Chapter 159: Dense Fog and Ill Omens

The night was deep and still, and in the silence, the rushing waters of the Somme River sounded especially clear. Today was the sixth day of the allied army’s advance, and at dawn, the great host was scheduled to cross the river.

Inside the allied camp on the northern bank, Sir Pascal sat alone in his tent with a heavy knot of frustration lodged in his chest. These past six days had been utterly miserable. The entire alliance army had stumbled across its own territory like a swarm of headless flies, carrying out a laughable blind march while knowing almost nothing about the movements within Coldsteel City.

It could not be said they had learned absolutely nothing. The scouts had at least suffered crushing setbacks. The ghosts emerging from Coldsteel City used crossbows and traps to drive his reconnaissance units from the battlefield formation by formation. The casualties to the main army were insignificant, but the psychological damage was immense. News of scout detachments being continuously wiped out spread through the army like a plague, and morale visibly deteriorated.

Their information channels had been almost completely sealed off, something Pascal had never experienced in his decades of military service. Only one day earlier, when the army had advanced to within twenty li of the Somme River’s northern bank, had the seemingly endless Coldsteel rebel scouts finally ceased their maddening campaign of unrestricted harassment.

Yet the weather seemed determined to mock them again. Without warning, a dense fog had descended the previous night, swallowing the entire riverside in white. Fog along riverbanks was common enough, but this mist was unnaturally thick. Forget observing the opposite bank—even a few steps ahead, man and beast became indistinguishable.

In the early hours before dawn, several fully armed knight squads risked approaching the riverbank, only to hear the roaring waters of the Somme River. As for what lay beyond the river, they could see absolutely nothing.

Hidden within the fog on the southern bank, unseen by all, Vivi sat leisurely atop her horse with ten silent scouts waiting behind her. Renee shared the saddle with her. The little girl had long since grown accustomed to riding and now rested quietly in Vivi’s embrace with her eyes closed while the surrounding water elements pulsed in rhythm with the fluctuations of her spiritual power.

The fog surrounding them seemed even denser than elsewhere, drifting alongside them wherever they moved in a strangely unnatural manner. Although they carried no light sources, the trembling figures on the opposite bank holding torches and peering nervously through the mist appeared perfectly clear within Vivi’s amber reptilian eyes.

“Heh.”

Vivi raised the crossbow in her hand and aimed casually toward the swaying cluster of torchlight across the river before lowering it again in boredom. It was not time yet.

She lifted a hand and gave several simple gestures to the scouts behind her.

The enemy has arrived.

Leave them a big surprise.

We’re withdrawing.

With that, she lightly tugged the reins and turned her horse around. The warhorse beneath her did not even snort as it silently carried the two girls away. Ten dark figures followed soundlessly behind them, not a single unnecessary noise escaping as they vanished like ghosts into the deeper reaches of the fog.

***

The allied knights ultimately did not dare risk crossing the Somme River and could only return in confusion to report back.

“What’s the situation at the Somme River right now?”

The leading knight hesitated for a long while before finally forcing out a single answer, “I don’t know.”

“Did you see any rebel scouts?”

“…Not clearly.”

“Then surely you at least determined whether the rebels established defenses along the river!”

“…Uncertain… theoretically…”

“Get out!”

Pascal was so furious he nearly kicked over the brazier in front of him. The knights scrambled out in panic, and silence once again returned to the tent.

After angrily dismissing all the officers, Pascal forcibly suppressed his temper and made himself think calmly. The only thing that could be confirmed was that his knights had approached the river at close range without suffering any attacks.

What did that mean?

Either the rebels of Coldsteel City had realized the army intended to cross the river but were equally blinded by the fog, or they had simply not established defenses along the riverbank at all.

Drawing upon decades of military experience, Pascal judged the latter possibility to be almost nonexistent. The rebels’ scouts possessed far too much tactical discipline to be incompetent rabble, and their leader could not possibly miss such a critical opportunity for harassment.

“Damned rebels…” Sir Pascal muttered a curse under his breath as a headache pounded behind his eyes.

If it had been entirely up to him, the safest course would have been to halt the advance immediately and wait for this cursed fog to disperse before making any further decisions. Unfortunately, the orders from the one behind him left him with no room to choose.

“Frost Wolf” Fenrir was right. Though Coldsteel City was small, it was the province’s primary center for mining and military production, making its strategic value extraordinarily important. Archduke Demont had already sent two envoys to urge faster progress, and each message had been harsher than the last.

Pascal felt like a sheep being driven into a wolf’s den by a lion.

With no alternative left, the river-crossing operation at dawn had to proceed. Transporting siege equipment across the river would be difficult, so in order to clear the way for the forces behind them, they had to seize Rowan Ferry at all costs tomorrow morning and establish a stable foothold on the southern bank. Only then could the main army secure its position.

The veteran commander let out a deep sigh and carefully adjusted his armor one last time before drawing the longsword at his waist and wiping it slowly with deerskin cloth.

The blade gleamed as brightly as new, reflecting the weathered lines upon his face. It was a Faint Glow–grade weapon awarded for his military achievements during the Mandala War. It had accompanied him for nearly twenty years and was the comrade he trusted most.

Just as he prepared to sheath the sword again, his gaze suddenly froze.

A tiny crack had appeared at some unknown point within the ironwood grain of the hilt.

This type of wood underwent special oil treatments and hardening processes. Unless struck by tremendous force, it should only grow sturdier and smoother with years of use and the constant absorption of sweat from the wielder’s hand.

…A terrible omen.

All Elfinians carried a trace of superstition in their blood, and Pascal was no exception. He stared fixedly at the crack while the candlelight inside the tent flickered uneasily in his eyes, casting shifting shadows across his uncertain expression.

The next morning, a deep horn blast tore through the dense fog.

The allied army advanced according to schedule as heavy footsteps and clashing armor merged into a dull, oppressive rumble. Fully armored from head to toe, Sir Pascal personally arrived at Rowan Ferry surrounded by his retinue of knights.

The fog over the river remained thick, though it was somewhat better than before dawn. At the very least, the outline of the opposite bank could now barely be seen.

Yet the moment Pascal narrowed his eyes and looked across the river, the sight before him left him utterly stunned.

He immediately confirmed the surrounding terrain once more. The valley was wide, the current relatively calm, and the northern bank held the distinctive white willow trees of Elfin.

This was undoubtedly Rowan Ferry.

Pascal had spent half his life on the battlefield and had visited the Somme River no fewer than ten times. In his memory, beyond Rowan Ferry on the southern bank lay an open plain with flat terrain and no obstructions, ideal for deploying a large army. There had been some trees scattered along the southern bank, but only sparse white willows.

But now…

A vast and densely packed forest had appeared on the opposite side of the river.

The trees were towering and twisted, their branches tangled together as they exuded a primitive and unsettling aura through the hazy fog.

Pascal thought he had seen wrongly, but when he looked again, the forest still stood there, silent and menacing.

He tried to distinguish the outlines of the trees, and the longer he looked, the more familiar they became.

A bizarre and absurd sensation crept over him.

“How is this possible…”

Pascal suddenly remembered.

The shape of those trees and their roots unmistakably belonged to the unique species found only within the Borderlands Forest.

A fine layer of cold sweat instantly broke out across Sir Pascal’s forehead.

How could that forest possibly appear here?!