Chapter 3 – Priest of War
The battlefield thundered with the rumble of approaching doom.
Veyron stood at the ramparts of the Palledanian outer wall, watching the Truhflan army advance with relentless momentum. Their cannons—gleaming metal mouths of destruction—lined the ridge, and behind them, fully armored soldiers marched with chilling discipline. Among them, banners fluttered, their symbols blurred by smoke and distance.
Veyron narrowed his eyes. "We've reached that moment, haven't we?"
Around him, 30 archers, 51 infantry soldiers, and 4 cannon-support troops stood ready. Veyron had claimed a single cannon, one slingshot, and just this small unit for himself. His commanders had been skeptical, but none dared defy his orders anymore—not after what he'd already survived.
His maid appeared briefly, dragging two terrified slaves behind her. She dropped them without a word and disappeared as fast as she'd come.
The sight of the slaves jolted something dark within him—a memory from the former Veyron. The original version of him used to abuse the weak to relieve his own mental pressure.
Veyron's current self curled his lip in disgust. "Pathetic."
He turned his back on the trembling figures. That was the old him.
He approached the cannon and called to his soldiers. "Set the angle to 41 degrees. Based on trajectory curves and wind resistance at this altitude, we'll hit their second cannon from the front line if fired when the wind hits 11 mph."
The cannon crew looked stunned. "How do you know that, Your Highness?"
"I don't guess," he replied. "I calculate."
He moved to the slingshot team. "Adjust elevation by two notches. Your shot will aim for the nozzle of their lead cannon. If it works, we jam it."
Then he turned to the archers. "Aim for their eyes. Their helmets are good, but vision gaps remain. Ignore body shots unless you see exposed parts."
"Fire."
The arrows shot through the smoky air like a swarm of angry crows. Most bounced harmlessly off Truhflan armor, but two found their mark—striking eyes and dropping enemy soldiers to the dust.
The cannon fired.
The ball soared, its force slightly undershooting the ideal. It struck the enemy's second cannon—not the barrel but near the base. Three soldiers died instantly from the impact and flying debris. But Veyron's true aim—jamming the firing nozzle—failed.
Then came the slingshot.
A massive stone, wrapped in reinforced iron layers, smashed into the open muzzle of the lead Truhflan cannon. The timing was perfect. The shot not only jammed the barrel but triggered a premature ignition. The cannon exploded, taking six enemy soldiers with it.
Cheers erupted behind Veyron.
"Our wall stands strong," a soldier shouted. "Their weapons can't breach us!"
But the prince didn't cheer. He scanned the chaos below.
Nine hundred enemy foot soldiers, backed by 170 mercenaries, were pressing toward the Palledanian gates. Though their morale wavered from the early losses, their superior numbers pushed them forward.
Veyron raised his voice, powerful and unwavering:
"This war—why are you fighting it?"
His soldiers stilled.
"For money? For honor? For pride?" His voice carried across the field. "You fight for survival."
He stepped up on the ledge of the wall.
"No money means no life. No respect means no name. And if you don't fight—you won't live to save anyone. Look at them! They want our homes. They want our blood. That's their greed. But me? I want you to survive!"
A pause.
"I don't want to see you dead. But remember this isn't an equal world. Go. Fight. Let even your gods see what you're made of."
He pointed forward.
"Goooooooooo!"
The soldiers roared with renewed vigor. Archers refilled. Infantry charged with burning eyes. A dozen men who were ready to retreat gripped their swords again. Their prince hadn't spoken like a king. He had spoken like one of them.
---
Perspective: A Palledanian soldier
I was just a farmer before this war. I never wanted to be here. But when he screamed... I felt something in my chest. Like my father was yelling from the skies. I want to live. And if this arrogant prince—who used to whip his slaves—wants us to live too… then maybe he's changed.
---
Perspective: A Truhflan soldier
They said we'd win easily. That our cannons would blow them apart. But one of our barrels just exploded. That wall… it isn't breaking. And that boy shouting from the wall… he isn't scared. He doesn't look like someone about to die.
Why does he look like he knows something?
---
Meanwhile, more Truhflan cannons rolled through their city gates. Reinforcements aimed to crush Palledania under sheer firepower.
Veyron jumped from the wall and mounted his horse.
"Your Highness, where are you going?" a commander shouted.
