“Oh? How could this be against conscience? I act under His Majesty’s decree, like moonlight bearing a seal. I offer you a fine title because he values your skill. How could you refuse me?” Harrison wore righteous heartbreak like a mask.

“So if we don’t agree, you’ll wipe us out, right?!” Gulo’s hatred ground like teeth on stone. The Southern Kingdom was shameless enough; the Eastern Nation was even worse.

“No room to talk, is there?” Gerald tested the water with a last thin thread of hope.

Clive pointed at Gerald with iron-straight authority. “Easy. Open the gate, raise a white flag, bend the knee. Then things untangle like a knot in warm water.”

“You think Lord Felica will sit this out? The Eastern Nation will burn anything for power now?” Gerald’s shout cracked like a thunderclap.

“Eh—now that’s unfair. Gerald Fortress Lord killed several Hexclaw Legion soldiers over a quarrel,” Harrison said, voice soft as a knife. “I’m just upholding justice, giving you a ‘small punishment.’ If Felica has any complaint, let her come to the Royal Capital and discuss it with us.”

They all drew a cold breath, winter air knifing the lungs. This wasn’t shame. This was extermination.

“You waited till Medith left to start, didn’t you? You even paused a day in between,” Gulo snarled, memory flashing like flint. “Afraid she’d turn back? You cowardly lord.”

“Hah-hahaha! That’s called playing to strengths and dodging spears,” Harrison barked, laughter like gravel. “Why smash into avoidable trouble? You’re the fool, not me.

Now your only pillar has flown far as a migrating bird. Blame yourself. If it were me, I’d beg her to stay by any means.”

His rogue’s smirk was oil on fire. Against his trash talk, their words felt blunt as wood.

“Fine… I get it. If you’re so eager to die, we’ll see it through,” Gerald said, voice like a drawn bowstring. “If you can break into Dawnlight, come try.

I’m far more prepared than you think. Let’s see who bleeds out first.”

He cut the talk. One order cracked, and wall-guards sprang like loosed arrows.

A storm of arrows and spears hissed out, a sky of death-blades raining fury on the earth. Hexclaw Legion soldiers raised heavy shields like iron cliffs. Clang and clatter rang without end.

Hundreds of shafts and spears flew in that first volley. The damage was limited. Most arrows died on shields like rain on slate.

But spears laced with Impado punched through a dozen heavy shields. Blood spilled like dark ink, dozens maimed or dead.

Harrison’s eyes went cold as frost. He flicked his right hand, then strode back, shadows closing around him. Command slid like a baton to Clive.

Clive exhaled, relief warm as a small fire. He’d held back for so long. At last, he could cut loose.

Mindset clear as a polished blade: this trip was for drilling troops, farming experience.

“Shieldmen, raise shields and fall back a hundred meters. Archers, cover from the rear. Infantry and cavalry, hold,” Clive called, voice steady as a drum. “No need to rush the walls. Bring up the Blackblood War Chariot.”

He was learning on the fly, leaning where the bamboo bends. Use your long blade against their soft underbelly.

They had the numbers and the steel. The terrain was the thorn. A straight assault would be a pyrrhic feast.

Kill a thousand, lose eight hundred. That’s a fool’s bargain.

But lean on gear and grind them down, and the story turns. With the Blackblood War Chariot and deep stores, time favors the tide.

When Segireneto and the others arrive with supplies, they’ll seal this place tight, water can’t leak.

With Paris’s renown and a river of logistics, the castle might hold a month. It won’t hold the tide after.

If mercenary reinforcements come, pin the stronghold and smash the relief. Dawnlight won’t escape, even with wings.

As Clive directed, the Hexclaw Legion fell back in steady steps. They slipped beyond the mercenaries’ reach like a tide drawing away.

And that was when the killing storm truly began.

Three Blackblood War Chariots roared from three bearings, their frames howling like wolves. They loosed at the walls with a gut-deep thrum.

The improved Bonecrusher Arrows hit like gods’ hammers. Their bodies turned tough as horn by a blade-stiff gale from blistering speed.

Range stretched long as a horizon line.

From a kilometer out, those giant bolts came like cannon shells. Each impact shook the wall, earth and stone quivering.

Accuracy was lousy, but the spectacle was a thunderhead. Worse, Gerald and the others had no way to strike back.

As one side waned, the other waxed, moon trading with tide. Stay on that field for a night, and morale would collapse.

“Fall back—inside the castle!” Gerald shouted, decision sharp as a cleaver. “Post men at the main chokepoints! Don’t stand out here!”

No need to say more. Their fighting spirit blew apart like ash in the wind. At the word “retreat,” they ran.

Clive watched and didn’t hurry. He raised a hand, and the barrage stopped. Fire a few shots every hour, he ordered, then make camp and rest.