CHAPTER 53: TIME TO NEUTRALISE

Ironheart Mike commanded five thousand men, a force that would be sufficient if everything went well.

But the sharpness of its swords did not measure the strength of an army alone. Wheels mired in mud, dwindling supplies at night, and lips cracked from thirst could be more lethal than the fiercest battle.

The five thousand men were divided into four columns: the light cavalry in the front were the vanguard, scouting and clearing the path. Their mission was to detect enemy ambushes early.

Behind them marched Mike’s most trusted heavy infantry, their armor creating a rumble with every step, as if a river of iron was flowing over stone.

Immediately behind the heavy infantry came the support units: the mages, archers, and other ranged combatants. The supply train followed at the very rear, laden with sacks of provisions, casks of wine, spare weapons, and mobile forges.

Every day, the most challenging part of the march was distributing food. Five thousand soldiers needed ten thousand loaves of bread, thousands of liters of water, and countless pounds of meat daily.

Mike used to say that food was more important than morale. The courage of a hungry soldier would run out in the first clash. That’s why the grain and animals plundered from villages were as valuable as gold.

I watched the army’s morale every day. Some soldiers sang songs, and raucous laughter echoed around the campfires at night. But deep down, they all knew that difficult days lay ahead.

Some soldiers spoke of the northern count’s savagery, while others exaggerated the beauty of the young women in the baron’s villages. Rumors were like a poison that kept the army alive; they suppressed fear but also fueled a thirst for blood.

At the end of each day, Mike personally toured the camp. Any soldier who ate little, grew silent, or neglected their sword was immediately punished, the marks of the beating often carried on their backs for days. Because for Mike, discipline was as vital as the army’s bread.

An army’s character wasn’t only revealed in combat but also in its march. And the steps of these five thousand men were like iron hammers pounding deep into the earth. Every staff officer knows there’s no such thing as perfect discipline, but the goal should always be perfect discipline. This was a line I remembered from a book in my previous life.

I wasn’t a bookworm in my old life, at least I didn’t seem like it. In fact, in my early childhood, I had no interest in books at all. But for some unknown reason, people who read books looked incredibly cool to me in middle school. So, starting in middle school, I developed a gradually increasing desire to read.

Frankly, I never chose my books. I read whatever came my way. Of course, even as a kid, I hated nonsense like astrology, so I never read that kind of stuff. But a significant portion of the books I read were about military strategy or history. Moreover, after seeing all the memoirs of Leonardo, a man who earned a noble title through his outstanding achievements in the army, I can confidently say that I possess some measure of staff officer skills.

Most of what I had read in my old world were theories and distant stories. But now, seeing the real-world equivalents of those lines in the five thousand men marching before me gave me a strange sense of pleasure.

A weary soldier dragging his feet, an ill-balanced saddle on a pack animal’s back, the sleepy eyes of a night sentry... These were small, underlined footnotes in books, but here, they determined the difference between life and death.

Mike drove his men with the whip of discipline, while I watched them with the fine details I had learned between the lines. I realized while observing him that harshness could keep an army sharp, but it wasn’t enough on its own. People also needed hope. In the modern world, this was called "propaganda"; here, it meant tales of heroism, promises of plunder, or just an extra piece of meat.

I knew the upcoming war would be fought not just with swords but with hunger, fatigue, and fear. And this was why I had to now turn the dusty lines of those thick books from my old life into a weapon for my own destiny.

Few days ago, I ran into a bard by chance, and a lightbulb immediately went off in my head. And now that bard was making the tale of my encounter with the High Vampire resound among hundreds of soldiers gathered around the campfire, as if it were a legendary event.

As the man’s fingers plucked the strings, the weariness in the soldiers’ eyes gave way to a passionate gleam. His words were far beyond the truth; my solo clash that night, my single-handed slaughter of hundreds of enemies, a victory of blood on blood... It was all an exaggeration, but what mattered wasn’t the truth, it was the effect.

This story would be passed on to the soldiers who weren’t here in the coming days, and it wouldn’t be long before a significant portion of the five thousand men would trust their new leader: me. Of course, some would think the story was exaggerated or even an outright lie.