"I know someone who can help."
"Who?!"
He didn't answer.
---
Veyron raided a local ruined carnival tent, pulling out a cracked, grinning mask. Then, he headed to the nearest church, breaking in and stealing a ceremonial priest's robe—an odd, heavy garment used during offerings. He threw on the hood.
When he stepped onto the battlefield again, soldiers turned to look.
That figure. That masked thing. What was that?
"I am the priest of survival," he whispered.
And he marched straight into the chaos.
---
Perspective: Palledanian King (Veyron's father)
He read the scout report. His youngest son—deemed the fool of the palace—was leading troops on the front line. Not retreating. Not hiding. Leading.
The king set the report down and sighed.
"Perhaps I was wrong to call him worthless."
---
Perspective: Veyron's elder brother
From his tower chamber, the firstborn prince watched the war unfold in silence.
"He's not doing this for the kingdom. He's doing this to prove something. Tch."
He clenched his jaw.
"Still… not bad, little brother."
---
Perspective: Truhflan King
King Ferghas of Truhflan sat in his grand hall, beaming as advisors described cannon after cannon deployed.
"We shall win before nightfall," one said.
"Yes, yes," Ferghas chuckled. "Let's prepare the wine."
But behind him, in the shadows, sat the true power: a robed figure.
Ferghas didn't know he was a puppet. Not truly. And the one pulling the strings had no intention of letting him enjoy his 'victory.'
---
Veyron moved with purpose. He felt like something was guiding him.
"Wait," he said to himself. "I forgot."
He closed his eyes. "WISH GRANTED."
Suddenly, the memory of a voice returned. One from a dream.
"So your choice is to deal with trillions."
He snapped his eyes open. "I need a scout."
"Maid!" he called. "Bring me every soldier's dossier. I want names, ranks, specialties—everything."
Two hours passed. He flipped through them, unsatisfied. No one felt right for stealth.
Then he remembered.
"Wait... wish granted… yesterday I said I wished I could clone a fly."
A deep voice echoed in his mind. "Fly Clone 1."
Veyron froze.
A buzzing filled the air.
A tiny fly hovered before him.
"I see what you see," it said mentally. "I can't speak aloud, but I'm mind-linked to you. My consciousness is yours. I know your goals. I can't betray you. I can't refuse you."
Veyron blinked. "You… can scout?"
"Yes. I'm already on the way."
Fly Clone 1 zipped toward Truhflan's lines.
---
"Can you hear me?" Veyron asked mentally.
"Loud and clear."
He closed one eye—and instantly saw through the fly's vision.
"Show me everything."
---
The fly slipped into enemy territory. Veyron saw dozens of barrels. Hundreds of gunpowder sacks. Their main camp had weak security on the western side.
By the time the mental connection ended, Veyron stood up.
"Call the commanders. Now."
The strategy meeting began. Eleven commanders, including Teriya, filled the room. One hesitantly spoke:
"Your Highness. A scout has returned. He will deliver all intel in one hour."
Veyron nodded. "Good. I want an assassin ready."
"We haven't found one yet," another admitted.
In his mind, Veyron muttered, You don't trust me. You still think I'm the idiot prince.
He didn't push.
"Give your ideas. Then Teriya will speak. Then me."
Plans came and went. Most were average. But Teriya laid out a brilliant tactic:
She proposed making Palledania's strongest wall look weak.
"If we make them believe their cannons can break our newly repaired section, they'll focus all fire there," she explained. "We use slingshots only at first. Pull 200 troops back—look overwhelmed. Then a fake scout gets captured with plans that say our wall needs just one more cannon strike."
Her smile was cold.
"They'll waste firepower. We'll waste none."
Veyron didn't interrupt.
He admired her. This is why we're still alive.
---
That night, the Fly Clone returned.
"I've seen their core camp. I'll show you."
Veyron received the information—and set out alone to the Mercenary Guild. He tried to clone an assassin—but it failed. The fly's clone worked because it was simple. Human minds were unstable.
As drums of war began again, Veyron hired 12 mercenaries and sent them on missions immediately.
He returned to the wall.
Truhflan's army surged again. But only 1,250 of their soldiers advanced.
Teriya noticed. "Where are the rest?"
A silence fell.
Veyron looked out into the dusk and whispered, "They're planning something."
To be continued…