Chapter 43
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Chapter 43: The Great Contest
A porcelain cup shattered against the floor with a crisp crack, its fragments scattering like its owner’s composure.
“Damn that Midi Asreks! And that wretched girl Fina!” General Red Fox, Porter Sais, roared inside the command tent, his face flushed with rage. Fenrir beside him wore an equally stormy expression. “Two thousand Elves—archers, clerics, mages, even Nightblade Leopard Cavalry! Where did they crawl out from? Have those point-eared fools lost their minds, meddling in human affairs?”
Since the attack on York County, General Red Fox had abandoned his usual aggressive tactics, opting instead for steady advances. He merged two thousand soldiers from the Joseph family into his forces, methodically clearing Asreks territory of enemy strongholds over a week. Each captured position was garrisoned to secure supply lines, while Fenrir was occasionally allowed to lead small battalions on raids—flawless operations meant to flatter the future family head.
Now camped outside Count Asreks’ stronghold, the general’s strategy seemed impeccable. But as he prepared to lay siege, disaster struck: occupying forces across multiple regions reported brutal ambushes.
An Elven army of terrifying strength—averaging level 15—had emerged. They crushed the thousand-man garrison at Redstone County, obliterated Bluewater Village’s five hundred soldiers, and annihilated the Joseph family’s elite Blood Wolves, renowned for their relentless assault. Not a single survivor escaped.
Though the main army remained untouched, losing even one battalion was unacceptable. Ten thousand troops meant just ten battalions. If this continued, defeat loomed.
General Red Fox gritted his teeth. *No more chances for Midi.*
The tent flap rustled. Quinn Joseph stormed in, his face twisted—a man who’d schemed his way to power by poisoning his ailing father and slaughtering siblings. For the Joseph family, whose total forces numbered three thousand, losing half their deployed troops—including Quinn’s prized Blood Wolves—was catastrophic.
The second visitor stood calmly. “Troubled by young Asreks’ Elven allies, General?” The speaker wore a faded gray robe and carried an ancient staff. Squinting benignly, he resembled a bookish scholar—a façade masking his true identity: Wiseman of the Hand of Nightmare, a high-ranking alchemist from the Delos Empire’s guild.
General Red Fox’s smile hid tension. “Merely battlefield unpredictability, Mr. Wiseman. Such surprises separate true commanders from fools.”
“And your solution?” The alchemist’s tone brooked no evasion—the Empire’s investments demanded answers.
“Concentration.” The general’s fist clenched. “Recall all battalions. Storm the castle with our full ten thousand. Hang that incompetent Count Ingman from his walls. Once the lord dies, legal technicalities will leave Midi a title without land. War over.”
A sound plan. Lordly execution ended conflicts decisively—no negotiations, no loopholes. Midi would inherit nothing but empty honors.
Yet Midi had anticipated this.
On the castle tower, Chief Knight Bartran watched enemy movements. “The Crimson Flame Legion prepares their assault, milord. The first strike will be brutal.”
From the castle, the surrounding landscape spread out clearly. The dark mass of the Crimson Flame Legion had completely encircled the fortress. Now a thousand soldiers split off toward the forest, clearly intending to cut wood for building siege engines.
Launching a direct powerful assault without any resource drain or testing sent an unmistakably aggressive message.
Still, using ten thousand troops against a castle guarded by three thousand couldn’t be called overconfidence.
“Time to deploy that,” Count Ingman stated with a nod. Bartran immediately moved to execute the order.
At dawn the next day, as the Crimson Flame Legion finished their first siege engines, they found the Asreks castle transformed.
Thick green vines burst from the earth, climbing the walls to drape the fortress in emerald.
“Devil’s Vine!” General Red Fox identified instantly.
“Try this, Sais family mutts!” Bartran roared from the battlements, his voice booming across the field.
Devil’s Vine served better for defense than as Alice’s attack beasts.
Its magic resistance made magicians’ grand spells nearly useless.
The strong flexible trunks wrapping the walls acted like armor, weakening catapults and siege towers.
Climbing soldiers faced poisonous barbs bringing agonizing pain.
Even fire proved ineffective.
Only withering spells or alchemical acid rain could counter it during growth. Rushed attacks just caused heavy casualties and crushed army morale.
A formidable plant indeed.
But everything has weaknesses.
Feeding Devil’s Vine required either a hundred-kilometer magic vein or Alice’s method of merging scattered veins.
The Asreks castle lacked such veins – its land remained a count’s territory, not a duchy. But the wealthy count sustained growth using pricey magic crystals instead.
Current crystal reserves let Count Ingman support the vines for one week, rendering the castle untouchable.
“Now it’s your turn, my son,” the Count murmured from the ramparts, watching the western horizon. Though this was his first real battle, his eyes showed no fear – only a father’s pride.
Battlefields shift unpredictably. Even reincarnator Midi couldn’t foresee new events, but his Strategy let him prepare for constants.
Like using Devil’s Vine to stall while preserving defenders.
That precious week let Midi launch the second phase – the critical reversal.
“Phase two begins.” Midi stepped from hiding, inhaling deeply.
Behind him stood two thousand Elven warriors, spirits full and fighting spirit blazing.
Before them rose an impressively fortified castle.
The Joseph family’s stronghold.
