Chapter 430 - 405: Strategic Deception

Chapter 430: Chapter 405: Strategic Deception

Rain washed over a high cliffside platform in Minas Tirith.

Mud splashed everywhere.

The heavy thrum of wind filled the air.

A Big Thief Gull burst through the curtain of rain, desperately flapping its wings to brake against the airflow. As it neared the ground, it thrust its talons forward.

Its sharp talons dug deep into the slick mud. It staggered forward two steps to bleed off its momentum, then steadied itself. With difficulty, it folded its scar-covered wings and shook the rain from its body.

Then came a second, and a third.

They were no longer the corps of white death that once blotted out the sun. Now, their feathers were a mess, their bodies covered in icicles and crusted blood. Some were even missing a talon, cowering in the rain with their heads hung low.

Ola unbuckled his safety harness and slid down the Stuka’s slick spine.

He lost his footing as his boots hit the ground, his knees slamming hard into the mud. He didn’t get up right away, simply remaining on his knees, letting the cold rain wash over his blood-smeared face.

"Boss..."

His second-in-command approached. His left arm was gone, the empty sleeve still dripping blood, diluted to a pale pink by the rain.

"Don’t talk."

Ola pushed away his subordinate’s steadying hand and wiped the rain from his face.

’A disaster.’

’A complete and utter disaster.’

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed. Ola’s body stiffened, but he didn’t dare look up.

A pair of polished black leather boots stopped in his field of view, splattered with a few flecks of mud.

"My lord..." Ola’s voice was more dejected than ever before. "We... we messed up."

He wanted to explain.

He wanted to tell him how monstrous those golden bird-men were, how fast their arrows rained down from above the clouds, how his brothers were riddled with holes before they even had a chance to fight back.

But the words turned to bitter ash in his mouth.

A loss was a loss.

He’d lost over thirty of his brothers without laying a scratch on the enemy. For a Dwarf who valued honor more than his own life, this was a fate worse than death.

"Messed up?"

The familiar voice came from above.

There was no anger, no disappointment. There was even a hint of... amusement?

Ola snapped his head up.

Velin was holding a black umbrella, looking down at him. The young Count’s face showed no trace of gloom; on the contrary, he looked particularly refreshed in the downpour.

"Get up." Velin extended a hand.

Ola froze, instinctively shrinking back.

"I’m not worthy..."

"I told you to get up." Velin’s tone hardened, but his hand remained outstretched in mid-air, perfectly still. "That’s an order."

Ola gritted his teeth, reached out a trembling hand, and grasped Velin’s.

A powerful force pulled him up, and he staggered to his feet.

"All of you, raise your heads!"

Velin turned, his voice cutting through the rain and into the ears of every dejected Knight.

"Look at the sorry state you’re in. What, you think you’re a bunch of beaten dogs? Think you’ve brought shame upon the White Tower Territory?"

No one dared to make a sound.

Only the rain pattered on.

Velin swept his gaze around, his eyes passing over the battered giant birds and the Knights with missing limbs, finally settling on Ola’s shame-filled face.

"I hereby declare," Velin’s voice suddenly rose, "that for their outstanding performance in this operation, the First Stuka Bomber Corps will all be awarded the ’Dauntless’ gold emblem! The fallen will receive a death benefit equal to twenty times their annual salary! All survivors are promoted one rank and awarded five hundred Golden Suns!"

This order was enough to strike everyone speechless.

Even the rain seemed to pause for a second.

Ola’s eyes went wide, nearly popping from their sockets. His jaw dropped, and he was completely oblivious as a water droplet from his beard flicked onto Velin’s sleeve.

’Dauntless?’

’Twenty times their annual salary as a death benefit?’

’Has the lord gone mad? Or is this some kind of sick joke?’

"My lord..." Ola swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "Please, don’t mock us. We were chased back here like a flock of ducks... How does that make us ’dauntless’?"

"A flock of ducks?"

Velin smiled. He closed his umbrella, letting the light rain fall on his shoulders, and turned to walk toward the castle hall.

"Follow me. I’ll show you what you really accomplished."

The group, filled with curiosity, hurried to follow.

The war room.

A massive map covered the entire length of a long table.

Velin tossed the black baton, a symbol of his command, onto the table. It landed with a sharp CLACK.

Ola and a few surviving squadron leaders stood awkwardly by the table. Water from their soaked clothes dripped onto the expensive carpet, but no one dared to wipe it.

"So, you all think you lost?"

Velin walked to the map. His finger tapped the location of Silverpine City, then shot upwards, tracing a line all the way to the coastal region at the map’s edge.

"Tell me, Ola. What was it that was hunting you?"

"The ’Daylight’ Dragon Eagle Knight Order," Ola snarled. "The Empire’s aces. Those bastards’ bows are too strong, and their mounts are monsters..."

"Correct. One of the Empire’s four great aerial cavalry corps, a strategic deterrent force." Velin cut him off, a calm smile playing on his lips.

