CH: 32: Sense of Threat

{Chapter: 32: Sense of Threat}

Standing atop the cold, weathered stone walls of Fort Mogus, Crown Prince James Woz squinted into the horizon, his cape fluttering in the sharp wind. His eyes were fixed on the vast cloud of dust approaching from the distance—an ominous harbinger of the advancing Ar army.

With a calm yet commanding motion of his gloved hand, he signaled the troops stationed behind him to ready themselves for the impending battle. Armor clinked, boots shuffled, and men adjusted their weapons with grim expressions. The silence was heavy, expectant, as if the fortress itself held its breath.

Soon, the distant figures began to resolve themselves into discernible forms. A tide of gleaming metal surged across the plains. At the forefront of the formation, tens of thousands of armored knights on horseback thundered forward, hooves pounding the earth like war drums. Behind them followed the metallic clatter of heavy war chariots, their steel plating glinting under the sun, flanked on either side by disciplined columns of infantry. The infantry moved with mechanical precision, their formation as unyielding as the steel they wore.

This was no mere rabble of conscripts or peasants pressed into service. This was the elite fighting force of the Principality of Ar, bred and trained for war.

Unlike on Earth, where the annals of ancient history are littered with tales of hastily conscripted serfs marching off to die as cannon fodder in wars they barely understood, the armies of this world were different. This was a realm shaped by the presence of extraordinary powers, and those powers had drastically transformed the art of war.

In this world, military service was not a burden but a coveted path. Enlistment came with a bounty of rewards—generous compensations, social elevation, and the promise of a better future. Those who joined the ranks of the army were not mere footsoldiers; they were aspirants of the knight system, training tirelessly to hone their bodies and minds. They pursued strength with religious fervor, forging themselves into living weapons.

A single trained soldier in this world could hold his own against ten—sometimes twenty—ordinary men. Their endurance was superhuman. Even burdened with dozens of kilograms of armor, they moved as though they wore silk. Their reflexes were sharpened to a blade's edge, their spirits hardened like iron.

To pit ordinary people against these warriors was madness. It would be like throwing lambs to lions.

If someone from Earth were to witness this, they might think of legendary super-soldiers—one-man armies like Rambo—but even that comparison would fall short. These warriors were not lone anomalies. They were the standard.

And thus, a silent rule had emerged over generations:

"Ordinary civilians do not belong on the battlefield unless all hope is lost."

Farmers plowed fields. Merchants traded. Women bore children. Craftsmen forged weapons. And soldiers? Soldiers fought.

The separation of roles had been entrenched in society for millennia, reinforced by the bloody lessons of history and the inevitable truth that ordinary men were simply not made for war in this world.

Now, with the enemy battle lines formed and looming just beyond the city, a striking figure detached himself from the advancing forces. Riding atop a powerful, dark-maned warhorse was a middle-aged man with a noble bearing and eyes that gleamed with confidence. Dressed in ornate armor and bearing the sigil of the Principality of Ar on his chest, he advanced alone toward the walls of Fort Mogus.

The man halted a short distance from the fortress and looked up.

"Surrender, my dear Crown Prince Jamesmy," he called out with theatrical exaggeration, his voice carrying with unnerving ease. "It would be such a shame if you were to get hurt."

Behind him, the soldiers burst into laughter, the mocking sound echoing across the plain. It was a carefully orchestrated insult meant to unsettle the defenders.

James Woz's expression hardened. The corners of his mouth twitched, his jaw clenched. Every jeering voice chipped away at his composure, but he refused to flinch.

He muttered under his breath, his voice low and icy: "Harry, I hope you can still laugh like this later."

The man—Harry—laughed even louder, shaking his head.

"Oh, but I will, Jamesmy. Believe me, I will. Do you honestly think you can win with your pitiful numbers? It's true, sometimes a smaller force can defeat a larger one, but only when they are led by a genius—or possessed of overwhelming advantage. You, my friend, have neither. If you truly had the strength to stop us, do you think I'd be standing here, calm as ever?"

He took a breath and softened his tone slightly, as though offering wisdom to a foolish child.

"I must admit, you have potential. You might have made a fine leader... if only you weren't saddled with the idiocy of your father. He squandered your nation's strength over the years—piece by piece, mistake after mistake. He left you an empty treasury and a fractured realm. That's why we march now—not for glory, but because your kingdom made itself a target."

Harry's voice grew louder, more resolute.

