Translator: CinderTL
Duke's army stood in perfect formation before Arno's camp, the two powerful dukes finally reunited under the banners of war.
Arno stepped forward first, his demeanor elegant yet tinged with the familiarity of old friends meeting again.
"Duke, it's been a long time. I never imagined we'd meet again under such circumstances after all these years."
Duke let out a hearty laugh, dismounted his horse with a practiced ease, and strode forward.
"Arno, you haven't changed a bit. Still as meticulous with your words as ever."
He clapped Arno heavily on the shoulder, the overly casual gesture shattering the customary distance between nobles.
"It must have been five or six years since we last parted ways in the royal capital, right?"
Arno bore this overly enthusiastic greeting without a flicker of emotion, a perfectly measured smile playing on his lips.
"Exactly seven years and four months, Duke. It seems your administrative duties in the Western Territory haven't made you any more composed."
He subtly retreated half a step, restoring the perfect social distance.
"Still, your timely arrival has been a great help."
Duke surveyed the surrounding, battle-ready troops, his gaze sharp yet still radiating his characteristic boldness.
"When I heard you were in trouble, how could I stand by and do nothing? Remember those days at the Knight Academy? We fought side by side back then."
He shifted the conversation, cutting straight to the point.
"What's the current state of the war? Tell me everything."
A barely perceptible flicker crossed Arno's eyes, as if stirred by some distant memory.
"Everything is proceeding more smoothly than anticipated," he replied, his tone steady and tinged with restrained confidence.
"The River Domain Nations' armies are no match for us. They're clinging to their positions only by exploiting the terrain. With you and your Western Territory elite joining the fray, their defeat is inevitable."
He gestured gracefully toward the largest tent at the center of the camp.
"The banquet prepared in your honor is ready. Let's drink and reminisce, just like old times."
The banquet atmosphere was outwardly lively.
Silverware and crystal goblets glittered under the candlelight, and fine wines flowed freely. Throughout the evening, the two dukes occasionally reminisced about their past, as if they were long-separated friends reunited.
Duke laughed heartily, drank deeply, and spoke with gusto. Yet the sharp glances he occasionally cast at Arno's face betrayed a keen observation beneath his boisterous facade.
Arno, for his part, maintained impeccable noble decorum, his words measured and his responses effortless. But the smile rarely reached his eyes.
As the banquet concluded, Arno returned to his heavily guarded main tent.
In the flickering candlelight, Erwin was already waiting inside, his face etched with undisguised worry.
"Your Grace," Erwin said, stepping forward as Arno returned, his voice lowered to a near whisper. "Duke's sudden arrival... don't you find it suspicious? The Western Territory is so far from here, yet he responded so swiftly, bringing such a formidable force. There must be ulterior motives behind this."
The perfect smile Arno had worn at the banquet vanished instantly, replaced by an icy calm. He strode slowly to the long table covered with military maps, his fingertip tracing the vast distance between the Western Territory and the Eastern Front. A fleeting, unreadable shadow flickered deep within his eyes.
"Your concerns are valid, Erwin," Arno finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "When I initially sent the Duke the letter requesting aid, I never truly intended to need his troops. It was more of a... necessary declaration, a subtle warning that this was my affair and that he should tactfully withdraw."
He paused, the sharp tap of his knuckles against the table echoing crisply in the tent.
"I certainly didn't anticipate that he would personally lead his forces here."
A faint, enigmatic curve tugged at the corner of Arno's lips—a hint of mockery mixed with a grudging acknowledgment of his old rival.
"Duke may appear rough on the surface, but he's remarkably meticulous beneath. He's always been this way. The Western Territory has been plagued by drought recently, so his expedition... likely aims to seize this opportunity to acquire urgently needed supplies and provisions from the east. As for..."
The thought that Duke might launch a preemptive strike flashed through Arno's mind like a fleeting shadow, but he immediately dismissed it with a scornful chuckle.
"No, he lacks the audacity," he muttered to himself, his voice brimming with conviction. "To openly attack a duke of the kingdom? That would defy the entire kingdom's laws. Even with his recklessness, he wouldn't dare such a mad act, especially with Prince Lucius clearly siding with us."
Yet, at the mention of Prince Lucius, Arno's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
Though he held a low opinion of the prince's capabilities, his ingrained caution ultimately prevailed.
He lifted his head, his gaze sharpening with renewed composure, and instructed Erwin:
"Issue orders to temporarily halt our offensive on the Eastern Front. There's no need to rush our advance."
"Deploy your most reliable operatives to closely monitor Duke and his legion's every move. I want to know the deployment of each of his camps and the purpose behind every troop movement."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Erwin bowed deeply to acknowledge the order and silently withdrew from the tent.
