Chapter 87: Three Battle Reports

In the meeting room, Fred sat across from us with a deep frown. Three battle reports lay before him—those were the source of his worry.

The first report came from the Eastern Route Army, which was made up of the Delanmaya First and Third Legions along with the southern nobles. Just like us, they were also troubled by the Cretans’ “Grain Requisition Order.” In response to this enemy situation, General Carterlake, the supreme commander of the Eastern Route Army, adopted a steady and conservative tactic. He halted the army’s advance along the Water Star River, sending only small units to launch surprise attacks and harassment, and stopped conducting large-scale armed offensives.

From a tactical standpoint, this way of fighting certainly lacked aggressiveness, but it could still be considered proper and steady. When supplies were not very abundant, it could keep the war situation stable for a period of time and prevent the eastern front from collapsing quickly. This play-it-safe approach was exactly what General Carterlake had always insisted on. Although he was still far from qualifying as a so-called “famous general,” he was already one of the few Delanmaya commanders who were careful, steady, and rarely tasted defeat. He was quite well regarded among the army.

But this time, he forgot what kind of officers and soldiers were under his command.

From the day those nobles from the south set foot on the battlefield, they had been day and night searching for their own territories on the map, calculating the speed of their advance and the days needed to reclaim their lands. When the war situation was favorable, they could perhaps be called brave soldiers. But when the army stopped advancing and their territories—so close at hand—could not be reclaimed, their selfishness and impatience showed completely. The report said that every day, many people used all kinds of connections to advise and pressure General Carterlake, completely ignoring the fragile supply lines, demanding—softly or forcefully—that he continue advancing south to reclaim lost land. Fortunately, although Carterlake was mediocre, he still had the most basic strategic vision. He refused his subordinates’ coercive demands again and again, and refused to send out troops until the supply pressure was relieved.

He overestimated his own prestige in the army, and at the same time underestimated the ignorance and audacity of the young nobles. One morning, the southern noble officers, who had been secretly plotting for a long time, abandoned their defensive lines under the leadership of General Derrick Tai Dirk, the commander of the Third Legion, and led nearly half of the Eastern Route Army’s strength into the vast sea of grass. Facing the Cretans’ trap, these arrogant, selfish fellows lacked even the most basic judgment. Without a moment’s hesitation, they plunged headfirst into the enemy’s ambush. Short on troops and supplies, they were completely annihilated.

At the most critical moment of the battle, General Carterlake displayed the most shameless side of his noble identity: he allowed his allied forces to be besieged at Gravel Fortress, only three days’ march away, without sending a single soldier to their aid. Although he defended himself in the battle report by saying, “The duty of holding the defense is as heavy as a mountain; not knowing the enemy’s strength, I dared not move rashly,” none of us—who had long endured the chaos of war—were blind. In this situation, anyone could see that his actions, besides being excessive caution born of cowardice, were also meant to settle a personal grudge against the officers who had offended his authority.

Then, despite suffering heavy losses, the Eastern Route Army still adhered to its principle of tightening defense. They were pushed back step by step by the numerically superior Cretans, and the large stretches of land they had already reclaimed were handed back before the commander of the Cretan army—one of the main instigators of this war, the Crown Prince of Crete, Diansos, a man renowned throughout the world for his virtues of honesty and kindness. Now, the Eastern Route Army’s remaining force of about eleven thousand was besieged by the main Cretan army at Shadow Fort, and their repeated attempts to break out had all failed.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why was there no battle report when the Eastern Route Army was split and wiped out? What the hell was that old Carterlake doing before?!” When he had just received the news, the furious Fred threw the report hard to the ground and shouted loudly at the messenger soldier. His expression was so terrifying that it felt as if he might draw his blade at any moment and do something violent. He couldn’t help but be angry. An army that could decide the situation had collapsed in an instant, and over ten thousand soldiers could die at the enemy’s hands at any moment—yet he, the supreme commander of the entire army, had known nothing when it happened. This made us unable to help but suspect what Carterlake’s purpose was in hiding the military situation.

