Chapter 160: The Strange Forest and an Old Friend Turned Stranger

One of the young knights beside Sir Pascal nearly had his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Pointing at the opposite bank, he cried out in a voice gone shrill with disbelief, “A forest! My lord, how could there be a forest across the river?!”

“That… that’s impossible!”

“Our maps clearly show that area as open plains!”

The outburst instantly threw the entire officer corps into chaos.

Panic and confusion spread through the crowd as rapidly as the fog rolling across the river.

“Could this… could this be the truth those damned rebel scouts were desperately trying to hide?” one knight muttered, his face pale.

Another officer forced himself to remain calm as he analyzed the situation. “Creating an entire forest overnight? How could they possibly accomplish that? Do they have a large group of high-level nature affinity mages? Or… could they possess the legendary Seed of Creation?!”

“Idiot!” Grand Knight Verdi spat to the side in annoyance. “If they had a caster corps at that level, would they still be playing hide-and-seek with us here? They could simply bombard the allied camp with magic. And if they really possessed the Seed of Creation, why would they waste it on some useless forest instead of cultivating a legion of war treants? Use your brain!”

The officer flushed red from the scolding but could not refute him.

Indeed, the logic made no sense.

“Then… is it fake?” another officer asked hesitantly. “An illusion, perhaps? But to create an illusion on this scale and affect all of us simultaneously, the amount of spiritual power required would be terrifying. Could they have an entire cabal of spiritualists? Or perhaps an Origin-rank master spiritualist?”

That speculation sounded even more absurd than the Seed of Creation theory.

Spiritualists were nearly extinct across the entire Vaughn Continent. The Elfin Kingdom probably could not gather more than three in total, let alone form an entire corps.

As for a Source-rank master spiritualist?

The only spiritualist ever recorded in history, Stella, had merely reached Gold rank, and she was already considered the strongest spiritualist in existence.

“Wait! Look to the west!” A sharp-eyed guard knight suddenly shouted, “That forest isn’t that large! I can already see where it ends! At most… at most it only stretches three or four li!”

Everyone turned toward the direction he pointed. Sure enough, through the thinning edge of the fog, they could vaguely make out the forest’s end. Beyond that, the familiar riverbank plains still remained.

That only left everyone even more bewildered. After making such an enormous spectacle, the rebels had created nothing more than a miniature forest only a few miles wide? What was the point?

The officers argued endlessly, their overlapping voices giving Sir Pascal a splitting headache. He raised a hand to silence the commotion while remaining quiet himself, trying to discern the rebels’ true intentions behind this bizarre forest.

No matter the timing or the location, the forest’s appearance carried an unmistakably sinister feeling.

The forest itself posed little direct threat to the allied infantry. Its effect on cavalry amounted to little more than slowing their advance. Even if the woods were filled with traps, the alliance still held an overwhelming numerical advantage. At worst, they would merely lose time sending engineers through to clear a path. The rebels’ manpower and resources could not possibly be endless.

But for something else, the forest’s impact would be devastating.

Siege engines and supply trains. Those massive trebuchets, battering rams, and arrow towers were already difficult enough to ferry across the river. Even if they managed the exhausting task of transporting them over, moving them smoothly through this unknown forest would become nearly impossible.

Should they force a path through? Or detour around it?

A detour would consume enormous amounts of time as well and would leave the army’s flanks fully exposed beneath the rebels’ watchful eyes.

Could it be…

Had the rebels paid such an immense price, perhaps exhausting the mana of a high-level spellcaster, simply to disgust and delay them? Or were they trading space for time?

The more Pascal considered it, the more this seemingly absurd guess began to feel closest to the truth.

The rebels needed time. They needed time to reinforce the city’s defenses and reorganize their forces. That also perfectly explained why their scout units had previously gone to such insane lengths to seal off all information regarding the southern bank. They had been concealing this “forest planting” plan the entire time.

“Delaying for time…” Sir Pascal murmured, feeling as though he had grasped the key point.