But people are like sheep. They often choose to believe what the majority believes. Even if they don’t, they won’t voice it. There’s no room for differing opinions, especially in a place like the army, where everyone needs everyone else.

Mike’s stern gaze shifted to me from across the fire. As the bard’s voice rose above the murmur that filled the camp, I saw a flicker of subtle doubt in his eyes for a brief moment. He was a man of discipline and gave no quarter to lies. Though, what the bard said was not entirely incorrect.

But he was also an old wolf who knew that the whip kept an army’s spirit alive not just but by dreams. He looked at me and gave a barely perceptible nod of approval. At that moment, I understood that even Ironheart Mike accepted that propaganda was a weapon as sharp as steel.

The sparkle in the soldiers’ eyes was, in my opinion, the first sign of the future. They were no longer just Mike’s soldiers; they were starting, in a small way, to become my soldiers. Thousands of men whose names I didn’t even know were clinging to a legend, even if it was only half-true. Perhaps the line between truth and fiction in this world was much thinner than I had thought.

As the night progressed, the smoke from the campfires rose into the sky, and the bard’s song blended into the hum. As I walked among the sleepless soldiers staring up at the stars, I whispered to myself:

"One day... this army will truly be mine."

But an inner voice immediately warned me. I could hold this army not just with the stories I won but with bread, water, discipline, and contentment. A spark of a glorious epic was enough for a soldier, but the shadow of famine could wilt the most brilliant words.

The next morning, as Mike was breaking camp, he approached me.

"We finally found the enemy’s rallying point. Our raids will further delay their gathering. What surprises me is why these fools still haven’t moved into a defensive position?"

There was a mix of anger and astonishment in Mike’s voice. He stood before me with his arms crossed, his steel armor gleaming in the first rays of the sun.

Around us, men were taking down tents, adjusting saddles, and scattering the ashes of the fires. There was a flurry of activity to get the wagons on the road before their wheels got stuck in the mud again.

"Do you remember what I told you? We would only raid villages at night with a minimal number of men. Do you think I said that randomly? They probably think all these attacks are being carried out by bandits or gangs. And of course, they don’t even consider the possibility that a handful of criminals would attack an entire army."

Mike narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing me as if weighing the hidden calculation behind every word I said. A brief flicker crossed the corner of his taut lips. This man wasn’t easily convinced, but the meaning of my words resonated in his mind.

"So you’re saying..." he murmured. "The great baron is protecting his army not from us, but from imaginary brigands."

"Yes, that’s why their guard is down. They haven’t realized we’re a threat yet. That’s our advantage: surprise. If we fire the opening shot too early, the enemy will begin to fortify their positions. But if we stay in the shadows, they’ll still think they’re dealing with simple peasant bandits."

Mike’s steely gaze shifted to the horizon. Daylight was rising over the fields, disappearing behind the misty valleys. The enemy was somewhere there. They had set up their tents and were gathering their provisions, but they were still unaware of our presence.

"What frightens me," Mike said with a heavy sigh, "is the possibility that so much foolishness could be real. Because if it is, this will be too easy. And in war, nothing is ever too easy. Behind an easy task, there is always a bloody surprise."

"I hope you’re right. Because a simple victory isn’t what I want."

I smiled to myself slightly. Because my plan would not only cloud the enemy’s mind but also put me in a different light in my soldiers’ eyes. I would show them that I was not just a noble who was good with a sword, but also a commander who won with his mind.

Mike silently walked past me. But as he left, he clapped a solid hand on my shoulder, neither entirely friendly nor entirely threatening.

"You have a way with words," he said without turning around.

We advanced until noon that day. News from the light cavalry reported that the enemy camp was established at the foot of a forest to the southeast.

They hadn’t fortified their positions yet; they were still in the process of gathering. This meant that even though they had a large force, their armor wasn’t fully arranged, morale was still scattered, and some of their supply wagons must still be on the way.

It was exactly what I wanted.

Now was the time to neutralize an opponent.