When the horns blared outside the city, Arno appeared on the ramparts. In another world, he had watched many television dramas where wars that could have been won ended in failure because of certain individuals’ cowardice. They did not even need to charge into battle clad in armor; simply standing where they could be seen by others, even from the rear, was enough. History was like an aged wine, containing all flavors—bitterness, spiciness, sweetness, and sourness. Some drank it in one gulp and shook their heads, while others savored the sedimented depth within.

  On the city walls, as two scaling towers adjusted their angles and inched closer to Pramisburg’s battlements under the guard of a group of mercenaries, Arno could clearly sense the defenders on the wall swallow hard and draw sharp breaths.

  Ever since Yoberg had unhesitatingly framed Arno, Pramisburg had completely broken free from the governor’s administration. The garrison officers who should have been appointed by Bell Province Governor Yoberg were bypassed by Arno, who instead named a fairly respected veteran, Marvin, to the position. Marvin had once served in a phalanx under the empire’s elite Dragon Hunt Legion. During the standoff with the Byron Empire, he and his legion were transferred here to take up defensive duties.

  Later, when Orlando and Byron clashed in the Weimar Corridor, Marvin’s phalanx was decimated. He suffered severe injuries: a Byron warrior’s blade hacked from his collarbone to his hip, tearing his abdomen and spilling his intestines. By some stroke of luck, the battle line advanced just in time, and medics rescued him. They washed his intestines with holy water, stuffed them back in, stitched his wounds like sewing clothes, cast several healing spells, and left him in a stable.

  He pulled through, but severe injuries left him a permanent resident of the city, where he married, raised a family, and taught combat to local children in his fifty-acre wheat field during non-farming seasons.

  In the hearts of veterans from that war era, there lurked a heavy sense of crisis.

  Now, that sense of crisis came in handy.

  Marvin cursed as he approached from a distance, whipping the young men whose legs were trembling with a horsewhip. "Coward! Straighten your spine! If you’re scared, go back to your mother’s arms and suck her tits!"

  This was a common vulgar insult, literally mocking an adult for acting like an infant still needing breast milk for comfort—a harsh sneer. But for these newly conscripted soldiers, former homeless people, commoners, or even slaves with little education, elegant words were useless; only such coarse abuse had an effect.

  Wearing shining chainmail, Marvin stopped not far from Arno and raised his right arm in a fist—a gesture of respect for the city lord that had become customary among Pramisburgers, which Arno saw no need to change.

  "Lord, it might get very dangerous later. I suggest you return to the city mansion; it’s safer there," Marvin said, holding his helmet under his arm, his voice booming.

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  Arno shot him a sideways glance, wearing a relaxed smile that revealed no trace of tension. "Safe if I go back? If you fail, no matter where I hide, they’ll find me eventually." Noticing Marvin’s face darken slightly, his jaw tightening and temple pulsing with anger, Arno added, "Similarly, if you can stop them from scaling the wall or defeat them, then even if I stand here, I’ll be perfectly safe."

  His voice was not deliberately lowered, so those around could hear. "I’m placing my safety and Pramisburg’s future in your hands now. I’ll stand here and watch as you defeat these invaders. If you don’t want me to come to harm, then conquer them!" Arno pointed to the thousand-strong force and two scaling towers below, showing no sign of fear.

  Marvin’s eyes held a hidden smile. Having served in the empire’s elite legion, he understood the importance of morale. Arno’s presence versus his absence made all the difference; one could even say it directly influenced the battle’s outcome. He pounded his breastplate with his fist, creating a loud clanging sound. "Just wait and see!"

  After speaking, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the increasingly approaching scaling towers, put on his helmet, and turned to leave.

  At his command, barrels of fire oil and thumb-thick round stones were carried onto the wall. In the era of cold steel, fire had always been a tactic capable of swaying the battlefield. If used effectively, it could mean winning half the war before it even began.

  As the two siege engines drew closer, the mercenaries surrounding the scaling towers made way, and the neatly arrayed knights prepared to charge the moment the bridge planks of the towers pressed against the city wall.

  The soldiers on the wall formed groups of three to five, holding wrist-thick logs to prevent the bridge planks from getting closer. The knights outside began to accelerate gradually, and the situation grew tenser by the moment.

  When a bridge plank slowly approached the wall and latched onto a battlement, the warhorses below began to accelerate, dashing up the plank like a gust of wind. The anti-slip measures spaced every foot on the plank allowed the horses to maintain most of their speed as they ran upward, ensuring they wouldn’t slip. Marvin watched the charging knights and waved his hand sharply. Barrels of open fire oil poured out their amber liquid, and several flaming arrows shot into the oil, instantly igniting a blaze.

  All living beings have an innate fear of fire, from lowly ants to humans. Faced with flames, even humans feel a surge of dread, and the effect on warhorses is even greater.

  Immediately, some horses neighed and tried to avoid the flames, accidentally falling and collapsing in a heap. Others, rigorously trained to tolerate fire, charged into the inferno and emerged from the other side moments later.

  Facing a knight with a ferocious expression, Marvin calmly drew his sword and thrust forward. The thrust was ordinary, lacking the beauty of strength or the elegance of swordsmanship—just a simple raise and lunge. The knight who had just passed through the flames stared blankly as this unremarkable sword blocked his path and pierced his body beside the horse.

  All of this happened in an instant: a warhorse leaped through the fire, the knight died by Marvin’s sword, as if coming to their death, a scene almost absurd.

  The knight rolled to the ground, and the horse, suddenly masterless, became panicked. Without its rider’s soothing, instinct took over. Surrounded by soldiers, the horse unhesitatingly jumped from the wall, crashing into a pile of flesh that twitched and stiffened.

  Knights continued to scale the wall, only to be thrown back by the defenders again and again.