Left alone in the flickering candlelight, Arno resumed his rhythmic tapping on the table. His eyes gleamed with a complex mix of calculation and vigilance, as if mentally simulating countless possibilities.
The ensuing military campaign unfolded exactly as Arno had predicted.
Under the relentless assault of the allied forces from the Eastern and Western Territories, the River Domain Nations' armies retreated steadily, unable to withstand the onslaught.
Duke and his warriors displayed astonishing combat prowess throughout the war, consistently leading the charge with unwavering commitment.
Within a mere half-month, the allied forces advanced like a hot knife through butter, their battle lines surging forward until they could glimpse the outlines of the River Domain's Royal Capitals on the horizon.
Duke's unwavering enthusiasm gradually eased Arno's taut nerves, diminishing his suspicion of the Duke of the Western Border.
On another evening following a victory, the Golden Valley Kingdom's barracks blazed with bonfires, radiating a festive atmosphere.
Fine wine flowed freely, and the air buzzed with songs and laughter, celebrating the string of recent triumphs.
At this grand feast, Duke and Arno sat side by side, raising their cups in toasts with the assembled nobles who had participated in the campaign.
In high spirits, Arno turned to Duke and said,
"Once we've captured the royal capitals of the River Domain Nations, the Western Territory will claim half of the wealth and spoils."
Duke roared with laughter at this, clinking his goblet against Arno's with force.
"Then it's settled! To victory!"
He drained his cup in one bold gulp, his bravado on full display.
Yet beneath his hearty smile, a cold, murderous intent was quietly coalescing.
Arno, however, remained blissfully unaware of the impending danger, his confidence soaring with each successive victory.
His gaze swept across the boisterous banquet, settling on the distant silhouette of the royal capital, barely visible in the twilight beyond the camp. A burning impatience flashed in his eyes.
After the feast, Arno returned to his silent tent.
Under the flickering candlelight, he slowly extended his hand from the wide sleeve of his robe.
On the pale back of his hand, a dark, eerie stigmata slowly materialized, as if composed of flowing shadows and ominous runes. It writhed slightly beneath his skin, like a living thing.
He stared at this mark of power, a cold smile twisting his lips.
"Once that royal capital falls, pure abyssal power will be within my grasp. The 'magic well'? Hmph, a fisherman will always be a fisherman—utterly foolish!"
Fueled by this burning ambition, Arno drifted into sleep, lost in visions of conquest.
After an unknown amount of time had passed, the deathly silence of the night was shattered by a blinding light that tore through the darkness.
Immediately afterward, an ear-splitting alarm shrieked through the sky.
The moment the piercing wail ripped through the night, Arno's eyes snapped open, devoid of any lingering drowsiness, only icy clarity.
In an instant, the chaotic sounds, distant shouts of battle, and the undisguised, murderous intent hurtling toward him coalesced in his mind, revealing the complete truth.
"Duke! You treacherous, barbaric bastard!"
A low growl, barely audible, erupted from between his clenched teeth, seething with suppressed rage.
Before the words could fully escape his lips, the opulent tent that housed him was torn apart like brittle paper by an overwhelming force.
A condensed, tangible gale of destruction, crackling with annihilating energy, hurtled toward him.
The force was so violent that it whipped his forehead hair backward, and his skin stung as if sliced by a razor-sharp blade.
Outside the tent, the entire barracks had descended into terrifying chaos.
Flames erupted everywhere, illuminating the panicked figures of fleeing soldiers and the brutal clashes between loyal guards and invading forces.
The clang of weapons, furious roars, and agonized screams filled the night air.
In this life-or-death moment, Arno displayed a decisive calm that belied his noble appearance.
He didn't attempt the futile task of blocking a strike that no human could withstand. Instead, acting on instinct, he threw himself backward, his toes digging into the heavy desk behind him.
The wooden desk shattered instantly, and using the recoil, he narrowly evaded the devastating slash, retreating at breakneck speed.
Even so, the razor-sharp edge sliced through his luxurious nightgown, leaving a shallow, bloody gash across his chest.
The strike crashed down, utterly destroying the bed he had been lying on and a large section of the floor, sending dust and debris flying everywhere.
Amidst the swirling dust, Arno knelt on one knee, panting heavily, his appearance disheveled.
Yet his eyes burned with icy fury as he glared at the massive figure standing imposingly at the tent's torn entrance, a colossal sword in hand.
Through the settling dust, Duke sneered down at the disheveled Arno, his lips curling into a wild, mocking grin. His booming voice cut through the clamor of the battlefield.
"Looks like your noble bloodline hasn't taught you how to handle a real fight after all these years."
"Oh, Arno, my dear old classmate! You're still hiding behind your precious rules and etiquette, just like back at the academy. Too bad there's no referee here to kick me out for 'a frontier peasant' like me beating you to a pulp!"
(End of the Chapter)
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