Marching Out (2)

With the order given, a low horn, sounding like the roar of a dragon, echoed through the camp. It was the call to assemble and march.

The gloomy-faced soldiers who had been gathered around the campfires reluctantly fell into formation. They barely managed to piece together a somewhat impressive legion of ten thousand, jostling one another as they began their march toward the God-Forsaken Land.

However, the constant chatter and noise made the army seem incredibly disorganized.

Rather than an army heading to the battlefield to shed blood and sacrifice their lives, they looked more like slaves being forced to the execution ground.

In truth, the majority of this army consisted of commoners who had been hastily conscripted, so discipline was naturally nonexistent.

In this backward, medieval-like fantasy world, lords would never maintain a large standing army for no reason; that would only waste the wealth and grain they extracted through taxes.

Thus, these commoners, who normally worked diligently day in and day out, became the best cannon fodder for their wars.

In times of peace, these subjects had to farm and hunt to meet the exorbitant taxes set by their direct lords. These lords would then exploit them further, passing the wealth up through the ranks of higher nobility, layer by layer.

But once war broke out, these commoners would be drafted on the spot. Armed with the hoes and sickles they used for daily labor, they would march to the battlefield on behalf of their lords, transformed into “glorious” soldiers.

As for casualties, the lords did not care in the slightest.

To the high-and-mighty nobles, these commoners were no different from chives in a field. They could be harvested again and again; as long as the roots remained, there would always be more to cut.

This was the cruelty of the medieval era.

Following closely behind the conscripted army were the noble wolf knights. Numbering a full five thousand, they were the true fighting force and foundation of the Duchy of Reny, used to resist foreign enemies.

Each knight wore silver armor emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Duchy of Reny, wielding an iron shield and a spear.

Compared to the rabble of commoners, their discipline was exceptionally strict. Not a single knight showed any emotion, and their armor clanked rhythmically with the jolts of their march.

Mounted beneath them were frost wolves as large as water buffaloes. Their protruding fangs and needle-like, silver-grey fur left no doubt about their ferocity and power.

Without a question, these were magical beasts.

In the past, frost wolves gathered in packs on the Beast Horde Plains, forming a formidable force there. It wasn't until that man arrived that these stubborn wolf cubs finally learned the meaning of true strength.

Crushed by the overwhelming power of a Legendary Rank combatant, the frost wolves prudently chose to submit, thereby avoiding the fate of being slaughtered to extinction.

After years of domestication and breeding, frost wolves had now become the standard mount for the cavalry of the Duchy of Reny.

Following directly behind the wolf cavalry were massive structures covered in black cloth. Their wooden wheels creaked harshly against the muddy ground, threatening to sink into the deep ruts at any moment.

Those were siege ballistas, devastating weapons designed for sieges. Even a creature as powerful as a dragon would have to warily avoid the path of these magically enchanted, massive bolts to prevent being skewered.

Flanking the ballistas were the mage and cleric corps. Like the siege ballistas, they belonged to the rear-guard units, responsible for providing fire support and healing allies.

Floating in the air above them, keeping a steady pace, was the Gold Rank Archmage, Robo.

His gaze was deep as he looked down upon the spectacular army before him.

This massive force of over thirty thousand men resembled a network of intricate gears and screws, forming a giant, precise mechanical colossus known as the Subjugation Army.

This was a terrifying spectacle born of the duchy's entire strength, a formidable fighting force capable of steamrolling any minor duchy.

In this battle, he not only wanted to crush the rising power in the God-Forsaken Land to prove himself to his father, but also to show the world the fangs of the Duchy of Reny.

He wanted the factions coveting the fertile lands beneath the San Pedro Mountains to know that even without a Legendary figure guarding them, the Duchy of Reny was no pushover.

On the contrary, they were an iron hedgehog covered in steel needles; anyone who dared offend them had to be prepared to end up bruised and battered.

The wyvern flew overhead, bringing a gale-force wind with it. Robo's gaze instantly turned cold and dark.

If he could take this opportunity to get rid of his “dear older brother” during this battle, that would be for the best.

Unlike Renn, his bloodline was impure, lacking the pedigree of true nobility.

He was the product of his dear father, Duke Edliman, raping a maid after a banquet.

Because of this humble origin, Robo had suffered endless contempt since childhood.

His father ignored him, other nobles looked down on him, and his half-brother bullied him.

He hated this world, he hated the maidservant mother who gave birth to him, and he hated his brother Renn, whose birth was far superior to his own, even more.

All of this changed when he awakened an extraordinary talent for magic at the age of eight. From then on, under his respected father's arrangements, he began to study magic and became a noble mage.

Within just a few decades, he reached his current height.

From that moment, his life underwent an earth-shattering transformation.

No one dared to mock or belittle him anymore. Even his father, who had previously ignored him, now treated him as his most beloved younger son, even handing over all the affairs of the Duchy of Reny to him after stepping down.

Yet Robo knew that, deep down, these people still looked down on his lowborn bloodline.

His father, Duke Edliman, had never truly regarded him as his own child, just as Renn had never treated him as a brother.

He, Robo, was merely a tool, a cog in the machine.

Duke Edliman only needed a tool to assist his biological son, Renn. He had never once considered passing his title to someone of low birth.

At least, that was what Robo believed.

And if he wanted to change all of this...

Robo's gaze locked onto the figure on the back of the wyvern.

“As long as you die in this war, Father will definitely pass the title to me.”

He murmured softly, “When that time comes, I will be Father's true child.”

Under the gloomy canopy of the sky, the cold wind howled.

Masked by Robo's hidden thoughts, the army marched orderly along the route mapped out for them by the Dwarven Empire, entering the newly excavated, yet-to-be-reinforced cross-river tunnel.

Not far away, standing in front of a tavern, the Dwarven King, Herbert, who had witnessed the army's passage, let out a long yawn as if he had just woken up, scratching his itchy, wine-red beard.

The wooden door of the tavern was pushed open from the inside. The dwarf Grey walked out holding a bottle of wine, glanced at the army disappearing into the tunnel, and smacked his lips. “Your Majesty, are we really just going to ignore them?”

“Otherwise, what?”

The Dwarven King snatched the bottle from Grey's hand, took a deep swig, and continued, “We've already done all we could. Now, we owe neither side anything.”

With that, he turned around, pushed open the tavern's wooden door, and went back inside.

A slightly regretful voice drifted out alongside the creaking of the wooden door: “It's a pity... I recently discovered that mixing ale with red wine has quite a unique flavor...”