"But it doesn't have to end in blood. Surrender now. Sign the treaty. Save the lives of your men. What dignity remains can still be preserved. Fighting us is nothing more than a tragic farce."

James Woz stared down at the man. He knew Harry wasn't wrong about the dire condition his country was in. The sins of his father had indeed left deep scars—on the kingdom's finances, its morale, and its reputation. The rot had spread far before James even took up the mantle of leadership. But there was one thing Harry failed to understand:

Pride was not just a word. It was a legacy. And James Woz would rather die than let the world remember him as the prince who knelt.

He smiled coldly.

"Surrender? What a noble offer. Let me guess—after signing, you parade me through your cities like a trophy? Nail my name to the pillar of shame while singing songs of your glory? Make your children recite tales of how the great Harry made a prince bow?"

His voice rose with every word.

"You want me to surrender so history remembers me not as a ruler, but as a failure. So your fame can shine brighter against the backdrop of my humiliation."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his gauntleted hands on the edge of the battlements.

"But hear this, Harry of Ar. I may fall. This city may burn. But I will make certain that when the songs are sung, they will speak not of my cowardice, but of the fire I lit as I fell. And I will ensure that your glory is paid for with rivers of blood."

Harry frowned for the first time.

The two men stared at each other, one from atop the fortress, the other atop a warhorse. Around them, soldiers shifted in anticipation, sensing the winds of war thickening.

No surrender. No retreat.

Only the clash of steel awaited.

As a knight.

As a prince.

As the pride and banner of an entire nation.

These identities were not just titles that adorned James Woz's name—they were oaths etched into his bones. If he, the Crown Prince of Marton, chose to lay down his arms and surrender before the enemy, what would remain of his dignity? What would his soldiers—his loyal, blood-bound warriors—think of him? How would his people, already under the shadow of war, endure the blow to their morale?

The thought alone was a dagger to his heart.

The burden of generations—centuries of royal honor and blood-earned prestige—rested on his shoulders. If he fell here, without resistance, without a fight, then the great Woz bloodline would be remembered not for its victories, but for its disgrace. History would not speak of the battles they had won but of the prince who knelt in fear.

A flicker of rage crossed his eyes. He straightened his back and shouted across the battlefield, his voice steady but laced with fury:

"And don't you dare think I don't know the truth behind those two whores who seduced my father! They were agents—sent by the Principality of Ar to rot our kingdom from the inside!"

Across the field, mounted atop a mighty black stallion, Harry—General of the Ar army—tilted his head and scoffed. He didn't even try to deny the accusation.

"So what?" he called back with a sneer. "Didn't your precious Marton also send their painted girls into our courts, whispering poison into our noblemen's ears? Don't play the holy victim, James. The difference between us is simple—your plans failed, and ours didn't."

He waved dismissively, as though brushing off a fly. "Blame your father. The man's arrogance and greed left your kingdom open like a gutted pig. He was too blind to see it coming—and too proud to act when he did."

The sting of Harry's words hit deeper than James would ever admit aloud. He clenched his jaw, remaining silent not because he lacked a rebuttal, but because everything the man said was true. His father, in his twilight years, had grown increasingly vain and erratic, chasing pleasures and petty ambitions rather than protecting the stability of Marton. It had cost them dearly.

There were days James wanted to scream at his father—wanted to slap sense into the foolish old man. But it was too late now. The sins of the past had bled into the present, and James had no choice but to clean up the mess.

Taking a breath, he brushed off the dust from his silver-plated chest armor and adjusted the golden insignia of Marton's lion, resting over his heart like a burning brand. Then he raised his voice again—no longer filled with accusation, but with iron resolve:

"Enough talk, Harry. You and I both know what this day means. The war between Marton and Ar will not be decided by whispers in court or poisoned bedsheets. It ends here. Either you break through my defenses, or you fall trying."

Then, narrowing his eyes slightly, he muttered in the depths of his mind: 'And unlike you... I can cheat…'

But even as he spoke, he failed to notice the subtle amusement flickering in Harry's eyes, like a fox pretending to yawn. There was more at play here than armies and honor.

Harry let out a booming laugh and raised his sword toward the gray sky. His voice rang over the field like a bell before battle.

"So be it! I will crush your forces beneath the boots of my cavalry and watch you kneel with your own blood on your lips. And when you surrender, it will not be to save your people—but to beg for your pride!"

*****

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