"So here’s the question. This unit should be mired in a war with the northern Evergreen Council right now—the Siege of Sevastopol Fortress has been going on for five whole years, and both sides are at each other’s throats."

Velin held up two fingers, then rapped them sharply on the tabletop, his gaze as sharp as a knife.

"And yet, they were willing to pull two hundred riders from that meat grinder of a front line. You have to understand, that’s one-fifth of the entire corps’ strength! They were willing to risk their defensive line collapsing just to show up in a godforsaken place like Silverpine City and hunt you down like rabid dogs, chasing you all the way to nine thousand meters. What does that tell you?"

Ola froze for a moment, and then his eyes, which had been dim with defeat, narrowed sharply.

As a veteran who had crawled his way out of piles of corpses, he might not be adept at convoluted political games, but his battlefield instincts were as sharp as a wild beast’s.

He had been blinded by the heavy casualties before, but now, with Velin’s prompting, the unusual details connected in his mind—the abnormal deployment of the Empire’s ace unit, their relentless, at-all-costs pursuit... It all made sense.

"Because they had no other choice!"

Ola snapped his head up, giving the answer before Velin could. His voice was filled with the certainty that comes with sudden realization.

"Correct."

Velin’s lips curved into a smile. He snapped his fingers, then rapped them hard on the table again as he continued.

"That’s right. The Stuka Corps’ indiscriminate bombing run hurt Hector, and it terrified that so-called Imperial agent. They don’t know how many bombs we have, or when we’ll be back. To save face, to prevent their statues from being shamed by bird droppings again, they had no choice but to play their biggest trump card."

Velin turned, his blazing gaze fixed on Ola, whose expression had completely changed.

"On the surface, you lost. But in reality, you’ve already won!"

"Right now, those noble Dragon Eagle Knights are up at nine thousand meters, eating wind. Their supply lines are stretched thin, their mounts need rest, and the Knights need to get warm. For the next forty-eight hours, the Empire’s strongest aerial force will be all but grounded."

Velin picked up a red game piece from the table and gently placed it on an inconspicuous valley on the map.

That was Mining Area No. 7—a lead the True Origin Association had spent countless resources to find.

"You’ve lured away the watchdog."

"And now, that workshop filled with plague and curses is like a fatty piece of meat with the tough skin peeled off, sizzling on the cutting board, just waiting for us to feast."

Ola’s breathing grew heavy.

His heart, which had been heavy with shame, now began to pound fiercely.

’So that’s how it is.’

’We weren’t sacrificial pawns. We were bait—the most deadly kind of bait.’

"Do you get it now?" Velin looked at him. "You traded thirty lives for Hector’s toughest shield. That’s a damn good trade."

Ola’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

The fragmented images in his mind were suddenly no longer just a tragedy. He remembered Old Bart, the veteran who was always talking about saving up for his daughter’s dowry, being blown into a bloody mist, man and bird together. He remembered Maurice, the new recruit, still clutching the bomb release handle even as a lance pierced his chest.

A moment ago, these images had lashed at his pride like a whip, making him want to bury his head in shame.

But now, these bloody memories had become heavy, hard-won medals.

’It turned out they weren’t chicks being toyed with by a hawk. They were death-sworn warriors.’

’They were the dauntless ones who had used their own flesh and blood to drag those high-and-mighty ’gods’ down from the clouds. They had traded their lives to give the living a chance to plunge a knife into the enemy’s heart.’

’This wasn’t a defeat at all! This was a chance at victory, bought with their lives!’

An unprecedented wave of heat surged up his spine and into his eyes, making them burn red at the corners. His brothers hadn’t died in vain. Their blood had turned the tide of this game.

Ola took a deep breath and snapped his back straight—the spine of a soldier.

"Understood!"

"If you understand, then get the main force to rest," Velin said with a wave of his hand. "Let the seriously wounded and the brothers whose mounts can’t fly get a hot bath and a full meal. But—"

Velin’s tone shifted as his eyes scanned Ola from head to toe. "Can you still move?"

"Just give the order, and I’ll twist Hector’s head off myself!" Ola pounded his chest—THUMP, THUMP—and despite the blood-soaked bandages there, the fire in his eyes had been rekindled.

"Good." A flash of admiration appeared in Velin’s eyes. "Then you won’t be resting either. Pick nine men for me."

"Nine?"

"Yes. Ten of you in total, the ones in the best physical condition. Their mounts, too—pick the ones with the most spirit left." Velin issued his commands rapidly, his words coming in a torrent. "Have them find the Priests from the True Origin Sect attached to our army. I don’t care if they use Divine Arts or pour Holy Water down their throats—I want them restored to full strength within half an hour, ready to take off at a moment’s notice."

Ola froze, then a bloodthirsty excitement spread across his face. He realized the so-called "feast" wasn’t over yet.

"Yes, sir! And the rest..."

"Have your second-in-command handle the recovery for those ten elites," Velin interrupted, turning toward a side door. "As for you, Ola, come with me. I’m taking you somewhere. For the work that comes next, I can’t do without your axe."