CHAPTER 63: INVITATION

I remained motionless for a while longer. Willabelle had already left, and I could now control my body, but I had no desire to get up.

The coolness of the tree seeped into my back, and the darkness of the sky closed in on me. It was as if the entire world, like an executioner freed from its chains, was determined to keep me pinned down.

I wiggled my fingers. Yes, my body was obeying me now. But my soul was still shackled. Her words were trapped between the anger in my eyes and the fog in my heart.

I slowly straightened up. As I lifted my torso, heavy as a stone burden, I staggered for a moment. My usual strength was there, but I still had a headache. She had probably made that paralyzing substance from plants she found in the forest, but I hoped it had no side effects.

Before leaving, Willabelle had told me all the plans of the enemy army. If she was telling the truth, that is. In any case, since I was going to avoid a direct battle as much as possible, the information she gave me wasn’t particularly useful for now.

When I returned to the military headquarters, I realized that no one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Willabelle... It was terrifying how she had managed to neutralize me so successfully, despite having no technique at all.

Of course, if I had been wearing my armor, I probably would have avoided that attack, but one of the things I hated most in this world was wearing armor for long periods. Even though it looked cool from the outside, wearing armor was truly annoying and uncomfortable.

But whether armored or not, I had to be more careful from now on. What if it had been an assassin instead of Willabelle? Of course, in the novel, Willabelle was quite a good alchemist.

More precisely, she was a woman who could make potions or poisonous products from plants or animals she found in the forest. It was written in the novel that she made her living that way.

This information now took on a completely different meaning. This detail, which was merely a splash of color for a side character in a writer’s pen, had been enough to upend my life.

I growled to myself.

This was one of the harshest lessons this world had taught me: small details could be more dangerous than the strongest swords.

When I sat at my desk, my hand went not to the maps, but to that crumpled paper in my pocket. The address where her son was hiding... Sometimes it weighed heavier on me than war plans.

I held the paper in my hand for a while. Then I called my chief spy. I needed to know if her son Magnus was really there, and thus whether she was being honest with me.

He entered my room shortly after. His eyes looked cautious and suspicious, as if carrying the shadows of years. He bowed to greet me, then waited silently.

I placed the paper on the table. "I want you to check this address," I said. My voice was cold, as if I were trying to cut off my own emotions. "There should be a child hiding there. His name is Magnus. Don’t harm him, but have a reliable soldier watching him and reporting back. If the child leaves or is taken away, have him capture the child and bring him to me."

The chief spy’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said not a word. He merely nodded. "As you command, my lord."

As he left, my eyes remained fixed on the paper. The anger and suspicion inside me were choking each other. If Willabelle was lying... this paper was the best trap left for me. If it were true... this was a sign of trust in its most naked form.

Both possibilities unsettled me equally.

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For about a month now, I had been continuing to lead my army in a steady retreat. The destination? It didn’t really matter where. Ronald’s army was relentlessly pursuing us with its massive force.

But the difference was this: the mouse was leading the cat to where it wanted.

And Ronald wasn’t even aware of it.

His soldiers were like wolves that had caught the scent of victory. Each day they sped up a little more, each night they grew a little more impatient. My men, on the other hand... they were getting tired, yes. But their fatigue was far more reliable than the blind ambition of Ronald’s army. Because my army _knew why I was retreating._

I hadn’t explained anything to them. Yet the faith in my eyes was enough for them. A man’s confidence in himself could guide thousands. This was one of the unwritten laws of war.

I was poisoning all the water wells my army passed and destroying the roads, but now I had a serious problem. We had reached the end of Count Renold’s lands with my army. The next part was the territory of an extremely powerful duke in the Empire.

I could enter there, but the Duke might take the initiative and attack me, or even use it as a pretext for war. So now I had two options.

Either I would make a difficult maneuver southward and prolong this cat-and-mouse chase, but at the same time give Ronald’s army a chance to catch us, or while I still had time, I would choose the terrain for the battle and wait.

My army numbered eight thousand... Ronald’s thirty thousand. This numerical difference could bring a foolish commander to his knees in fear. But the reality of numbers never ruled alone on the battlefield.