That poor soldier was terrified. I saw mud and blood all over his body. His face bore scratches from gravel when he fell off his horse, his lips were cracked from thirst, and he looked very unwell. His calf seemed to be injured—he limped as he walked. His armor was covered with dents and pits, clearly showing that he had suffered a great deal along the way.

He should not have been blamed. He had done his task to the best of his ability, fighting his way out of the Cretans’ encirclement to deliver this urgent battle report to Fred. After handing the report to Fred, he did not tell us how fierce the fighting had been or how severe his wounds were. He just stood respectfully to the side, waiting for Fred’s reply. His expression told me that once he received Fred’s reply, he would climb back onto his horse without a moment’s hesitation, fight his way back through layer after layer of enemy formations, and deliver the message to his commander. Except for death, nothing could stop this brave man.

Perhaps it was precisely because soldiers like him existed that Delanmaya had been able to hold on for so long in this war.

“You’ve worked hard, soldier. You brought us an important piece of intelligence very promptly. Now, you need rest. Miss Millia, please take him for treatment, and remember to ask the kitchen to give him a loaf of bread and a bowl of meat soup.” I arranged things for that messenger soldier as thoughtfully as I could. Perhaps someone should bear the brunt of Fred’s thunderous rage and receive his harshest rebuke, but it would never be this innocent, good man.

At this point, Fred also realized his own fault. His face turned slightly red, and he looked at me with a somewhat awkward expression. I gently waved my hand at him, signaling: leave these trivial matters to me.

Yes, I was not an outstanding officer, just an ordinary person. I could neither help my friend devise strategies, nor did I have the ability to conquer cities and seize territory at the very front of his army. All I could do was handle the tedious little things around him that were easily overlooked, so that he could free himself from them and think about what was truly important.

That was all I could do for him.

The second report came from our old acquaintance, Baron Miraze. Due to his outstanding performance in battle, his position had been promoted to Colonel, serving as the Chief of Staff of the Western Route Army headquarters, becoming a high-ranking officer second only in status to General Vincent, the supreme commander of the Western Route Army, and the commanders of the two legions.

He brought us two pieces of news.

The first was good news: a month ago, the Western Route Army had encountered the main forces of the Cretans. The two armies faced off for many days on the Gem Flower Plain without either side breaking the deadlock. Finally, led by Baron Miraze, three thousand light cavalry charged forward as a lone force, heavily damaging the Cretans’ supply lines and launching successive ambushes on the enemy’s scattered units. With favorable conditions such as the weather turning cold and the enemy’s morale wavering, the two armies engaged in a decisive battle beneath the city of Naphison. The main Cretan forces suffered heavy losses in that battle, and the Western Route Army achieved a significant and decisive victory.

Compared to the first piece of news, I found it hard to say whether the second was good or bad: the report said that General Vincent, the supreme commander of the Western Route Army, had been “in the vanguard” and “fearless of danger.” At a critical moment in the battle, he led the cavalry charging into the enemy formation, fell into an ambush by mistake, and died a heroic death. From the commander-in-chief down to the commanders of the Sixth and Eleventh Legions, twenty-three important officers of the Western Route Army—not a single one survived.

Although speaking ill of the dead was not a glorious thing, I had to say that General Vincent’s death not only did not make me sad, it actually made me feel much more at ease. Having such an incompetent general as the supreme commander of the Western Route Army truly could not put anyone’s mind at rest.

But for some reason, this news always made me feel uneasy inside. Only a ghost would believe that those cowardly, incompetent fellows had anything to do with words like “in the vanguard” and “fearless of danger,” let alone leading troops to charge into enemy formations. I kept feeling that the deaths of those officers who held the supreme command of the Western Route Army were suspicious, carrying within them a faint scent of conspiracy that I could not quite discern. And my instincts kept telling me that the one pulling the strings of conspiracy behind this hypocritical curtain was none other than Baron Miraze—that man whose ambition and talent were equally astonishing.

