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Chapter 13: Before the Battle
After leaving the valley, the refugees continued eastward. Without torches to light their way, the long procession moved silently through the darkness.
Occasionally, the path wound through mountain ravines, where the tips of fir trees formed shadowy silhouettes against the blackened peaks. Without the stars above, it would have been nearly impossible to navigate in such conditions. Those at the rear simply followed the person ahead, one after another, forming a chain of ordinary citizens—fear keeping them orderly but not silent, as the clinking of tools and equipment betrayed their presence.
Under Brandon’s orders, Freya divided the refugees into several sections, each overseen by two trusted leaders to maintain order. Freya instructed these townsfolk on what to do, while Brandon made clear the consequences of failure—a balance of reward and threat that barely held the group together.
But the seasoned captains weren’t overly concerned. Retto and Mano, veterans of many battles, assured Brandon that sound didn’t travel far in dense forests. Even at its loudest, noise rarely carried beyond the range of an arrow shot.
The White Mane Swordsmen Legion’s Voltaron listened to the wind sweeping across the mountaintops, noting how the rustling of leaves drowned out all other sounds. He informed Brandon that in this environment, relying on hearing was futile; sight was far more reliable.
Brandon tilted his head, listening intently to the distant wind. It sounded like waves crashing against a shore or birds taking flight from the firs, producing a faint creaking noise. Yet upon closer inspection, it carried an eerie quality—soft, distant, and haunting, as if some unseen entity within the forest whispered secrets to those who dared listen.
In Goran-Elsun and throughout southern Eruin, people often described such whispers as the work of witches, luring unsuspecting travelers to their doom. Legends spoke of countless souls lost in the woods, ensnared by witchcraft.
Though these tales were largely dismissed, they took on an unsettling air under the current circumstances.
Brandon walked alongside the column, leading his horse. Behind him trailed the mercenaries. Each rider conserved their mount’s strength for potential combat ahead. The warhorses of this world were exceptionally sturdy, possessing about twenty percent more endurance than ordinary horses. Yet even here, cavalrymen rarely relied on them as mounts, for in battle, even these beasts seemed fragile compared to the horrors they faced.
They had traveled roughly 3 miles east of the valley, effectively leaving the bounds of Silver Sparrow Hill. Unlike the meticulously mapped societies of advanced civilizations, these hills lacked names. This particular stretch likely belonged to the southeastern extension of Deer Hunting Forest, though it lay off the main roads, uninhabited save for hunters during the season. Occasionally, abandoned hunting cabins could be spotted amidst the trees.
Brandon had already dispatched the Gargoyle southwestward, while scouts retraced their route. Half an hour later, reports came back. The two seasoned mercenaries who returned to Brandon were pale-faced, having encountered a sea of skeletons halfway along their path.
Brandon could imagine the scene:
A tide of gray-white bones spilling over the mountaintops, cascading through the forest like a flood. The only sound was the rustling of leaves, a chilling sight that shook even the bravest hearts.
With gentle words, Brandon reassured the shaken mercenaries and sent them to rest. To the others, he explained the weaknesses of the skeletons, ensuring morale didn’t crumble under the looming threat.
He then sent additional scouts northwestward. Brandon understood Madara’s habitual deployments during this season. Their layered formations allowed for flexible maneuvering and extensive reconnaissance coverage, with units supporting one another. This strategy maximized the numerical advantage of Madara’s undead armies—a tactic honed to perfection by their skilled mid- and low-ranking commanders during the early stages of the Black Rose War.
Yet it had one fatal flaw.
Eyes. Without wraiths to serve as scouts, gaps would form between companies, especially in mountainous terrain, making them vulnerable to division and infiltration. Moreover, poor leadership could lead to the classic “trickle-in” tactic, where reinforcements arrived piecemeal rather than en masse.
Madara’s confidence in deploying such formations before the Second Black Rose War stemmed partly from their abundance of capable personnel. Additionally, few methods existed to detect wraiths in this era—except for one that Brandon happened to know.
He glanced toward the hillside—
……….
Mano led the militia through the fir forest, glancing repeatedly at the beautiful white stag below in the valley. Brandon had assured him it would reveal the whereabouts of the dreaded undead.
Mano remained skeptical. He preferred straightforward tactics over wizardly mysticism. By now, they had left the refugee column nearly half a mile behind, yet the stag showed no reaction.
Just as frustration began to boil over, the elegant creature suddenly turned its head, pawing the ground with visible agitation.
“There.” Mano pointed his scimitar forward, signaling the others to advance swiftly.
Ahead lay a fir forest indistinguishable from the rest. As they flanked the area, a faint, ghostly glow emerged—a pale, translucent figure hovering in midair.
Wasn’t that a wraith, by Marsha’s grace?
Both the militiamen and Mano froze momentarily. The pale figure let out a piercing shriek, lunging toward them with claw-like hands.
