66 — 7 (6)

Damn it, that sly snake. Fred was so flustered he couldn’t think straight.

“What’s the situation?”

“All troops are concentrating on defending their own cities.”

That meant they weren’t moving at all. Fred controlled three cities. Marquis Gangpireu had struck one, leaving its garrison isolated. If left alone, it would be annihilated. He had to march his army to reinforce it. Fred hesitated. Two choices lay before him: return immediately instead of waiting for the royal envoy, or remain. If he went back, the city of Pontina would be left unclaimed and floating in limbo. Pontina produced massive food supplies—Fred had come here to claim them, even temporarily.

‘Never thought putting things off would help me like this…’

Fred gnashed his teeth, recalling his military alliance with Louis. If he left now, and Louis seized Pontina, he would hand Louis a breadbasket on a silver platter.

“My lord, decide! Every moment is precious!”

“…Fine! Maintain the alliance. We march back!”

Rather than let things spiral, Fred decided to put out the nearest fire first. In this case, until someone seized Pontina by force, the law dictated its food would be distributed equally to all three brothers.

‘Dekal, I’m sorry.’

For friendship’s sake, he ought to break the alliance and avenge Dekal. But doing so would snarl everything.

“Send Louis a letter—tell him I recognize Dekal’s death as self-defense!”

Clutching his bruised ribs, Jordan smiled in satisfaction.

“A wise decision, my lord.”

‘At least I avoided an unrest penalty.’

If a city fell into unrest during war, it would affect the army as well. Worst of all, unrest hurt food supply lines. The last battle’s gains didn’t end there: Louis’s heavy cavalry had earned experience toward advancement. One or two more such victories and they could achieve their first promotion. It was a long road to transform them into special heavy cavalry, but even a bonus to fighting on plains or rough terrain would open far stronger tactics.

The rain-soaked ground squelched with every step. Though it was daytime, the humid terrain left fog still hanging low. Only the sky was quiet. Soldiers busied themselves with repairs and cleanup, but the moment they spotted Louis, everything stopped—one salute triggered a chain reaction until every man had stopped to salute.

Louis walked until he stopped before a tent, darker and gloomier than the rest. Boromir slipped in first, said a word, and out rushed a small, wiry man. A dwarf—skilled at prying truths from people.

“You’ve arrived.”

“How far along is it?”

“Quite a bit. He’s spilling everything under pressure.”

“Already?”

The captive had seemed strong-willed, but perhaps the dwarf’s skills were better—or Louis had misjudged.

“He was terrified even before he came here. A bit of pre-work massage broke him. Still, we haven’t verified yet. Please, come in.”

Louis followed the dwarf, lifting the heavy tent flap. A fire roared within, reducing the dampness. Tools—ones better suited for a slaughterhouse—gleamed in the firelight. A bloodstained post at the back told the stories of those tied there before. The air reeked of iron, like the battlefield that morning.

At a desk, one man sweated as he scribbled. This was the scout Louis himself had captured that morning. Armorless, clearly Pierre’s man. He scrambled up when he saw Louis, knocked over his chair, and fell flat. Louis clicked his tongue.

“What’s your name?”

“Ha… Haon, my lord.”

Louis skimmed the notes he had written. Real or not, information was information. Haon’s face and body were black and blue from the dwarf’s beatings, though Louis’s arrow wound had been bandaged.

“Is this real?”

Haon trembled. His body remembered Louis’s cruelty.

‘So this is a son of Pontina…’ He looked like a mix of Fred and Pierre—nothing like the rumors.

“It’s true! I’m writing only facts!”

Louis looked to the dwarf. The dwarf scratched his head sheepishly, admitting,

“Not yet verified…”

Haon’s eyes went wide.

“It’s the truth! Every word!”

“Bind him. We’ll test it now.”

“It’s real! No lies!”

Boromir and the dwarf seized him. Too weak to resist, he was bound to the bloody post. Louis picked a spiral-shaped tool from the fire. Most of the tools were cruel enough that a single touch would scar a man for life. Two were so strange Louis couldn’t even guess their purpose.

The dwarf quivered in the corner, hating anyone touching his tools. If anyone else had, he’d have beaten them bloody—but Louis was his master. Boromir noticed and thought grimly he’d thrash the dwarf later.

‘Let’s see how he reacts.’

Louis had no intention of torturing him. If he had, he’d have left it to the expert. He wanted only to test how broken the man already was.

When Louis raised the tool, Haon’s eyes bulged. He would become a kebab at this rate. He stammered desperately:

“My lord, please don’t! I beg you!”

“My lord? I’m not your master.”

“You are now!”

Tears and snot streamed as Haon cried out.

“Isn’t Pierre your master?”

“I’ve changed! Truly! Please, stop! I’m writing everything truthfully!”

Louis drew closer. Haon wrung his brain for another ploy.

“Make me a double agent! I’ll bring you good intelligence!”

A reverse spy. It was possible. But Louis judged he’d betray again unless his family were hostages. Then Louis had a thought.

‘Let him betray—and feed him falsehoods.’

“What should I trust?”

“I swear to God! If I betray, may I and my daughter both go to Hell!”

Even dragging his daughter into damnation. Louis pouted, then tossed the tool into the fire. Sparks flew. The dwarf shook harder, but Louis’s eyes stayed on Haon.

“You have a daughter.”

“Yes.”

“I have assassins.”

“…”

“If you betray me, I’ll send them. What the dwarf planned for you—I’ll give your family.”

He had no assassins. Perhaps he could send Kaiser or Boromir, but why bother? Yet Haon believed him utterly. He shut his eyes, nodding frantically.

Louis tapped his shoulder.

“Untie him.”

Boromir and the dwarf loosed the ropes; Haon collapsed, then swore loyalty from the ground.

Louis checked his interface. A special skill appeared: Precise Sketching—the ability to draw.

“You can draw?”

“…A little.”

“Sketch enemy deployments.”

Louis stepped outside.

‘You’ll betray me. That’s the plan.’

Boromir asked uneasily,

“Will this work? No hostages, just threats…”

“It’s what I need him for.”

Boromir clapped his hands, muttering, “Ah, I see.”

Pierre, bulkier than his elder brother Fred, studied his maps. Pressure and advance. With manpower and food stores, he planned to strike Louis first. He had suspected Fred and Louis made a secret alliance when the warhorses changed hands, and had forged his own alliance with Marquis Gangpireu. It had worked—Gangpireu now besieged one of Fred’s cities.

Pierre’s forces marched on Louis. But one infantry unit had gone silent for three days. Likely annihilated. Pierre frowned. Even if only infantry, that unit had been led by Galsha, a capable Commander of a Thousand. If it had been Fred, he would have instinctively flanked right there. Pierre thought of Fred, whom he secretly envied, then shook his head.

‘Fall back. Fortify. Wait for solid information.’

If he pressed forward blind, he would be struck hard. Louis was no longer the little brother he remembered.