Chapter 331: Not Like This

It was already summer, and the scorching sun was baking the city of Cardiff.

But at this very moment, the people on the roads felt a chill in the air.

On both sides of the road, more and more Brambleford soldiers were gathering, their eyes sharp as blades as they stared at the commanders of Prince Gerad’s battalion.

These Brambleford soldiers had fought bloody battles on the front lines to resist the reavers, earning peace for others. And now these people dared to shout and order them around?

"What are you trying to do? Rebel?" Barked Martin, commander of the battalion, his face instantly changing.

The guards who had rushed forward also stopped. They could sense a dangerous aura from these Brambleford soldiers, an aura that only those who had truly seen life and death on the battlefield would possess.

If it had been in the past, Lancelot would’ve already led his men forward and given these fools a proper beating. But now, he had to consider the bigger picture.

Even though they had just crushed the reaver vanguard outside Cardiff City, that was only because the reavers were caught off guard. The siege of Preston would still require the cooperation of all three armies.

He said slowly. "The reaver army is just outside Preston. I do not wish to cause trouble between allies. But I hope the general can restrain himself. We are here to lift the siege on Preston. I believe you did not come here to stir up conflict with Brambleford’s army either."

With that, Lancelot stepped aside.

Martin sneered and led his soldiers into camp.

He had arrived with a stomach full of anger. No one in Prince Gerad’s army wanted this cursed assignment. Every time he thought about having to face the reavers, he would tremble with fear. The horrors of the reavers had long taken root in the hearts of these commanders.

And with a unit like this, a hastily thrown-together, broken force, he was even more bitter, which was why he lashed out at Lancelot.

After informing the battalion of the next day’s march, Lancelot returned to camp to prepare.

Recently, more artillery units had been transferred to the army. They now had fifty cannons at their disposal.

In the camp, Lancelot complained again to Benjamin about the battalion.

Benjamin could only offer a bitter smile. "At this point, we can only make do. Once we meet up with the Imperial Guard, things will get better. At least I know that army can fight."

He was well acquainted with Lancelot, commander of the Imperial Guard, and knew their force was solid.

The next day, Benjamin led the Brambleford army toward Preston. Lancelot positioned the musket soldiers in the center of the column. Flanking them were the carriages and cavalry in columns, so that if ambushed by reavers, they could quickly form a defensive car formation.

The battalion followed behind the Brambleford army, taking responsibility for escorting the supply wagons, just as Benjamin had expected.

He didn’t trust them in battle, but at least their presence helped. And with the Brambleford army nearby, he could intervene quickly if needed.

Just thirty miles out of Cardiff City, the scenery on both sides of the road turned desolate.

Homeless refugees began to appear along the road.

They looked weary and bitter, dragging their families along as they trudged toward Cardiff City.

"Old sir, are you headed to the Great Prince’s domain?" Benjamin asked one of them.

A thin old man looked up and replied. "Yes. We can’t survive in Preston anymore. A few days ago, we met a cavalry unit who said they were the Great Prince’s soldiers. They told us to go to Cardiff City. Said there’s food there, and we can find shelter. So the whole village decided to go."

"We are also the Great Prince’s army. Go ahead, Cardiff City has already taken in many refugees."

Benjamin hadn’t forgotten one of their other missions: resettling the refugees.

The refugees’ eyes lit up with hope after hearing his words.

Smiling, Benjamin continued onward with the Brambleford army.

He had already sent Timothy ahead to gather refugees, and clearly, it was working. Along the way, he had seen at least thirty or forty thousand refugees heading toward Cardiff City.

The drought in Preston had brought immense suffering, and Prince Augustus’s failure to respond had completely lost him the people’s trust.

---

Outside the city of Preston, over two thousand reaver soldiers knelt facing north, bound in ropes. Behind them, another two thousand stood holding scimitars, awaiting the command of Clinton.

Preston had been under siege for more than half a month, but Clinton continued to surround without attacking.

The local defenders had been repeatedly crushed, until no more dared to come to their aid.

Just as Clinton waited confidently for the main force under Fern to arrive, news came that Rowe’s ten-thousand-strong cavalry had been utterly defeated, and that two thousand returning soldiers had been detained.

"A commander who abandons his troops, executed!"

"A soldier who abandons his commander, executed!"

"Anyone who retreats without orders, executed!"

Clinton’s chilling voice declared the unforgiving military law of The Order.

The kneeling soldiers looked numb. They had known they were doomed the moment they fled the battlefield.

They had been terrified by the Brambleford army’s strange weapons, which spewed fire and smoke, causing a rout the likes of which the Order had never seen.

Now, they were the shame of the Order. Their families would live in disgrace.

The Order, built on mounted archery, treasured honor above all else. It was a value burned into their very bones.

Before Clinton could speak again, one of the kneeling thousand-man commanders stood and faced him.

"Commander, we are the shame of the Order. Please give us a chance to wash away our disgrace. Let us charge first in the next battle and shed our last drop of blood for the Order; better that than to die here."

When the cavalry fled and returned, Clinton was furious. In the Order, no soldier was allowed to return alive without his commander.

This was iron law, enforced through generations, and the key to their conquest of the northern territories.

Clenching his fists, Clinton suppressed his rage.

These returning soldiers had described Brambleford’s strange formations and weapons. To him, it wasn’t death they feared; it was this fire-spewing terror.

"Devil’s weapon..." Clinton muttered.

The warnings of the shaman priest echoed in his ears: those slain by demons would never ascend to the Eternal Sky, while those who died with honor would find peace in the afterlife.

The Order’s soldiers did not fear death, but they feared falling to demons.

In Clinton’s mind, it wasn’t the weapon that broke them; it was panic that awakened ancient fear in their hearts.

Whatever the case, they must die.

But not here, not like this.

"That weapon is like a kind of cannon, not some devil’s trick. Cowards... I will give you one more chance. Prove your courage with your blood."