Tramp, tramp, tramp…
The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed across the plains. Count George had been on the march for over three days and was only a day and a half away from Sedona City.
"Lord George, there is a wasteland ahead; the terrain will be easier to traverse," Louis said, consulting a parchment map. "Once we cross the plains, we'll reach a small town called Moth City. We can rest there tonight."
"Mmm. Tell the rear to keep up. The column is stretching too long," George said indifferently.
"Yes, Sir," Louis replied casually. He didn't see the issue; wasn't this how every campaign went? As long as everyone arrived by the time the fighting started, it was fine.
"Are those minor nobles still following us?" George frowned.
"Yes. They're trailing far behind, refusing to get any closer," Louis reported.
"Hmph. They have their own schemes, then. Do they actually think Lucas can withstand our assault?" George said. Having been a noble for so many years and earning his countship through pure strength, he could see through their vacillation in an instant.
"I have a suggestion, My Lord," Louis said, a cruel light in his eyes. "Once we take Sedona City, we label those nobles as Lucas's co-conspirators and then..." He made a slicing motion across his throat. "Between several cities, the amount of wheat we'd seize would be more than enough."
"...Agreed," George considered it for a moment before nodding.
Tramp, tramp, tramp...
"Count! Trouble! There is a knight order blocking the path ahead!" The Chief Knight shouted as he galloped back to report.
"Blocking the path? How many?" George asked, his face hardening.
"About a thousand," The Chief Knight said gravely. "Including the logistical slaves."
"Do you know who they are?" George hissed. He couldn't believe someone had the audacity to stand in his way. A thousand people—including slaves—didn't worry him. He had a thousand regular knights; if he counted his own logistical slaves and scouts, his force numbered over two thousand. By his math, the enemy had at most five hundred actual knights—half his strength. There was nothing to fear.
"I don't recognize them, Sir. Their banner features a strange serpent, and there's another flag with odd, linear patterns. I've never seen anything like them," The knight admitted helplessly.
"Let's go. Lead me to them," George growled.
Viscount Louis followed close behind, his mind racing. Who would be bold enough to intercept them here?
In the center of the wasteland, Lucas sat under a makeshift shed—four wooden poles supporting a simple piece of linen for shade.
"Master, they've arrived," Mina said coolly, her eyes locking onto the surging mass of people in the distance.
"Finally. They're so slow I've already brewed three pots of tea," Lucas said, setting down his cup. After drinking tea for over an hour, he was starting to feel hungry.
"L... Lucas! It's actually you!" Louis shouted in shock as they approached.
"Hi. We meet again," Lucas said, lazily waving a hand at Louis and the others three hundred meters away.
"You... how dare you show your face here?" Louis was stunned, but a realization soon hit him. He shouted, "Are you here to welcome us? I'm telling you, it's too late! The Fourth Prince is furious—"
"Shut up," Count George barked. He cast a freezing glare at Louis, who immediately clamped his mouth shut. "Idiot," The count muttered. He looked at the formation ahead. No one brought a thousand men just to welcome someone; this was an interception.
"Haha... finally, someone with a lick of sense," Lucas laughed.
The comment made Louis's blood boil. Was he implying I'm the one without sense?
"So you are the Lucas who killed my three sons," Count George said, his eyes drilling into Lucas with enough hatred to kill.
"I am Lucas. Too many nameless people have died by my hand for me to remember every face. Perhaps your sons were among them," Lucas's lip curled into a cold smirk. "I don't waste time remembering people who deserved to die."
"Very well. Then let us have a Duel of Nobles," George shouted, his voice carrying across the plains.
Lucas narrowed his eyes. The old man was doing this on purpose, shouting so everyone could hear. If Lucas refused, it would damage his army's morale.
"What? Too afraid to accept?" George prodded.
"Why wouldn't I dare?" Lucas replied boldly.
"Master, let me go," Mina stepped forward urgently. "I'll bring back his head."
"No. It's a Duel of Nobles; it has to be me," Lucas said, waving her off. He adjusted the sword at his waist and watched the man George had sent forward.
A Duel of Nobles required both combatants to be of noble rank. While one could technically send a champion, it was considered a cowardly and dishonorable victory.
"But..." Mina started to protest, only to see Lucas already mounting his horse.
"Don't worry. My arrow is aimed straight at that man's heart," Elisa comforted her, already nocking an arrow and drawing her string, tracking the enemy riding toward them.
On the other side, Count George was issuing cold commands: "Gather the knight order immediately. The moment Lucas is captured, we launch the full-scale assault."
He had sent out a Viscount—a veteran of countless battles who had fought his way up from the commoner class through raw merit.
Louis finally realized the strategy. The Duel wasn't just about honor; it was a stalling tactic to allow their overextended column to close the gap and form up for the slaughter.
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