lives and backs to one another as comrades.

Hank… this time, have you truly chosen to stand against me?

An enemy army of uncertain strength. A divided high command. Indecisive leadership. Shaken morale among the soldiers. Every one of those factors was a deadly taboo in warfare. And now they had gathered all of them together at once. As a veteran who had survived the Mandala War, how could Pascal possibly fail to understand that?

Yet faced with the current situation, he felt only exhaustion and helplessness.

“Everyone, leave.” Rubbing his aching temples, Pascal’s voice carried deep weariness. “That will be all for today. Dismissed.”

“Hmph.” Fenrir snorted coldly and turned to leave first. Before pulling aside the tent flap, he glanced back one final time. “If this drags on too long and the archduke blames you, don’t say I didn’t warn you, old man.”

Kost also turned leisurely toward the exit. Upon reaching the entrance, he spun back around and performed an exaggerated theatrical court bow toward Pascal before departing with a smile.

The remaining officers saluted Sir Pascal one after another, concern visible in their eyes.

The old knight said nothing further. He merely waved a hand, dismissing them all.

Soon, the vast command tent was left with only him inside.

He stood before the sand table, staring silently at the four black chess pieces for a very long time.

“Pioneer Knight… Nolan…” he murmured the name quietly. “You really are a troublesome man.”

All Pascal wanted now was to end this campaign as quickly as possible and return to his estate to tend the newly planted fruit trees.

He should already have retired.

But the kingdom’s chaos would not allow him to rest.

After a long silence, he let out a weary sigh and spoke softly to himself. “Then let me… stand this final watch for the archduke.”

That very night, urgent orders were dispatched by messengers to every camp of the allied army. Every commander who received them saw the final operational directive—a complete reversal of the daytime decision. In five days, the entire army would cross the Somme River. At dawn on the sixth day, they would launch the full assault.

Pascal understood that delay would only invite greater complications. He had chosen to use the fiercest offensive possible to bury all the fractures and unease festering within the army.

It was a gamble staking everything.

He thought of the fruit trees waiting to ripen back at his estate.

And here he was, about to reap a bloody harvest instead.