At Blake's words, Viscount Byrd and Della nearly stumbled. To be fair, Blake wasn't entirely wrong—the girls around him *did* look delicate and soft at first glance, which lent a certain credibility to his claim… though that was nothing more than an illusion, of course.
"No objections! We have absolutely no objections whatsoever!"
Even if they'd had any complaints, they would've kept them tightly locked away in their hearts. The two men nodded frantically, not daring to haggle even a little.
"However you wish to deploy them, Lord Blake—mixing them with your forces, reorganizing them into new units, whatever you say. We guarantee we'll carry out your every order to the letter."
"Oh?"
Blake blinked in surprise at Viscount Byrd's eager assurance, but quickly recovered his usual smile.
"Then, might I ask for a rough estimate of your current troop strength?"
"Certainly, certainly!"
Viscount Byrd thought for a moment, then replied promptly.
"My family has dispatched two thousand heavy infantry, five hundred cavalry, and five hundred archers—three thousand men in total. All are rigorously trained soldiers loyal to the Byrd name, without a shadow of doubt."
"The Zach family contributes one thousand men—all light cavalry," Della added, her expression somewhat grim. Unlike the cohesive Byrd forces, the Zach family had been plagued by internal strife lately. Though a new patriarch had taken the reins, he struggled to command the family's armed forces, and it would take time to bring them fully under his control. Scrounging up one thousand light cavalry was already the limit of his ability. Still, unlike the Byrd troops, the Zach cavalry's strength was forged in real combat—their skills were not to be underestimated.
"Then there are the smaller noble families who've sworn allegiance to us. Their forces are a mixed bag, but in total, they number no more than four thousand. All told, the troops under our joint command amount to roughly eight thousand men."
Viscount Byrd had never bothered to tally the numbers before, but as he spoke, the figures suddenly clicked into place in his mind, and a flicker of pride stirred in his chest. It was plain to see—their faction commanded eight thousand troops, while the other faction in the coalition had around six thousand, bringing the total noble forces to over fourteen thousand. The Crimson Fortress garrison itself boasted eleven thousand soldiers, and according to intelligence, the combined legions of the two Sith Gifted Knights numbered only seven thousand. The defenders outnumbered the attackers—surely victory was within reach! For a moment, even Viscount Byrd allowed himself to believe they might actually win this war.
"With these numbers, Crimson Fortress should hold firm this time," he murmured confidently.
In theory, an attacking force needed four times the strength of the defenders to breach a fortified wall. Of course, Gifted Knights defied such conventional calculations—but the Wester royal family had deliberately obscured military intelligence to avoid causing panic among the populace. As a result, Viscount Byrd paid little heed to that inconvenient detail—or perhaps, on some level, he'd chosen to ignore it, unable to accept a truth that seemed too absurd to be real.
After all, it was human nature to reject facts that defied one's understanding.
Even when those facts were true.
But just then, they saw Blake shake his head, still smiling.
"It's not that simple, gentlemen. You're underestimating the Gifted Knights. While their combat effectiveness varies depending on their individual convictions, none of them are foes ordinary soldiers can hope to defeat. Frankly, the current garrison at Crimson Fortress is nowhere near strong enough to hold off their attack. It will be an uphill battle."
"An uphill battle?"
Viscount Byrd and Della exchanged surprised glances. Viscount Byrd leaned forward, his voice tinged with urgency.
"Then tell us, Lord Blake—how many men *would* it take to defend Crimson Fortress?"
Blake said nothing. He simply held up four fingers of his right hand.
"Four… forty thousand?"
Viscount Byrd had almost said "four thousand," but then he remembered Blake's earlier comment that the fortress's twelve thousand strong garrison was still woefully insufficient. He quickly revised his guess upward—but even so, the number sent a chill down his spine. He stared at the young lord in disbelief, silently praying he'd gotten it wrong. But Blake nodded, and added another bombshell.
"That's just the first phase of the required forces."
