This was a war without doubt.

  Montreal released his grip on the sword hilt, flexing his knuckles. The steel plates on his gloves didn’t fully conform to his fingers, and the animal sinew at the joints was too thick, making prolonged poses uncomfortable—his entire palm ached. He glanced sideways at the four noble family supervisors, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile that, though "proper," reeked of arrogance.

  With 5,000 troops, including 1,000 shield guards, Montreal had no doubts about the outcome. It wasn’t arrogance; the gap was simply too vast—large enough to overlook any tactical errors or enemy tricks. Once his men breached the wall and secured a foothold, these elite shield guards would demonstrate to the Pramisburg rabble what true soldiers were capable of.

  The thought of escorting a high-born golden noble back to Westflow City to boast of his victory thrilled him—a glory few would ever attain. In the Orlando Empire, where golden-blooded families reigned supreme, the mere title "golden noble" created an insurmountable divide. This opportunity existed only because Arno was the last direct descendant of House Goldthorn, whose decline left them vulnerable.

  He tightened his reins, knees clamping as his horse shuffled uneasily. He didn’t notice the supervisors exchanging subtle glances, communicating in a way he couldn’t fathom.

  The war’s outcome would reshape Bell Province’s politics. A Bohr victory would let them carve the largest slice from the spoils, leaving others with crumbs. A defeat might cost them Arno’s assets, but it would gift them Westflow City—a fair trade.

  Nobles hesitated: a fading lion versus a fledgling wolf. Both had their merits, so they let the battle decide. If Arno seemed likely to win, they’d side with him; if Montreal prevailed, they’d ally with the Bohrs. No risk, no reward—but safety meant no windfall.

  On the wall, Marvin directed raw recruits to prepare defenses: animal fat and fire oil boiled in cauldrons, round stones added to the mix. When enemies climbed, they’d ignite the oil and pour the scalding mixture—a nightmare for soldiers who’d shed armor to climb faster.

  The last two scaling towers and a recovered battering ram approached again, tension thickening.

  "Shields up!" Marvin roared as the enemy closed in.

  Sparse shields and planks rose just in time for an arrow volley. Some, caught unawares, fell screaming as the Bohr coalition began their ascent.

  Compared to the mercenaries’ chaos, these shield guards were professionals. Each carried a one-foot round shield that, from above, hid their forms completely, complemented by shoulder guards—thoroughly prepared for scaling.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Of course, siege warfare was a meat grinder; preparation only went so far.

  Grappling hooks and simple ladders formed deadly passageways, soldiers swarming the walls like summer bead curtains.

  Through arrow fire, Marvin ordered cauldrons tilted. Flaming oil cascaded down, turning the ramparts into hell on earth.

  Burning bodies littered the ground, their stench choking the air, screams and moans weaving a horrifying melody.

  Soldiers on both sides froze, cold sweat drenching them at the inferno’s sudden fury.

  At Marvin’s warning, a ramp latched to the battlements. Knights spurred their horses, which bolted in pain.

  "Engage!"

  Knights airborne from the ramp met a wall of spears, crushed along with their mounts. The impact twisted the spear line, breaking bones and spraying blood. A dozen men were trampled; others rose to face the next charge.

  Siege warfare was the most brutal of all—death began the moment it started.

  Arno patted Blair’s shoulder. "Help them. Don’t let those horses breach so easily."

  A dozen warhorses had already gained the wall, knights stabbing at Pramisburgers with lances. Both sides fought with desperate intensity.

  The battle dragged on—minutes felt like hours, yet twenty passed in a blink. Arno frowned as blood-spattered Blair slowed, his gaze falling on the massive enemy below, anxiety mounting.

  Why haven’t they acted?

  "Why haven’t they acted?" The Bolton supervisor hissed, edging closer to the Leos supervisor, glancing at Montreal’s clenched fists.

  Per their agreement, they were to intervene in a stalemate, but the Leos supervisor seemed in no hurry.

  The Leos supervisor, a distant uncle of Bowen, smiled reassuringly. "Wait a little longer…"

  "Waiting risks changing the tide."

  "Isn’t that ideal?" the uncle replied. "If the shield guards take the wall, let them bleed each other dry. We needn’t honor our pact with Pramisburg—simply conquer it ourselves. Then Terman and Arno both take a backseat, and we rule here. Monopolies, permits—all ours, with Arno as our puppet…"

  The Bolton supervisor understood: let the lions kill each other; the hunter takes the prize. Controlling Pramisburg was better than being controlled. He retreated with a smile, no longer pressing.

  As time wore on, Arno’s anger grew—he knew the nobles were reneging on their deal. Nobles discarded honor for profit; this was no first offense. Eternal gain, not dignity, ruled this world.

  Yet he noticed a shift: the enemy’s climb had slowed—a good sign. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew his sword and strode toward the melee. At his approach, Pramisburgers felt a surge of strength—a validation, a respect, a purpose.

  This noble fought alongside them!

  In a society of rigid hierarchy, this gave these lower-class souls a twisted vindication, a strength surpassing physical limits. Morale surged; they dropped weapons, grappling enemies, biting throats, gouging eyes—dirty tactics that stunned disciplined soldiers used to structured combat.

  The tide turned: the coalition, which had gained ground, was driven back.

  Montreal frowned, barking orders to regroup. This battle was his most frustrating—the enemy’s dirty tricks decimated his men efficiently. He ordered tighter formations to avoid spreading thin.

  Just then, the Leos uncle approached with a carved box, revealing dragon-island tobacco bricks.

  "Care for a puff?" he asked, smiling like a neighbor. Montreal, reliant on their support, hesitated but took a brick. Before he could demur, the uncle struck flint, bringing fire close.

  Montreal nearly snapped but suppressed his anger, reaching for his pipe.

  In that instant, a sharp sword pierced his body, erupting through his chest.