The first crocus pushed through snow on the southern ridge, fragile and defiant. Then the rivers cracked their icy skin, rushing with meltwater that roared like drums. Spring had come, and with it, the smell of blood.
For months, Ishida's banners had sat smoldering in the winter camps. Now, as the thaw swept the land, they burst into motion with terrifying speed. Horns blared, and thousands of warriors poured from the ridges into the valley below, banners snapping with wolfish pride. Siege towers rose again, rebuilt from plundered timber, and drums thundered until the valley walls shook.
The Wolf had come to devour.
Eugene stood atop the fortress gate, snow dripping from the eaves around him, eyes fixed on the approaching host. The AI's voice was calm, as always, despite the tremors in the earth.
[System update]:Enemy forces: ~18,000.Your current effective strength: ~4,200 Spears + auxiliaries.Numerical disadvantage: 4:1.Projected siege timeline: 5–7 days before breach unless countermeasures succeed.Strategic options: 1) Hold walls and rely on attrition; 2) Aggressive sally targeting siege engines; 3) High-risk deception.Probability of outright victory: 18%.Probability of survival with heavy losses: 42%.
Eugene's eyes narrowed. Eighteen percent is more than zero. Enough to gamble.
The Roar of Drums
By noon, the Takeda host was a black tide at the valley floor. Siege towers rolled forward under the protection of great wooden screens, arquebusiers firing in volleys to cover their advance. Drums and conch shells roared with unrelenting rhythm, designed to pound fear into defenders' chests.
On the walls, the Spears stood firm. Archers nocked arrows, shields braced. Hiroshi's voice thundered down the line: "Hold, brothers! Let the wolves crash themselves upon stone!"
When the first arrows arced up from below, the air filled with a sound like rain. Men ducked, others fell, crimson spreading across white snow. Still, the Spears did not break.
"Return fire!" Eugene commanded, his voice cutting like a blade through chaos. Arrows flew, bolts loosed, stones hurled. Siege towers burned beneath oil-soaked rags, men screamed as fire devoured timber.
Yet still the tide advanced.
Ishida's Vow
At the heart of the host, Ishida himself rode at the head of his cavalry. His armor gleamed red, a wolf's pelt across his shoulders. His eyes burned as he gazed at the crescent banners fluttering above the fortress.
"Eugene!" he bellowed to the sky. "I swore I would burn your moon! Today I take your head, and with it your dream!"
The men roared in response, a sound that shook the valley like thunder. Siege drums quickened, the towers pressed harder, and ladders slapped against stone. The battle had begun in earnest.
The Wall Holds
For hours, the fortress shook under the storm. Spears thrust down from the battlements, cutting climbers from ladders. Boiling water poured upon those who dared press too close. Masanori fought like a demon, cleaving three men in a single sweep, his armor drenched in blood.
Hiroshi led a desperate counter-charge on the inner wall when a section nearly gave way. His booming war cry echoed as he cut through Takeda vanguard, his spear moving in a blur.
Lady Aiko moved through the fortress like a spirit of steel, directing reserves where the fighting was thickest, shouting commands that steadied wavering men.
Eugene himself stood where the fighting raged fiercest. Sword in hand, he cut down a wave of ashigaru who breached the parapet. His movements were a blend of modern precision and ancient mastery, every strike guided by the AI's cool calculations and his own sharpened instincts. To his men, he was not merely a lord—he was the Crescent Blade incarnate.
But no matter how fiercely they fought, the numbers pressed inexorably.
Fire at the Gate
By the third day, Ishida's siege engines battered the outer gate to splinters. Flames licked the wood; each crash of the ram shook the fortress to its bones. The Spears threw sand, water, and even their own bodies to smother the blaze. But the truth was clear: the outer wall would not hold.
In council, sweat steaming from their armor, Eugene's captains argued in desperation.
"We cannot hold another day!" Masanori shouted. "The gate will collapse!"
"Then we sally out!" Hiroshi slammed his fist against the table. "Better to die striking the wolf than waiting for his fangs!"
Lady Aiko's eyes flashed. "To throw ourselves into his teeth is madness. The walls are our last hope."
Eugene listened, silent, until the room fell quiet. Then he spoke.
"We will not die behind stone. Nor will we throw our lives away. We will strike—but not as Ishida expects."
He leaned forward, voice low and burning. "We open the gates. We let the wolf in. And then… we burn him alive."
The Trap of the Crescent
That night, in the dead of darkness, Eugene gave the order. The defenders pulled back, leaving the outer gate seemingly abandoned. Fires smoldered on the walls, bodies lay where they had fallen. From beyond, Takeda scouts saw silence—and thought it surrender.
At dawn, Ishida's horns blew. His men surged forward, smashing through the weakened gate with triumphant howls. They poured into the outer yard, trampling corpses, banners raised high.
Then the ground itself betrayed them.
Hidden beneath snow and debris, barrels of powder—collected in secret over months—detonated in a chain of thunderous blasts. The yard erupted in flame, swallowing hundreds in a storm of fire and splintered stone. Screams tore through the smoke as men fled in panic.
From the inner walls, Eugene's Spears unleashed their fury. Arrows, stones, boiling oil—death rained from above upon the trapped host. What had seemed a victory turned into a slaughter.
Ishida, watching from the rear, roared in fury. His eyes blazed, but for the first time, uncertainty gnawed at his confidence.
The Wolf Bleeds
The trap bought precious time. The Takeda host staggered, reeling from losses. Their confidence, so fierce at the dawn of spring, was shaken.
Yet Ishida did not retreat. He drove his men forward again and again, even as smoke rose from charred corpses and blood blackened the thawing snow. His vow was carved too deep; pride bound him as much as ambition.
By the fifth day, the valley was a graveyard. Thousands lay dead, the fortress scarred, the Spears bloodied but unbroken.
On the sixth day, silence fell. The Takeda host pulled back to their camps, banners drooping, drums stilled.
Eugene stood upon the battered walls, armor scorched, eyes hollow with exhaustion. But in his heart burned a flame brighter than the fires below.
The Wolf had bled.
The Crescent still shone.