"…You mean we'd need even more troops after the initial engagement?"
Viscount Byrd felt his head spin. Even with his profound respect for Blake, he couldn't help but wonder if the young man was spouting nonsense now. Forty thousand men? A mere starting point? More troops needed later? All to fight *two* Gifted Knights? By the Holy Light, that was more men than it would take to slay a dragon! Gifted Knights were powerful, yes, but they were still human beings, not monsters—this was simply preposterous!
"I don't think you fully grasp the true terror of a Gifted Knight," Blake said, noting the disbelief on their faces. He didn't sound the least bit annoyed, still smiling as he explained.
"Actually, if it were just two isolated Gifted Knights, ten thousand men would be overkill—four thousand would suffice. But here's the thing: Gifted Knights are nothing like ordinary knights. Their greatest threat isn't their own immense power—it's their ability to amplify the strength of every soldier under their command. A thousand warriors led by a knight are still just a thousand warriors. But a thousand warriors led by a Gifted Knight? Their combat potential doubles, triples, even more. The more soldiers a Gifted Knight commands, the deadlier they become. So while on paper our numbers far exceed the enemy's, you must multiply their troop count by ten—*hundreds*—to account for their commanders being Gifted Knights. Only then will you have a realistic picture of the threat we face."
"This…"
Viscount Byrd and Della were dumbfounded. Gifted Knights were so rare on the continent that few who'd faced them in battle lived to tell the tale. Those who *did* survive often rambled incoherently, making it nearly impossible to gather accurate intelligence. Most people's understanding of Gifted Knights was based on rumors, spy reports, and vague historical accounts—flawed sources that painted a fragmented, confusing picture. Some Gifted Knights were described as invincible conquerors who carved swathes through entire armies; others seemed barely stronger than seasoned knights. These contradictory tales left people scratching their heads—but in the end, they'd settled on a comforting conclusion: since countless Gifted Knights had fallen throughout history, they couldn't be *that* different from ordinary humans—just more powerful, nothing more.
Of course, senior military commanders knew the truth—the existence of Gifted Auras. But they guarded this knowledge jealously, for Auras were mysterious forces beyond the comprehension of non-Gifted individuals. Take General Celt, for example—he knew that Nahias the Guardian, one of the Sith's Four Scourges, possessed a Shield Aura that rendered every soldier within its range nigh-unstoppable. If such information were to leak, it would shatter the morale of the Wester army. Soldiers might flee at the mere sight of the Sith banners, a humiliation beyond compare. Better to keep the truth hidden—ignorance was bliss, after all. Perhaps, by some stroke of luck, they might even manage to shatter the myth of the Gifted Knights.
As nobles, not high-ranking military officers, Viscount Byrd and Della were completely in the dark about Auras. Blake's words left them reeling. While the Four Scourges' legendary exploits were well-documented, people preferred to attribute their victories to clever tactics or superior strategy—things they could understand. But Gifted Auras? That sounded like nothing more than fairy-tale nonsense.
Blake didn't bother elaborating. They wouldn't understand even if he explained, and even if they did, there was no way to muster forty thousand troops anyway. They'd have to make do with what they had—and hope for the best.
"Then it's settled," Blake said, standing up abruptly, leaving no room for further discussion.
"I'll give you two days to prepare. Two days from now, bring your troops to the right flank and relieve the current garrison. I want each of you to send a commander—someone who knows his way around a battlefield, someone the men respect—to lead your forces. And I expect that commander to obey my orders without question."
"No problem at all!"
Viscount Byrd and Della nodded vigorously. They had full confidence in their authority—after all, if they couldn't even control their own men, they never would've dared come to this frontline fortress. They weren't here to throw their lives away, after all.
"Then we'll meet in two days."
Blake nodded to the girls beside him, then turned and led them out of the tent. Viscount Byrd and Della watched their retreating figures until they vanished from sight, then let out a long, weary sigh. They exchanged a glance, both wearing helpless grins.
