Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 379 Conspiracy
The tent was deathly silent, like a tomb.

The flickering flames in the fireplace cast shifting shadows on Duke Wenger's rock-hard face, but could not dispel the chilling, death-soaked feeling that permeated everyone's hearts.

Beside the heavy oak table, several earls and marquises, dressed in magnificent armor but with ashen faces, looked like clay sculptures without bones.

The annihilation of four consecutive allied forces!
Fifty thousand young men and women were buried in foreign lands!

Two Order Knights!

Thirty-six legendary knights!

More than five hundred great knights, pillars of the army!

Thousands of knights, carefully nurtured by families... were destroyed in an instant, like a wheat field swept away by a storm!
The enormous losses even shook the capital city where the central throne was located!
That dagger, called the Black-Robed Man but actually a ghostly figure, had used its efficiency to a chilling degree to carve the eight bloody words "Dividing forces and advancing rashly will surely lead to death" onto the terrified faces of every survivor.

"Speak," Duke Wenger's voice boomed like a frozen lake struck by a hammer, shattering into sharp, piercing shards of ice. "How should we 'deal with' it?"

His sharp, hawk-like gaze slowly swept over each of the nobles present. There was no reprimand or encouragement in his eyes, only a cold scrutiny, as if he were assessing how much value these people still had to be exploited, or... how much of the embers of failure they could bear.

silence.

Heavy breathing.

The fire occasionally crackled softly, like the final convulsions of a dying person.

“Your Grace…” Finally, Count Peros, the most senior and with graying hair and beard, raised his heavy eyelids, his voice hoarse like the grinding of sand, “The Black-Robed Men…this evil organization…their tactics are too unpredictable…we…”

He tried to explain, but his words sounded pale and ridiculous under the Duke of Wenger's cold gaze, and his voice involuntarily lowered.

"Besiege?" Another young Viscount, Raymond, whose face still showed signs of shock, blurted out instinctively, then lowered his head as if burned. "Completely seal off the Saint Ming Su Province? Let the Black Robe Organization... crumble when they run out of food? But... the province is too big..."

“Foolish!” a cold voice interrupted him.

The one who spoke was the man to Duke Wenger's left, who had remained silent, only pointing his slender fingers at the military map—General Patel, the head of the Kingdom's intelligence and special operations.

His voice was like a bone-chilling wind: "Besiege? The vast mountains and dense forests of the Holy Kingdom are now like a plague among the people. Cutting off the supply lines will take a long time! It will also give the black-robed men's picket team the opportunity to withdraw their sharp knife and launch a surprise attack on our rear! Besiege? It's putting a noose around our own necks!"

Another elderly man, dressed in a velvet robe and wearing an alchemist's insignia on his chest, coughed. His eyes were as sinister as those of a reptile in a cellar: "A frontal assault would result in huge losses... Perhaps... 'poison' is a way? We have quite a few... spies in the province..." Before he could finish speaking, he met Duke Wenger's gaze and immediately fell silent and lowered his head.

Non-military means... are ultimately shady, and someone of Duke Wenger's status might not be willing to bear such a stigma.

Silence descended once more.

The immense shadow and fear cast by defeat caused these noble lords, who were used to giving orders, to turn their brains like rusted gears, struggling to keep going, only producing a tooth-grinding noise and a deeper despair.

Finally, in a corner of the large tent, a middle-aged man with an unremarkable appearance, who had been studying the sand table with his head down, raised his head.

He was not from a prominent family; he was just Roland Edson, the chief of staff in charge of enemy intelligence analysis under General Patel.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a hardness forged in the crucible of blood and fire:

"Concentrate. Crush." ​​These four words were as cold as iron nails.

Everyone instinctively looked at him.

“We’re being led by the nose by the Black Robe organization because they want us to split up.” Roland pointed his finger heavily to a spot marked by a simple wooden block next to the ruins of Nokshire.

That was the very place where Count Sotra's army was annihilated. "He used the fleeing soldiers as bait to stretch our lines, cut off our strength, and then, like the most skilled butcher hunting wolves, he aimed for the fattest piece and struck."

"The key to breaking the deadlock lies in making it impossible for him to find a starting point! Making it impossible to cut him off!"

Roland's finger left the small wooden block representing Sotra's death and traced a route on the map that ran straight from the Allied Forces' headquarters into the heart of Saint Minsu, like the spine of a giant python:
"Using the 'Thorn Fortress' and the 'Iron Rock Fortress' as shields, unite all the main forces—heavy infantry, heavy cavalry regiments, magic crossbow battalions, and all remaining Order Knights and Legendary Knights—into one force!"

His fingers clenched tightly, as if he were holding an invisible, enormous iron hammer!

"No more splitting up! No more 'mopping-up' operations! Concentrate all the forces we can muster! Like the heaviest battering ram!" His voice burned with determination. "One path! Only one path!"

Roland's finger finally stopped on a huge fortress icon marked with a scarlet skull—Nockshire!

"There is only one target—William Bucket and Knockshire, the heart of his so-called 'New World'!"

"Do not divide your forces! Do not be greedy for multiple breakthroughs! Ignore any fleeing troops or harassment from the periphery! Let the 'ants' of the black-robed men gnaw at our supply lines! Let the sharp knives of the black-robed scouts roam our flanks!"

Roland suddenly raised his head, his eyes burning with a desperate madness: "We'll use this thickest, heaviest steel spine to crush it!"

"Regardless of losses! Regardless of casualties!"

"Advance relentlessly! Push through the enemy lines!"

"Target—Nockshire!"

"Force the Black-Robed Entanglement Team out!" Roland's voice boomed like a warhammer: "Either he uses his blade to sever our crushing core made of flesh and steel!—Then he will face a devastating blow from all our high-ranking elders and our combined forces!"

"Or he'll just watch us hang William's bucket-head on the ruins of his so-called 'altar of equality'!"

He slammed his hand on the table, and the huge iron block model representing the main force of the Allied forces on the sand table jumped up.

"A calculated move! Use overwhelming force to force him into a direct confrontation with us! Let's gamble on whether his 'sharp knife' can cut through our entire anvil!"

The tent was deathly silent.

Duke Wenger's usually calm and unwavering gaze finally stirred.

It was a deep gaze, rising from the bottom of a deep lake, containing a storm vortex and a deadly chill, that fell upon Roland's face.

There was neither affirmation nor denial.

The silent pressure made Roland lower his head slightly, but his spine remained straight.

(End of this chapter)