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Chapter 18: The Turn
After defeating Sasal, Brandon led the refugees southward once more. Roughly an hour and a half later, they engaged another undead army. Replicating their previous victory, the refugee column slipped into the gap between the second and third layers of Madara’s search lines.
Ahead of them lay the three-pronged nets formed by Diran, Gulob, and Ladios' columns, while behind loomed the vast skeletal hordes. Though perilous on the surface, their situation was one of delicate balance—a calm eye amidst the storm.
Though battles inevitably brought casualties, Brandon’s plan continued to hold firm.
The roaming undead forces of Madara in the southern reaches of Deer Hunting Forest soon encountered a glaring issue—the refugee column that should have been trapped within their encirclement had seemingly vanished like smoke. When Magus, the "Corpse Grub," converged with Eberton and Wesah before linking up with Gulob, Diran, and Ladios to sweep the region, no trace of the refugees who were supposedly hiding in Silver Sparrow Hill could be found.
Had the intelligence been wrong?
As a cunning commander, Magus did not believe in luck or coincidence. It immediately suspected the refugees might be lying low in some valley, waiting for the undead forces to sweep over the hills above.
Without delay, Magus ordered all undead units in the area to dispatch every scout available, fanning out from the convergence point in all directions to conduct another thorough sweep. They were to find the missing refugee column at any cost.
But as soon as the scouts were sent out, Gulob, the commander of the 17th Column of the left wing of Madara’s “Obsidian” Legion, realized he had lost contact with one of his companies. The Black Knight Sasal, who had led them, seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Before Gulob could make sense of the situation, Diran, the commander of the 12th Column, reported a similar mystery.
It didn’t take long for both commanders to realize that a mysterious force might have silently breached their encirclement and maneuvered behind their lines. But how? How could a group of nearly two thousand people slip through the net cast by dozens of scouting parties? If it were mere luck, then this luck was almost inconceivably good.
Neither dared hesitate. They immediately relayed the news to Magus. Upon hearing the report, the "Corpse Grub" erupted in fury, nearly hurling the scroll case containing the battle map at the two hapless officers.
“You worthless maggots!” Magus raged, practically spitting in their faces. “The third batch of graduates from Brovento’s Black Rose Academy are nothing but useless worms! Get out of my sight!”
Gulob and Diran retreated in shame, heads bowed. Once they were gone, Magus calmed himself and summoned Eberton and Wesah. He ordered the undead forces to spread outward along both flanks, wary of the possibility that the refugees might attempt to escape around the edges of the encirclement.
His second command was directed at three other column commanders, instructing them to reverse course and search backward. Though Magus held the new generation of Madara’s dark nobility in contempt—much like he despised Kabirus, whom he considered a brainless fool—he now had no choice but to rely on their strength.
This was, after all, the rising power of Madara—but he couldn’t shake the fear that he might already be too late.
…..
Unbeknownst to Magus, Brandon had just passed the second company under Ladios, the “Blood Wizard,” trailing roughly three miles behind the third company.
Brandon’s plan differed slightly from what Magus anticipated.
Riding swiftly past both flanks of the refugee column, Brandon singled out key members among the mounted refugees and loudly instructed them to turn back. This was not an unusual move; Brandon had repeatedly used such tactics to help the refugees evade Madara’s undead cavalry scouts.
When the key members saw their knight-commander, they instinctively ordered the refugees under their charge to turn around. Some, eager to curry favor, approached him hesitantly. “Sir Brandon, have we spotted enemy scouts ahead again?”
“No,” Brandon replied, seated atop his horse. “Tell them to turn north. Discard everything except food, water, and weapons. We’re preparing to accelerate.”
His words startled them. North? Wasn’t that where Madara’s main forces were? They had barely escaped from that direction—why were they heading back toward certain doom?
Had that knight lost his mind?
Brandon tightened the reins, turning his steed in a circle. He looked at the uneasy crowd and reassured them. “Rest assured, I haven’t gone mad. Do as I say if you wish to survive. This is our only chance.”
The refugees exchanged glances, silent but resigned. What choice did they have? The nobles of Ridenburg had long abandoned them, leaving only this compassionate knight-commander to share their hardships and lead them through countless perils.
Moreover, his brilliance and valor were undeniable. According to the mercenaries, Brandon fought on the battlefield like Mars reborn, unstoppable and invincible. While such tales sounded exaggerated, the steady stream of victories and captured weapons served as ample proof.
Reflecting on this, their earlier doubts began to waver. But what exactly was that knight planning? Could it be, as the peacekeeping cavaliers claimed, that his sword truly forged a path to miracles?
Seeing their silence, Brandon understood that his authority had begun to take root. Yet he knew this influence was fragile, sustained only by the dire circumstances. Once the First Black Rose War ended, this fleeting honor would vanish like mist.
Thus, he reminded himself that personal strength was the only true reward he could claim from this war. He resolved to remain clear-eyed about the tides of history and not be blinded by ephemeral accolades.