If the rebels had chosen such a method to stall them, then it could only mean one thing. They knew their own strength was insufficient and did not dare face the allied army in open battle.

“My lord, give the order!” One of the adjutants noticed the change in Pascal’s expression and immediately stepped forward with blazing eyes. “They’re afraid! We should charge across and crush their defenses in one stroke!”

“That’s right, my lord! We cannot give them another moment to breathe!”

“Please issue the command!”

The officers behind him clamored excitedly.

Sir Pascal tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, and the tiny crack in the handle pressed against his palm with an irritating sensation. That ominous feeling still lingered in his heart. But he also knew the greater momentum of the army had already been set in motion.

The archduke behind him would never patiently listen to explanations about some vague “premonition.”

With a sharp motion, Pascal drew his longsword and pointed the blade toward the silent forest across the river. “Pass down the order! The entire army will prepare to cross the riv—”

Before he could finish speaking, synchronized footsteps suddenly echoed from within the strange forest on the opposite bank.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The sound was heavy and powerful, every step pounding against the hearts of those listening. Moments later, several infantry formations slowly emerged from the forest shadows.

They wore unfamiliar dark blue uniforms, their ranks perfectly aligned. The soldiers in the front row carried gleaming spears and advanced with steady discipline as they began forming defensive positions along the riverbank.

Five standard infantry formations stood silently upon the southern bank of the Somme River while crimson-and-black sword banners and golden-red lion banners fluttered behind them.

An invisible aura of killing intent swept across the rushing river toward the allied forces.

Yet Pascal was a veteran of countless battlefields, and his judgment was sharp. From their movements and bearing alone, he could tell they were merely light infantry at no higher than Bronze rank.

Within the kingdom, their strength would amount to something between local garrison troops and private soldiers.

Still, for “rebels,” their discipline was remarkable. Whoever had trained them was a genuine soldier. A name from the rebel proclamation surfaced in Pascal’s mind.

“So those are the rebels! Their main force has finally appeared!” someone shouted excitedly.

A powerful enemy was not frightening. The allied army still maintained an overwhelming advantage in numbers, and in this era of warfare, that alone was the greatest advantage imaginable. What truly frightened them was an enemy hidden behind mystery and uncertainty.

Now that the rebels’ main force had finally revealed itself, the fear lingering over the allied army for days began to dissipate.

At the forefront of the formations stood a lone figure clad entirely in black armor.

The armor’s design was highly distinctive. The fully enclosed helmet bore wing-like ornaments on either side. Embedded in silver metal upon the right shoulder guard was a clear Roman numeral “II,” while the left shoulder carried a far more vicious-looking ram-shaped emblem.

A crimson sash stretched diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip, and behind him billowed a cloak black on the outside and red within, snapping sharply in the river wind.

“That must be their leader!” a knight exclaimed.

Under everyone’s watchful gaze, the infantry formations halted in place. With a simultaneous metallic crash, the front ranks planted their spears into the earth, their spearheads angling toward the sky to form a forest of steel.

The black-armored knight, however, continued forward alone until he reached the water’s edge, where the river nearly touched his boots.

Click.

He raised a hand and removed his helmet. Beneath it was a face weathered by hardship and carved deeply by the passing years.

Sir Pascal’s heart clenched violently.

As expected, it was him. Even if that face turned to ashes, Pascal would still recognize it.

Hank Corot, hero of the Mandala War, recipient of the Silver Star Medal. And once… a comrade who had fought at his side, someone to whom he had entrusted his back.

So I guessed correctly. That so-called Pioneer Knight was merely a figurehead pushed to the front. You are the true leader behind this rebel army.

Yet Hank showed not the slightest trace of warmth. His eyes remained as firm as Pascal remembered. They swept across the people gathered on the northern bank before finally settling upon Pascal himself at the center of the crowd.

When Hank spoke, it was not to reminisce.

“Dogs of Demont! I am giving you one chance to live! Surrender immediately! Join Coldsteel, and all of you will survive! This, is your final opportunity!”