War was a slave to time and space before numbers.

Ronald’s soldiers had been burning with the fury of the chase for days. Depleted water sources, burning villages, ruined roads... All of it was wearing down their spirits. Yet they ran like wolves with blinded eyes. They didn’t yet know how costly this fury would be to them.

My army, meanwhile, looked to me. The cold faith in my eyes was enough for them. Everyone had come to understand at some point that this retreat was **not surrender, but preparation.**

I unrolled the old parchment brought by my chief cartographer onto the table. There was a place among the folds of the map... This wasn’t an ordinary plain. It was a region where deep streambeds ran parallel to each other, with narrow passages between dense forest patches. Such an area that... it could cram even three thirty-thousand-strong armies together. Especially if thirty thousand tried to pass through the same point... they’d be no different from a swarm of ants.

My eight thousand men could **cut off the breath of thirty thousand** here.

"My lord," said the young officer beside me, pointing at the map with his finger. "But this place is very risky. If we get stuck, we’ll have no way to escape."

I smiled.

"We’re choosing this place not to escape, but to bury them."

At that moment, everyone fell silent. My words had revealed my intention to the soldiers. There would be no more retreating. Now it was time for the hunter and the prey to switch places.

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The next day, with the first light of morning, I gave the order. My army headed through those narrow passes. My engineers would work day and night to prepare hidden traps, redirect water courses, and set up mechanisms to engulf the forest in fire.

Ronald, still feeling the breath of victory on his neck, was blind. I would strangle him right here with the chains of his own ambition.

When we reached the narrow line of the pass, my army began working like a silent ant colony. Every man knew what to do, because I had been preparing them in the shadow of the retreat for weeks. And there were about ten days between us and Ronald’s crowded army, which was more than enough.

The engineers loosened rocks and held them with ropes; when released at the right moment, massive boulders would close off the valley, throwing Ronald’s front lines into chaos.

Stakes were driven under the forest that rose like walls, and tar-filled sacks were hung from branches. At night, the streams’ directions were quietly changed; so when Ronald’s soldiers arrived, they would suffer from thirst and struggle with mud turned into a swamp.

My eight thousand men waited visibly behind the trenches. But in reality, each one was a cog in a trap.

When we reached the entrance of the pass, Mike whispered in a low voice:

"Leo, this is a gamble... if Ronald chooses to turn back, all our preparations will be in vain."

I let out a low chuckle.

"Don’t worry; the letter I’ll send him will bring him here like a dog."

I took the sealed parchment in my hand. I had written every line myself — such a letter that I was sure Ronald’s blood would boil when he read it, his patience would run out.

I had made the letter short and venomous:

"**Ronald, you bastard who thinks himself a lord, no different from an old dog,

You think you can scare me with your shitty army, but know that I’m dragging you behind me like a street mutt, and you’re not even aware of the game, you stupid fuck. Your thirty-thousand-strong army? Don’t make me laugh; it’s just a bunch of clumsy carrion crows digging their own graves.

My eight thousand men are ready here with an iron will for a battle that a faggot like you wouldn’t dare. And you, with your disgusting arrogance, think you’re something. I’m sending you a gift, Ronald: a silk woman’s dress. Put it on, you son of a bitch.

Put it on so your soldiers can see what you really are; not a sword-wielding warrior, but a whore trembling in fear, hiding behind skirts. Even if you don’t wear the dress, everyone knows the rot in your heart, the smallness of your dick.

Come, Ronald. If you have the guts, come; otherwise, if your ass can handle it, run. Let history write you as a coward, a laughingstock. Let women tell tales of you with laughter; let men spit on their dicks when they hear your name. The choice is yours, but I know you’re already a lost, wretched son of a whore.**"

Before sealing the letter, I had a special package prepared beside it. A woman’s dress sewn from fine silk... Elegant, embroidered, the kind a lord’s lady would wear. I had it packed next to the letter. I was sure that when it reached Ronald’s hands, he would be humiliated in front of his entire camp.

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NOT: As I haven’t had time to check this Chapter, there may be some mistakes.