Alaric, Vice-Commander Selzer, and Grand Captain Bristane did not immediately march into the jaws of the Southern Flank. Instead, they held their position, waiting in the dense cover of the forest until the earth began to tremble with the march of the main force.

  Duke Thorne had arrived.

  Once the 30,000-strong army had regrouped with the vanguard, the atmosphere shifted from a guerilla raid to a full-scale invasion.

  Alaric entered the main command tent to report. He stood before the map, his armor stained with mud.

  "Report," Thorne commanded.

  "The supply chain is severed," Alaric stated, pointing to the crossed-out locations on the map. "We have destroyed every forward operating base along the main artery. There will be no food and weapons, and no reinforcements coming for the Buckland army from the south. We have effectively starved them."

  Thorne nodded, a rare look of impressed approval on his face. "Excellent work."

  Alaric didn't smile. He looked at the large red marker indicating the enemy's Southern Flank, where General Marius Vallen was stationed.

  "Your Grace," Alaric said. "I have a request. I want the 1st Battalion to spearhead the ambush specifically against the Southern Flank."

  Thorne raised an eyebrow. "The Southern Flank is heavily fortified, holding fifty thousand men. Why focus there?"

  Alaric didn't mention his parents. He didn't mention the burning village of Shuru. He simply met the Duke’s gaze.

  "I have a hunch," Alaric said.

  Thorne studied him for a long moment. He saw the cold intent in his Ward's eyes. He didn't press further.

  Thorne said. "Granted."

  Alaric stepped out of the command tent, his mind already racing with strategies.But he stopped.

  Lucia was waiting for him.

  She stood near the entrance, her white robes stark against the muddy backdrop of the camp. When she saw him, her shoulders slumped in relief. She didn't say a word. She simply walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.

  Alaric was surprised. He stood stiffly for a moment before his expression softened. He raised a hand, gently petting her silver hair.

  "Lucia?" he asked softly. "What happened?"

  She held him tighter. "I don't know what this war is doing to you," she whispered, her voice muffled against his tunic. "But please... don't lose your humanity."

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  Alaric paused, his hand stilling on her head.

  "I can feel it," she continued, her voice trembling. "Through the light spirit bracelet... I can feel your rage. Your desire to hunt. And I can feel how nonchalant you are when you take lives. You were always so gentle. Please... don't let the darkness consume you."

  Alaric looked up at the grey sky. He knew she was right. The killing didn't bother him anymore, only the efficiency mattered.

  "I'm sorry," Alaric said quietly. He pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes. "But it's only for a little while more. Once I finish my goal... once this is done... everything will be over. I promise."

  Lucia looked at him, searching for the boy she knew. She nodded slowly, choosing to believe him.

  Later that day, the High Command gathered to finalize the assault.

  "We will use the heavy artillery," Thorne announced.

  The soldiers wheeled out the special weapons Alaric had designed. They were massive, upscaled versions of the steam shotguns used by the knights. There were only forty of them, but they were game-changers.

  Alaric explained the mechanism to the officers. "The shells are equipped with a fuse hat on the tip. Upon impact, the fuse clicks, triggering the internal spell. It instantaneously ignites the concentrated air compressed inside the shell. The result is a high-yield explosion that generates a lethal shockwave."

  "Range?" a Colonel asked.

  "Six to eight kilometers," Alaric answered. "We can rain hell on them without ever seeing their faces."

  Thorne laid out the plan. It was brutal and simple.

  "We will not engage in a standard line battle. Before the main force of thirty thousand storms their position, we will bombard the Southern Flank for five full minutes."

  Thorne pointed to the enemy camp.

  "However, bombardment alone will only scatter them. We need confusion. Alaric and the 1st Battalion will infiltrate the enemy lines before the shelling begins. Their objective is the Officer's Camp."

  Thorne looked at Alaric. "You will eliminate the commanders. When the shells start falling, the soldiers will look for orders and find only dead officers. They will be leaderless, panicked, and under fire. That is when we crush them."

  The operation was set for dawn.

  That night, the atmosphere in the camp was suffocating.

  Thorne and Selzer were relentless. They prowled the artillery lines, pestering the crews, checking the seals, ensuring every single cannon was in perfect condition. There was no room for a misfire.

  Alaric sought solitude. He sat on the ground near a large tree on the outskirts of the camp, away from the noise.

  Lucia was with him. She was lying down, her head resting on Alaric’s lap as he leaned against the bark.

  It was a rare moment of peace. Alaric traced patterns on her sleeve, his mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

  "Alaric," Lucia broke the silence, her eyes closed. "If anything happens... if you are in danger... you must let me know immediately. Through the bracelet."

  Alaric looked down at her. "I will."

  "Promise me," she insisted.

  "I promise," Alaric said solemnly. "If things go wrong, you will be the first to know."

  The next morning, the mist was thick enough to hide an army.

  Alaric stood with the 1st Battalion. They were no longer wearing the black armor of House Thorne. They were dressed in the stolen, bloodied uniforms of the Buckland supply troops they had killed days ago.

  "Remember," Alaric whispered to the men. "We are retreating survivors. We are scared, we are tired, and we are looking for safety. We walk right into the lion's den."

  He adjusted his helmet, hiding his eyes.

  "Move out."

  Disguised as the enemy, Alaric and the elite knights began the slow walk toward the Southern Flank, ready to open the gates of hell from the inside.