“Although our army has gained temporary advantage, the enemy has not yet collapsed, and the war is not over. With no leader at the head, the army is restless. Your subordinate has overstepped his bounds and temporarily taken command, yet there are many difficulties in advancing or retreating. Please send a capable person quickly to set military strategy…” Fred read Baron Miraze’s letter and couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “Given the current situation, who could replace you? ‘Many difficulties in advancing or retreating’—Baron, you’re asking me for military authority…”

Fred propped his right hand on the table and lightly tapped his furrowed brow, looking as though he was making a difficult decision. I knew what he was thinking. This was indeed not an easy decision to make.

“Fred, you must be cautious. I… I don’t trust that man,” I said with worry.

He waved his hand weakly. “I know what you mean, Jeff. I know. But right now, there is no second path to choose. As for that man… we can only place our hopes in his abilities.” With complicated feelings, he pulled out a piece of letter paper and wrote on it: “Appoint Colonel Miraze as the interim supreme commander of the Western Route Army of the Delanmaya Army, commanding the Sixth and Eleventh Legions, to counterattack the Cretan occupation forces and reclaim lost territory. During his term of office, Colonel Miraze shall handle all military affairs with full authority…” The quill in Fred’s hand moved sluggishly, as if every word he wrote required great determination. After finishing the appointment letter, Fred slowly took out his seal, hesitated for a long time, and then pressed it heavily onto his signature.

That blood-red seal imprint was tilted slightly to the right, looking like a mouth that would not stop grinning wickedly. Through this seal imprint, I seemed to see Baron Miraze’s smug smile and his sharp, viper-like eyes. I could even hear his satisfied sneer. As usual, his demands had once again been fulfilled by Fred. In just a few short months, that arrogant young man had transformed from a minor noble of an outlying province with only eight hundred soldiers into a powerful figure firmly controlling twenty thousand troops, with no small influence both in the army and in the country.

We were like those performers forced by the need to make a living, having no choice but to feed a highly venomous cobra with our own flesh and blood, constantly satisfying its greedy desires. If one day we could no longer satisfy its desires, how would it treat us then?

“I’ve created a monster with my own hands, Jeff…” Fred said to me with a heavy heart, watching the messenger gradually disappear on the horizon.

“You had to do it,” I had to comfort my friend who was in a bad mood. I really doubted whether his decision was right, but we could only admit that all the realities had forced him to do exactly that.

“I hope we can satisfy his desires…” Fred said words that even he himself did not believe. Desire was a strange thing. The more you tried to fill it, the harder it became to fill. This was especially true for those with intense desires. All we could hope for was to keep Baron Miraze temporarily satisfied, so that he would not become our most dangerous enemy at this moment when our lives hung in the balance.

Compared to the first report that made people angry and the second that made people helpless, the news brought by the third report was simply despairing.

The last piece of information, which arrived at dusk today, said: the Winston were making their move.

Intelligence agents hiding on the northern bank of the Morning Light River sent word: the Winston army was gathering at the major port cities, with a total force of no fewer than twenty-five thousand, including no fewer than eight thousand Heavy Cavalry. Compared to last time, when they had only relied on six thousand Heavy Cavalry to cross the river as an advance force, this time the Winston appeared much more fully prepared.

We had fought a war with the Winston for nearly three years, and there was no shortage of experiences winning fierce battles. But it would be foolish to deny the bravery of Winston soldiers based only on our victories. Especially in the times we faced Crown Prince Louis head-on, almost every time we held an absolute numerical advantage. Even so, we were still pushed to the brink of despair by the Winston many times, and only managed to win through nearly miraculous luck.

If a sufficiently large Winston army crossed the Morning Light River, from the perspective of pure combat power, it would be very hard for any Delanmaya army to face them head-on and hold their ground. What’s more, behind this army—renowned for its powerful combat strength and unity—there was also the most outstanding commander of this age, the commander of commanders, known as “the man who could embroider on the battlefield”—the Winston crown prince, His Highness Crown Prince Louis.

