Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1265: Celebrating Camp

The night air above Greenvale’s forward camp carried the scent of meat and fire.

Over two hundred thousand soldiers filled the valley; the obscene amount of men and women gathered was such that their banners formed a sea of color beneath the stars.

Tents stretched as far as the eye could see, rising and falling with the land like a city built overnight. Lines of cooks hauled cauldrons through the paths between them, servants carried crates of wine and ammunition, and blacksmiths worked behind curtains of sparks, repairing the damaged gear before the next conflict occurred.

“Yeah!!”

“Cheers!”

“Greenvale prevails!”

A cheer rolled across the camp every few minutes. The army returned victorious, or so the front-line soldiers said. Those at the back couldn’t be sure because they did not even get to look at their enemies, much less shed their blood.

The Vesper Consortium had met their advance, but their commander, the infamous Maelstrom, had turned back before the battle could even begin. It was said he saw the might of Greenvale’s army and chose to retreat like the rat that he was.

Around bonfires, soldiers laughed and sang. The clang of mugs hitting shields echoed through the fields. Horses neighed from their lines, catching the mood of the night.

The army felt untouchable.

At the center of it all stood the largest camp. The path leading to it was paved with wooden boards to keep boots from sinking into the mud. Guards stood in neat rows, armored and silent, their spears polished enough to reflect the firelight.

The command tent loomed in the middle, wide enough to house a banquet hall. Fine rugs lined the floor. Maps covered the tables, weighed down by ink pots, daggers, and wine bottles. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and roasted meat.

Alastair Greenvale sat at the head of the table. His hair was tied back, his uniform pressed to perfection despite the dust of the field. Around him, his generals and advisors filled the tent with their laughter. Bottles clinked as they toasted their victory, and the smoke of rich cigars drifted toward the lanterns above.

“That slit-eyed slut and her pack ran the moment they felt Maelstrom’s banners near!” barked one of the older generals, slapping the table with the back of his hand. “Yet when he was facing us… Ha! The mighty general of Vesper, the lion of the Consortium, ran from the field before steel even touched steel!”

A chorus of laughter followed. Another general leaned forward, cigar between his fingers, smirking. “Maybe he finally realized his army was built on bluffing and borrowed pride. The man must be drowning in shame right now.”

“Masculinity issues,” Alastair decreed. His voice was smooth but carried across the tent. The others turned to him, their laughter dimming to a grin of shared mockery. “The kind that come about when a man learns the world remembers results, not speeches. Let him sulk. Tomorrow, we march again.”

“Greenvale stands!” a younger commander shouted.

“Greenvale stands!” came the echo.

Alastair raised his glass, letting the ruby liquid catch the lamplight. “And the king will see that it was us that turned this war, not that Kaede bitch,” he decreed while reading the report regarding the bounties they’d collected.

In the past two months, they’d become equal with the Fujimori in the contest for the Duchy of Greenvale, and early estimates suggest they have already overtaken them.

But even if it wasn’t the case just yet, it was inevitable. The Fujimori sent their large army back to their lands to recover their wounds, a thing that would not be done for months if not years.

As such, the speed with which the two factions gained points couldn’t be compared.

Outside, the noise of the camp carried on with music, laughter, and the sound of blades being sharpened in rhythm to the songs. The banners of Greenvale and its many vassals swayed in the breeze, proud and untorn.

In that moment, no one in that tent believed the tide could ever turn.

The laughter had barely died down when the first artifact began to ring.

A blue glow spread across the tent, soon joined by another, and another. In moments, the command tent filled with pulsing light from every direction as the commanders reached for their comms. The sound of overlapping tones mixed with the chatter of confused voices.

Alastair frowned, turning his head slowly. The wine in his glass stilled. “What in the Goddess’s name is going on here?” he muttered.

Then his own artifact vibrated against the table. He accepted the call.

“Ophira?”

His wife’s voice tore through the connection before he could say more. “Alastair! Send them back! Send back more of the elite guards right now!”

Her tone hit him like a slap.

He blinked once, caught between confusion and disbelief. “You have twenty level sixty and above guards at your side, and thousands more soldiers protecting the palace,” he said evenly, adjusting his collar with the same calm he used when dealing with frightened nobles. “Combined with the defensive barriers and wards, that castle is a fortress. The Consortium couldn’t reach you if they tried-”

“Maybe they can’t, but ’he’ can!” Ophira shouted frantically through the crystal. “Devil! It’s him! He’s back and he’s coming for us!”

Alastair’s expression hardened as the smoothness of his tone evaporated. “Explain,” he said.

Ophira’s words came in a rush. “He’s attacking the estates, multiple at once! Reports are still coming in, but he must’ve used those portals of his. Count Winterwood, Count Ertail, and at least two others were struck. The attacks are going on as we’re speaking! More will come!”

A sharp crack echoed as Alastair’s fist slammed into the table, shaking the bottles and maps. “That damned weasel and his tricks! Who died?”

“No nobles, thank the Goddess,” she replied quickly. “Only their guards. It looks like he’s rushing. He divided his forces into multiple smaller groups. Instead of finishing one estate, he’s hitting several at once.”

Alastair closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. “Then it means one thing. The Consortium feels the heat. They’ve sent their little wonder boy to throw our ranks into chaos.”

“I think the same,” Ophira responded. Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “That doesn’t change the fact that I need those guards! Our daughters are here, Alastair! What if he decides to come for us next?!”

He stared at the artifact for a moment, then gave a short nod. “You’ll have them. I’ll send some more back immediately. Hold the rear down for me, wife. I’ll finish this farce soon.”

“… Very well.”

He set the artifact down, the glow fading as he disconnected. The generals were shouting now, half of them speaking into their own crystals, the other half trying to make sense of what they heard. Panic moved through the tent like a spreading fire.

Alastair stood with his eyes scanning the room. “Quiet,” he ordered.

But unlike how it was before, his generals did not seem to be too intent on obeying. Well, the generals who were sent by his vassals, not the generals of his own private forces.

One of them, Winterwood’s general, asked, “How can we be quiet?! My Lord, Eric Winterwood was attacked! His only surviving elite guard, Sarra, is alone! Devil can move back and finish the job at any time! I must rush back!”

Another rushed to comment, “And my Lady is ordering me to return before she is attacked!”

“My Lord said the same!”

“Yeah…”

Before Alastair could respond, one of his advisors rushed in and shouted, “My Lord! We have visitors!”