The ghastly cry chilled everyone to the bone, silencing the forest entirely. Mano felt as though he’d never fought such a bizarre battle. For a fleeting moment, the wraith’s blurred face resembled fallen comrades, but he quickly shook off the illusion. Brandon had warned him: it was all a trick, not to be deceived.
Mano tightened his grip on his scimitar.
With a flash of steel, he swung at the wraith, only for frost to coat his blade. No solid impact—his strike had missed.
Wraiths existed between spirit and substance, rendering physical attacks ineffective half the time.
Mano couldn’t evade fully as the wraith’s bony fingers reached for his face. At the last second, he twisted, letting the claws graze his shoulder instead.
The veteran mercenary felt a biting cold seep into his shoulder, numbing his entire left arm.
“Attack, you bastards!” He rolled to the side, shouting at the stunned militiamen. Snapping out of their daze, they thrust their spears at the wraith.
Three spears passed harmlessly through the apparition, but two others pinned it aloft, eliciting a shrill scream.
Seizing the opportunity, Mano leapt up, slashing diagonally at the wraith. Luck favored him this time; his blade struck true, cleaving through the spirit’s essence. The power of an iron-ranked swordsman erupted, dispersing the wraith in a wisp of smoke.
Everyone exhaled in relief, collapsing to the ground, trembling. No one spoke—not even Mano, who felt a lingering unease.
But one thought dominated his mind: how did that young man know all this?
………
Brandon lowered his gaze. Mano and Barthom had performed admirably, and he silently thanked the experienced mercenaries under his command. Dealing with mid-tier undead would have been far more troublesome without them.
The soul statuette—the white stag—was a common talisman against evil spirits. Linking it to military strategy required imagination. Brandon glanced at Freya, recalling that it was her who originally devised this method in the game.
Was this plagiarism?
Regardless, Madara’s loss of wraith scouts meant their night would grow increasingly difficult. Necromancers might soon notice the disappearance of their wraiths in one direction, but verification would take time.
One or two hours—enough for Brandon to act.
The Gargoyle continued southwest, spotting a unit of skeleton cavalry traversing the woodland. Brandon wasn’t sure if he’d missed others earlier, but this was likely the vanguard of a larger column.
Three minutes later, he located another unit of skeleton cavalry.
As expected, Madara’s tactical patterns aligned perfectly with his predictions. Guiding the Gargoyle along the ridgeline, he crossed several ravines and soon spotted a company of skeleton soldiers in the valley—roughly two hundred strong.
The Gargoyle pressed onward, confirming Brandon’s hypothesis. He quickly identified two more companies. Though he couldn’t determine which columns they belonged to, he knew none of Madara’s column commanders were pushovers.
White Knight Eberton and Wesah likely hadn’t reached this position yet, leaving Diran, Gulob, or Blood Wizard Ladios as possible commanders.
Two generals, five columns, nearly ten thousand undead concentrated in a hilly region barely ten to fifteen miles wide. The undead army advanced under the cover of night, tightening the timeline.
Brandon wanted to investigate the depth between Madara’s second and third layers and locate another column, but the Gargoyle had reached its maximum range. Despite his earlier boasts to Marden and Breyson about covering the entire Buchi region in a day, the Gargoyle wasn’t omnipotent.
At one minute past one o'clock in the morning, reports returned from the northwest. As Voltaron predicted, a horde of zombies appeared—Corpse Grub’s elite forces had indeed arrived from Thornstone Valley.
The news spread among the mercenaries, casting a somber mood. Hopes of avoiding the worst-case scenario evaporated.
The refugee column was now surrounded. Escape required breaking north before the encirclement closed, but the mercenaries doubted that was feasible given the civilians’ pace.
Silence fell.
Freya nervously gripped her reins, instinctively looking to Brandon.
Unperturbed, Brandon checked his pocket watch, mounted his horse, and drew his sword. His voice rang out, firm and commanding:
“Listen carefully, everyone—”
“To our southwest lie two companies, around one mile away, with another further out. And there are four undead scout units approaching from those directions. We will eliminate two scouts and attack one company to create an opening—”
“We’ll circle behind Corpse Grub, as planned.”
“We have two hours to accomplish this. Afterward, we’ll play hide-and-seek with Madara’s undead army.”
Brandon raised his sword, guiding his horse in a circle before the group, a mocking grin on his face.
“Well? Are you afraid?”
Silence reigned.
All were stunned. How did this young man know all this? Surely, he wasn’t bluffing?
Yet Brandon, though unpredictable, never spoke without reason. Standing tall on his horse, he pointed his sword southwest, his words resolute, reminiscent of when he once led charges against Madara.
Wherever his sword pointed, miracles seemed to follow—a path carved through thorns, no matter the obstacles.
Brandon gazed at the assembled warriors, silent as ever, just as he had when rallying like-minded companions to charge against Madara. Some called him the finest assault captain, for once he decided, nothing could stop him.
No one spoke.
But all mercenaries mounted their horses, the metallic scrape of armor echoing in unison.
“For victory.”
“Long live Eruin!”
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