Gabella’s Crisis

Translator: CinderTL

The setting sun cast a bloody hue over the desolate path where the Gabellan army was retreating.

The soldiers' footsteps were heavy and chaotic, the sound of their soles scraping against the ground particularly grating. Their armor was smeared with mud and blood, their helmets askew, and their eyes hollow, as if they were mere shells devoid of souls. The once high morale had completely vanished, replaced by endless despondency and discouragement.

Occasionally, low coughs and painful groans could be heard from the ranks. Wounded soldiers were supported by their comrades, stumbling along. Their wounds had not been properly treated, and the smell of blood hung in the air, attracting vultures that circled above, their sharp, short cries like the taunts of death.

Every time there was a rustle of grass or a nearby sound, it caused a stir. Some would whisper in alarm, others would grip their weapons tightly, nervously scanning their surroundings.

The army's commander, Woven Ruiz, rode on horseback, his expression grim, his gaze frequently darting toward the rear.

"Make the soldiers move faster!"

His orders were brief and stern, but there was a hint of helplessness in his voice. The officers and soldiers no longer trusted his commands, merely executing them mechanically.

Rumors spread through the ranks: some said the Church's War Elephants were closing in, others claimed the road ahead was blocked by enemy forces. These rumors gnawed at their resolve like venomous snakes, enveloping the entire army in a cloud of panic.

In the distance, the sound of hoofbeats caused the soldiers to halt, holding their breath, their hands trembling as they gripped their weapons. Some cursed under their breath, others silently prayed.

"Stand down, it's our own scouts!"

When these words were heard, a sense of relief washed over everyone, as if they had narrowly escaped death.

The ranks began to move again, but each step felt like they were marching toward an abyss. Their only thought was to survive.

Woven Ruiz looked ahead as the sun set, darkness descending, much like his own hopeless life.

After the devastating defeat on the Usola Plains, many lords had brought their troops to support him, briefly restoring Ruiz's hope. But that hope was once again crushed mercilessly by the Church's forces.

The Gabellan army's once-proud fighting spirit had been utterly eroded by continuous defeats. Ruiz knew that once he returned to the capital, he would face severe punishment.

Besides the War Elephant Legion, the Church's regular forces were also formidable, with timely and ample supplies of weapons and provisions.

Based on various intelligence reports, Ruiz estimated that there were between three hundred thousand to five hundred thousand people transporting supplies behind the Church's forces.

This was the power of faith. With a single proclamation from the Church, countless believers brought their own provisions to support the army along its march. Only as they ventured deeper into Gabellan territory did this enthusiasm wane, but many still traveled great distances to assist the so-called "Holy Army."

Among them were even devout monarchs from small nations. Though their own troops were weak and could only hinder the frontlines, they were more than sufficient as auxiliary forces to maintain order in occupied territories, allowing the Church's forces to focus entirely on the main battlefield.

As the "Holy Army" advanced deeper into Gabella, the lengthening supply lines made it impossible to rely solely on supplies from the main base.

To sustain the massive military needs, the auxiliary forces began targeting the civilians in occupied territories.

The tranquility of villages was shattered by the sound of hooves. Soldiers charged into every household, kicking open doors, rummaging through every corner, and looting anything of value: food, livestock, gold and silver utensils, even bedding and clothing. Villagers who resisted were roughly shoved to the ground, beaten, or even executed on the spot. The cries of women and children echoed over the villages.

Crops in the fields were forcibly harvested, immature wheat stalks trampled into the mud. Livestock were taken, chickens and ducks slaughtered, even dogs were not spared. The people of the occupied territories could only watch helplessly as their year's hard work was destroyed, kneeling and pleading, only to be met with cold rebukes and lashes.

In the towns, shops were looted clean. Merchants were forced to hand over all their stock and money. Officers sat on horseback, watching indifferently, occasionally waving their hands to order the uncooperative to be tied up and displayed in the square. Their faces showed no trace of pity, concerned only with completing the confiscation tasks assigned by their superiors.

Such events were all too common during war. Even the Church's forces, deep in enemy territory far from their rear, had to resort to such measures to feed their soldiers.

Fortunately, they had a host of auxiliary forces to do the dirty work, sparing the true knights, who were bound by chivalric virtues and holy doctrines, from moral dilemmas. They could focus solely on battle, exterminating heretics without worrying about where their food came from.

The brutal war created a flood of refugees within Gabella, who followed the retreating imperial army toward the capital.

In the past, Gabellans had only heard of the imperial army's victories, how their territory expanded with each triumph, solidifying the belief that Gabella was invincible.

Now, the situation was completely reversed. Gabellans were being defeated by other forces, and the suffering once endured by the conquered was now visited upon them.

The imperial capital was inundated with waves of refugees. Each morning, when the city gates opened, instead of the usual caravans and travelers, hordes of refugees poured in. They were ragged, gaunt, their eyes filled with hunger and despair. As the shadow of war loomed closer and Gabellan territory continued to fall, these displaced people had no choice but to seek refuge in the capital.

The once-bustling streets and markets were now crammed with refugees. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and anxiety, punctuated by the cries of children and the sighs of the elderly.

At first, some merchants pushed carts loaded with dried rations and bread onto the streets, trying to make a profit from the chaos.

But every time they appeared, the refugees would surge toward the carts like a tidal wave. The shouts of men, the screams of women, and the cries of children blended into a chaotic sea. Some reached for the bread, only to be shoved to the ground; others pushed forward, only to be knocked aside by stronger individuals. Rations tumbled from the carts into the mud, immediately snatched up by countless hands, leading to brawls.

Faced with such disorder, the imperial government repeatedly deployed troops to suppress the chaos and imposed various bans, including curfews.

"What is the imperial army doing? Can they only suppress their own refugees?"

Countless people wanted to storm the palace and demand answers from the rulers of Gabella.

(End of the Chapter)

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