"I'll go make preparations at once… if you'll excuse me, Viscount," Della said.
"…Go ahead, Mr. Della. I have a few matters to attend to first."
"…I understand."
Noticing the grim look on Viscount Byrd's face, Della patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, then left the tent. Viscount Byrd stood alone in silence for a long moment, then suddenly slammed his fist down on the table, roaring with fury.
"Guards! Drag those idiots in here at once!"
Moments later, the retainers who'd blocked Blake at the camp entrance were dragged into the tent, trembling like leaves in a storm. Viscount Byrd glared at them, his face ashen with rage.
"What did I tell you? Huh? Did I not explicitly order you to inform me *immediately* if Lord Blake arrived? And what do you do? You leave him standing outside in the cold like some common beggar! You fools! You absolute imbeciles!"
"W-we didn't mean it, my lord! We swear!"
The retainers paled, their voices shaking like reeds. The moment Viscount Byrd had rushed out to greet Blake, they'd realized exactly who they'd been dealing with—and terror had seized them. By the Holy Light, the man hadn't even introduced himself! How were they supposed to know it was *him*? True, the viscount had warned them to treat all visitors with respect, but Lord Blake hadn't given the slightest hint of his identity!
They were genuinely aggrieved. After all, they'd seen firsthand how the Mobius family had been annihilated, and Viscount Byrd had drilled it into their heads to fear Blake and his terrifying power. Now, realizing they'd dared to stand in the way of the master of those dragon knights, they were so scared they nearly fainted.
But it was no use. On that fateful day, Judy and the others had been so domineering, so utterly ruthless—they'd descended, unleashed their dragon's fury without a word, cleaned up the battlefield, and left as abruptly as they'd come. Their arrogance had been legendary. Naturally, everyone had assumed their master would be just as haughty, just as overbearing—someone who would've snapped, "You lowly servants! Hurry and fetch your master at once!" at the first opportunity. If Blake had acted like that, the retainers would've scrambled to obey without a second thought.
But the world was full of ifs, and there were no second chances. Now, the retainers trembled, knowing they'd broken the viscount's rules. They didn't care that Blake had seemed amicable, that he hadn't even hinted at feeding them to his dragons—they knew they were in deep trouble. The rules for noble retainers were far looser than those for regular soldiers, which meant punishment could be wildly unpredictable. A major offense might be brushed off with a light scolding, while a trivial mistake could land you a death sentence. And judging by the viscount's seething anger, this was definitely not going to end well.
Desperate, the retainers looked to their fellow soldiers, hoping someone would intercede on their behalf. But after learning who Blake was, their comrades hated them with a passion. How dare these idiots risk everyone's lives with their stupidity? They were young! They didn't want to die! One wrong move, one angry dragon's breath, and they'd all be reduced to ash! Yes, dragon fire was a rare, awe-inspiring sight—but right now, they would've given anything to never see it again, not even in a thousand years.
"We know we've sinned, my lord! Please! Spare us!"
Seeing no one was coming to their aid, the retainers fell to their knees, begging for mercy.
"Give us another chance! We swear on the Holy Light we'll never make such a mistake again! Never!"
Viscount Byrd scowled, his anger boiling over. Frankly, he was tempted to execute them on the spot, then present their heads to Blake as a groveling apology. True, the young lord hadn't seemed offended by the slight, but Viscount Byrd knew better than anyone that Blake was a man who never wore his emotions on his sleeve. He might smile like an angel, but who knew what dark thoughts lurked behind that pleasant facade? Viscount Byrd had learned that lesson the hard way—and he had no intention of repeating it.
But in the end, he sighed and dismissed the thought. These retainers were loyal to him, after all—killing them would be a waste, and it would breed resentment among the others. Besides, Blake hadn't demanded their heads, which meant he probably didn't care about these insignificant pawns. And with so many ladies in his entourage, presenting him with bloody heads might even disgust him—turning a minor apology into a major disaster.