With this clarity, he spurred his horse forward once more. Sensing the growing tension, the scattered mercenaries gradually rallied around their commander. The valley echoed with the rumble of hooves as everyone paused to watch—a scene akin to a king summoning his knights.
Battle was imminent, and every nerve was stretched taut.
Though the past night had seemed manageable, they were, in truth, racing against time. Beyond the fighting, Brandon rarely let go of Chael’s silver pocket watch. In the tensest moments, cold sweat drenched its casing.
How perilous had the previous skirmishes been? At times, they had narrowly missed encountering enemy scouts by mere minutes—minutes that separated salvation from annihilation.
Finally reaching the front of the column, Brandon found Freya and her militia already waiting. Barthom, Mano, Voltaron, Retto, Uriel, and others stood alongside her. They had received Brandon’s instructions but remained unsure of his intentions.
They had successfully maneuvered behind the undead army, achieving half of the planned objective. Yet why was Brandon now ordering them to retrace their steps?
Had Brandon not firmly established himself as their leader, these seasoned mercenaries might have demanded explanations rather than waiting patiently. Even Freya, weak and pale atop her horse, looked uneasy, opening her mouth several times only to close it again.
Brandon glanced at her.
He had already received word that the undead forces were spreading outward in an attempt to seal off the phantom refugee column. Meanwhile, three other columns appeared to be sweeping backward. Their options seemed limited, and even those loyal to Brandon began to doubt whether they should race along the “perimeter” to outpace the “Corpse Grub.”
This was not surprising; avoiding danger was human nature.
Yet Madara had amassed two legions and seven columns in the region. Even when concentrated, their forces occupied an immense area. To fully evade contact, the refugees would need to detour nearly ten miles—a feat made impossible by the enemy’s rapid outward expansion.
Thus, Brandon’s plan was not to evade but to strike back. After defeating two of Madara’s companies and redistributing captured weapons, they now possessed enough arms to equip a force of five to six hundred. By conscripting every able-bodied refugee regardless of gender, Brandon had expanded the militia to nearly five hundred strong.
If he assigned Retto and others to command smaller detachments, he could mobilize even more troops. But that was unnecessary. As Madara’s forces stretched thin across the flanks, their central strength inevitably weakened—the perfect conditions for a counterattack.
Brandon possessed superior reconnaissance in the form of Gargoyle. Thus, he held the advantage of choosing when, where, and against how many of Madara’s forces to engage. This was his greatest edge.
Now, he intended to exploit it by plunging straight into Madara’s heart, leaving them baffled about his true objectives.
He reined in his horse but did not immediately explain his plans. Instead, he turned to Freya, whose pale and unsteady form atop her horse prompted him to ask, “Freya, why don’t you dismount and rest?”
Freya shot him an irritated glare.
Brandon sighed. “You insisted on pushing yourself despite your injuries. I told you to let me bandage you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
At this, Freya’s face flushed crimson down to her neck. What nonsense was this man spouting? A lady could never allow him to tend to her wounds—it was preposterous!
Furious at his apparent lies, she turned away to avoid misunderstandings.
Brandon, however, was momentarily stunned. Had Chael misled him? Where was the supposed affection Freya harbored for him? He turned to look suspiciously at the young mage squire.
“My lord, is there something you require?” Chael stammered under Brandon’s gaze.
“No, nothing,” Brandon quickly shook his head.
Turning back, he noticed the mercenaries smirking at him and Freya. Over the past day and night, they had learned everything about their commander's relationships with the two ladies accompanying him—from Chael, of course.
Ironically, this very human side of Brandon endeared him further to the mercenaries. People trusted those who resembled themselves. They admired geniuses but struggled to place faith in them.
“What are you laughing at?” Brandon growled.
“Nothing, Sir Brandon. You must be mistaken,” they chorused.
“I hope so,” Brandon shot them a warning glance. “Or else watch your backs. Enough talk—I’ll say this once: Prepare for battle.”
He drew his sword.
…..
When the refugees regrouped under Brandon’s banner, the massive column turned around. Their abrupt reversal caught Ladios, the “Blood Wizard,” completely off guard. This time, Brandon made no effort to conceal their tactical intent. His strategy was simple: speed—and more speed.
The five-hundred-strong militia and fifty-odd cavalry charged like a dragon through the company stationed on Ladios’ left flank. Over two hundred skeletal soldiers crumbled under Brandon’s relentless assault, heedless of casualties.
By the time the young commander and his knights swept through like a whirlwind, half an hour had passed before Ladios realized his left wing had been annihilated.
By the time this mid-tier necromancer relayed the news to Magus, Brandon had advanced another mile. Now standing atop the corpse of the last remaining company commander under Gulob, Brandon urged the refugees onward, accelerating relentlessly.
Glancing at the White Stag Statuette, he calculated that the constellation of the King of Knights would appear in the night sky in approximately fifty minutes…
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