The Soltera army, numbering tens of thousands, would take two days to reach Kahsgar. Upon arrival, they would set up a temporary camp near the enemy territory.
Back in Soltera, the atmosphere was vastly different. The interim government had been entrusted to Princess Viola, assisted by Malik. In simplicity and doubt, the two carried out this heavy responsibility.
Meanwhile, at Nico's residence, Sana appeared restless. Her face was marked with deep concern, fearful that their plans would fall apart. She held Nico's hand tightly, seeking reassurance.
"Will Kahsgar be all right? Their army is massive, far larger than our 15,000 troops," she asked, her voice trembling with worry.
Nico offered a faint smile, attempting to calm her. "Don't worry. The Emperor is far more formidable than you think. Besides, we have strong generals like Aptimura, Guan Yu, and others. On top of that, Kahsgar has successfully built sturdy defensive fortifications. We have no need to fret too much."
Gradually, the worry on Sana's face began to fade, replaced by a faint smile still tinged with doubt. She observed Nico's restless feet, a sign that he wasn't entirely at ease either.
Noticing this, Sana chuckled softly. "You're nervous too, aren't you?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood. Without thinking, she embraced Nico warmly, attempting to comfort him. Then, playfully, she stepped on his foot to stop its fidgeting, prompting Nico to laugh.
In that moment, they resembled a romantic yet mismatched couple, supporting each other amidst the anxieties and pressures surrounding them.
On the cold, windswept plains, King Bernault's army of 17,000 stood in orderly rows, facing a horizon dominated by the fortress of Kashgar. The fortress loomed majestically in the distance, like a giant risen from the earth. The chilling wind swept across the field, biting at their skin, yet the oppressive atmosphere was more piercing than the cold air they breathed. The fortress's rough stone walls appeared as an impenetrable shield, complemented by small, sturdy towers. Above them, enemy soldiers stood in formation, their banners fluttering as if mocking the attackers.
However, it wasn't just the fortress's grandeur that drew attention. At its peak, an unusual war device stood conspicuously: a giant wooden catapult. Its massive size caused murmurs among the troops. "What could they possibly hurl with a catapult that big?" a young soldier asked, his voice trembling with the fear creeping through the ranks.
King Bernault, draped in a thick mantle billowing in the wind, stood firm before his troops. His face was serious, his brows furrowed in deep contemplation. He tried to discern who could be clever enough—or perhaps mad enough—to create such an extraordinary weapon in a world still dominated by swords, arrows, and spears. In a voice almost like a whisper, but filled with awe and concern, he said, "Whoever made that is a genius. Even Soltera, known for its advancements, only has spears and arrows."
Beside him, Jones, a bandit leader with an equally fearsome reputation, scrutinized the fortress with narrowed eyes full of suspicion. His burly frame swayed slightly in the wind, but his gaze remained sharp. "Maybe they know we've brought only 17,000 troops. That catapult could just be for show, a tactic to intimidate us," he said flatly. Yet there was an underlying doubt in his tone. "But if it isn't, what could they possibly hurl? Rocks? Poison? Something we've never even imagined?"
For a moment, a tense silence enveloped the field. Only the howling wind could be heard, carrying whispers of fear from soldiers still eyeing the colossal war machine. After a while, King Bernault broke the stillness with a voice firm yet calm. "We cannot let fear take hold of us. Whatever they have, we will find a way to overcome it. For now, set up camp. We will settle here and prepare our strategy."
His words were like a bell awakening his troops. With trained discipline, the soldiers began to move, setting up tents under the gray sky. Meanwhile, King Bernault stood in the middle of the field, his gaze fixed on the unyielding fortress of Kashgar, a threat and a challenge he was determined to face with all his might.
Amid the vast plains swept by the evening breeze, two large tents stood firm, their flags fluttering weakly on their poles. The eastern tent, belonging to Bernault, exuded a sense of military discipline—tidy, with armed guards standing upright like statues. Meanwhile, on the western side, Jones' tent was simpler, almost disheveled, yet brimming with the aura of resilience and the wild courage characteristic of a trained bandit.
Inside Bernault's tent, oil lamps illuminated a large map spread across a wooden table. Bernault, clad in a war cloak adorned with royal insignia, stared at Jones, who stood across from him. "Your forces are known for their toughness and bravery, Jones," he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "They will serve as the first shield if a sudden attack occurs."
Jones, with a relaxed demeanor that disregarded royal formalities, crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze was sharp, like an eagle watching its prey. "With all due respect, Your Grace," he said, his words as piercing as a blade, "if we march separately, we're only giving the enemy a chance to crush us one by one. Attack together, or don't attack at all."
A tense silence hung in the air, taut as a bowstring drawn to its limit. Bernault remained silent, weighing those words. Anger flickered behind his expression—he was not used to being contradicted, especially by a bandit leader. Yet in a clearer corner of his mind, he knew Jones had a point. The bandits' loyalty to their leader, though strange to a noble like Bernault, was a weapon that could not be underestimated.
A cold wind swept through the tent's gaps, as if underscoring Bernault's conflicted state of mind. Finally, he nodded slowly, a gesture heavy with responsibility. "We attack together," he said, though his tone carried a warning. "But if this fails, your men's blood will be on your hands."
Jones offered a faint smile, one devoid of triumph. "If we fail," he said, stepping toward the tent's entrance, "anyone's blood will be part of the price we must pay."
As Jones departed, Bernault gazed at the map before him, the battlefield it depicted seeming to transform into a vision of bloodshed. Outside, the sky turned crimson, as if the sun itself anticipated the coming day's events—a battle that would test not just strength, but trust.
In the distance, the laughter of Jones' bandits mingled with the whistling wind. They were preparing themselves, yet their merriment felt like a fragile mask over creeping anxiety. Meanwhile, on Bernault's side, royal soldiers polished their swords, their faces solemn, with faint fear lurking behind every breath. Two camps, two opposing worlds, now united in a plan fraught with risk.