"Very well. Since this is your first offense, and you've shown genuine remorse—I'll spare your lives. But make no mistake, the punishment will still be severe. Take them away! One hundred lashes each!"
"Yes, my lord!"
"Thank you, my lord! Thank you!"
As the guards dragged the whimpering retainers away, Viscount Byrd sighed again, rubbing his throbbing temples. He picked up the military documents on his desk with a bitter smile—he had his work cut out for him, reorganizing his troops for the coming battle.
"Lord Blake, I sense something's amiss," Ofaliel said suddenly, breaking the silence as they walked back to their encampment.
"What troubles you?" Blake asked.
"This assignment. The defense of the right flank," Ofaliel replied, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"I'll admit I'm no expert on military command, but… can they really just switch out the entire garrison like this during such a critical time? Those soldiers have been stationed on the right flank for years—they know every inch of the terrain, every hidden path. Their familiarity alone would make them far more effective defenders than us. So why would General Celt withdraw them all, replacing them with a group of us who know nothing about the area? We'll never have enough time to survey the terrain properly—what if we miss something crucial? Or… does a fortress commander really have that much authority? To make such a sweeping change without even reporting to the royal family?"
"This…"
Judy and Charlotte exchanged a glance, both frowning in thought.
"Strictly speaking, some monarchs do grant their commanders broad autonomy during wartime," Judy said finally. "But replacing an entire flank's garrison is a major decision—even in peacetime, it would require royal approval. In a time like this? General Celt *must* have reported it to the capital."
"Yet I can't imagine the royal family would agree to it," Ofaliel shook her head.
"If he *did* send a report, there's a ninety percent chance it would've been rejected outright. But we've heard nothing about any royal backlash. And… I can't shake this feeling that General Celt is trying to tell us something with this move. Some kind of hint… but I can't figure out what it is."
"Don't overthink it. If you can't wrap your head around something, just set it aside for now—we're all in the same boat," Blake said with a smile, patting Ofaliel's shoulder. His eyes glinted with a faint, mysterious light as he glanced over her shoulder, where Judy, Charlotte, and the twins all wore knowing expressions. Just as Celt was hiding something from them, Blake was hiding something from Ofaliel—something he intended to keep hidden, no matter what.
"When the enemy comes, we'll face them head-on. When problems arise, we'll solve them. For now, our focus should be on the army we've just acquired… after all, eight thousand men is no small force."
True to their word, Viscount Byrd and Della moved with impressive speed. Two days later, they arrived at the right flank with their troops, fully organized and ready for deployment. Each had selected a seasoned commander to lead their forces—men who would answer directly to Blake. Now it was time for Blake to assign his new troops to their posts.
First and foremost were the cavalry units. Though cavalrymen and knights were worlds apart in skill, they shared one key trait: mobility. And mobile troops needed a capable leader.
"This is Mr. Tyr," Viscount Byrd said, introducing a silent, armor-clad old man standing beside him.
"He was once the captain of the 35th Royal Cavalry Regiment. He's a respected veteran with decades of command experience. I'm confident he'll be an invaluable asset to you, Lord Blake."
"Greetings, Lord Blake," the old man said, his voice steady and unwavering. He stepped forward, extending a hand in greeting.
"As a cavalryman, my lifelong dream has been to fight under the command of a knight. Thank you for giving me this honor."
"You flatter me."
But Blake didn't take the old man's hand. Instead, he smiled and stepped back two paces.
"While I'd be happy to lead you all… I'm afraid your commander is someone else entirely."
Oh? The old man and Viscount Byrd both blinked in surprise. They'd assumed Blake would take direct command of the cavalry—who else could it be? One of those dragon knights from before? The thought sent a thrill of excitement through the assembled soldiers—fighting alongside dragon knights was the stuff of legends!
"I think I have just the person for the job," Blake said, clapping his hands.
"Messiah, Semia—come meet your new subordinates."