We hated this man—hated this enemy commander who had taken the lives of our friends and respected teachers. Sometimes, when we thought of this outstanding commander who radiated golden light like the sun, a fierce hatred almost welled up from the bottom of our hearts, a desire to devour his flesh and blood raw. But even so, we never lost even the slightest bit of regard for that name. He was exactly the kind of commander who made even his most bitter enemies have no choice but to respect him.

Once the Winston truly launched an offensive and seized the southern bank of the Morning Light River…

I felt my hands and feet turn ice-cold, a bitter taste filled my mouth, and a weak feeling of despair quietly took hold of my heart.

Even Fred held the battle report and sat in a daze for a long time. It was not that my friend lacked wisdom; it was just that the situation was so severe that it truly had reached a point where one could not help but worry. Caught in the pincer of two powerful nations, Delanmaya had almost fallen into an irreversible dead end. And as soldiers, the things we could do in this war were in fact already very few.

“Report to the Military Affairs Office, recommend sealing off all port cities along the Morning Light River and strengthening vigilance. Conscript troops from inland territories to reinforce the coastal cities and consolidate their defenses, and… forget it, that’s all.”

This was the most meaningless order Fred had issued. Even without his suggestion, the Military Affairs Office would have issued the same order, and the officers and soldiers along the coast would certainly have carried it out all the same. But besides this, what else could he do?

In difficult predicaments, sometimes we must do meaningless things. At least, by doing them, you have not yet given up, you have not yet failed, and you still have a thin but precious thread of hope. Perhaps at some moment, this meaningless struggle would turn into a decisive turning point, and with that as an opportunity, give birth to a miracle.

But this time, would the things we did really be useful?…

“…Let’s not worry about the Winston for now…” At the moment when everyone was anxious and uneasy, a rough and straightforward voice pierced our eardrums. It was Dakla—the stonemason’s son, the voice of our valiant commander of the Heavy Infantry. “Even if we’re going to die, at least let us win a victory here first, so we can die with pride, with honor, like true warriors! Forget about those Winston—they’re still far away from us! The enemy in front of us is the Cretans. So let’s beat them until even their old mothers wouldn’t recognize them! Don’t look so gloomy, Fred. The battle isn’t over, and we haven’t lost!”

Dakla’s voice was loud and powerful, carrying an inspiring passion that lifted all our spirits. The depressed mood from just now vanished like smoke in an instant, replaced by a surging enthusiasm—a stirring, masculine emotion.

I looked at this rock-like man standing before me with some shame. This man had stood by our side since the very beginning of the war, and we had thought we knew him well. On the battlefield, he was brave and tenacious—a true warrior. But in daily life, his simple, honest personality and somewhat clumsy mind repeatedly made him the target of our jokes.

We often said a few mystifying words that left him utterly confused, and he could only catch on when we burst out laughing, after which he would slap his forehead and chuckle foolishly with simple honesty. Yes, compared to most people, Dakla was not smart. Describing him as “well-developed limbs, simple mind” was not an exaggeration.

But at this very moment, when we so-called “smart people” were depressed and troubled, it was precisely he who inspired us with his unquenchable enthusiasm and fighting spirit. With Dakla’s mind, it was perhaps hard for him to handle two things at once. But to put one’s greatest effort into everything one did and do it as well as possible—that was exactly the firm belief of the stonemason’s son.

Winston? Cretans? None of that mattered. What mattered was first sweeping away the enemy in front of you and preserving your own life. Only then could you do other things.

Perhaps it was precisely because we were all “too smart” that we had never bothered to think about this simple truth.

“Sorry, Dakla…” Fred’s tightly furrowed brow gradually relaxed, and confidence and pride reappeared on his handsome face. He leaned down again, forcefully spread the sheepskin map across the table, and said in a hearty, loud voice:

“You’re right. The war isn’t over. Let’s see how we’re going to give the Cretans’ butts a good, hard kick next…”