Approaching the vicinity of Viscount Prell's castle was relatively easy.
Entering it was not.
The flat terrain surrounding the castle meant that any movement across the plains would be quickly noticed by the Dusel army, who—far from being fools—had likely deployed patrols throughout the area. The idea of sneaking over a hundred soldiers past their lines under cover of night was nothing short of wishful thinking.
Torches flickered in the distance, their dim glow casting long shadows across the field. It was a night cloaked in darkness, yet nowhere near dark enough to conceal a mass movement undetected.
Sir Jack, acting as a temporary commander, sighed heavily.
He had expected this—perhaps even prepared for it—but the reality was no less frustrating.
He had no proper officers under his command, only junior guards from Izell. And while some among them had battlefield experience, tactics and leadership were an entirely different matter.
The only conclusion Jack could come to… was to wait.
"We may be outnumbered, but eventually, the enemy will show a gap. We'll seize that chance."
When such a moment would arrive, however, no one could say.
The soldiers huddled low in the grass, shivering from cold and hunger, silently gnawing on dry rations brought from the village. Fires were forbidden. So was unsheathing a weapon—moonlight glinting off steel could betray their position.
There was no talking, no movement, only the quiet rustling of cloaks and the distant whisper of wind.
They waited. And waited.
Even Jack was no exception, lying in the dirt, chewing jerky, and staring toward the battlefield.
Leo, meanwhile, continued his Combat Breathing Technique, though it had limited effect while lying still. Fortunately, his bedding was decent enough to shield him from the cold—a small mercy amid grim conditions.
Three days passed like this.
No major clashes occurred, only a few scattered volleys of arrows from afar. Still, the situation deteriorated steadily.
"The enemy is growing."
More tents sprang up each day on the Dusel side. And worse—siege weapons.
Among them, Jack's eyes caught sight of a dreaded machine: the Mana Cannon.
His expression darkened.
A mana cannon… they've brought a weapon worth more than gold.
Positioned between five decoy catapults, the cannon was unmistakable.
This wasn't some typical projectile launcher. It absorbed the mana of mages—draining them to unleash a destructive force ten times greater than a conventional siege engine. A direct hit could reduce castle gates to rubble.
Leo clenched his fists as he, too, recognized the threat.
And in the heart of the castle, chaos brewed.
The war room was in disarray.
"What part of mana cannon do you not understand?! That wall won't last a minute!"
"It's just stone! Even low-tier mages could tear it down after a few blasts!"
"Can't we reinforce it with protective enchantments?"
"At best, it'll hold once or twice. After that, it's over."
"Then we just need to hold until Count Elgen returns…"
"And let the enemy blast us apart in the meantime? That's suicide."
The room fell into uneasy silence.
Then, viscount Prell spoke.
"There's only one option—we break the cannon in a surprise attack."
A ripple of shock passed through the chamber.
"That's madness," someone muttered. "We'd suffer heavy casualties, and if we fail…"
"They'll advance immediately," another added.
"We have no counter to it. No siege breaker, no elite mages," Prell said, voice unwavering. "This is the only path left to us."
"I'll lead the attack myself."
"No!" one of the lords cried. "If you fall, we lose everything!"
"And if we do nothing, we'll still lose. Better to take a chance than die waiting."
"…Then I'll go too," said Lord Zane, rising beside him.
More hesitation followed, but with two of the four leading nobles in agreement, the rest had no choice but to concede.
It was a gamble. But it was also their only shot.
The plan was finalized: on the night before the cannon was fully activated, they would launch a strike using fifty cavalry, supported by five knights and two mages.
Lords Prell and Zane would lead flanking forces to create diversions, drawing the enemy's attention.
As Friel's camp burned with determination, Count Talon's was the exact opposite.
"Hahaha! Once the cannon's ready, they're done!"
"The Count's luck never runs dry!"
"We barely even need to move. Let's just sit back and wait for them to crumble!"
Their overconfidence spread like a disease, infecting even the common soldiers. They strutted around the camp like victors, drinking and boasting.
Yet amid that arrogance, the traps they laid around the cannon told a different story.
Talon wasn't stupid. He knew the only thing Friel could do was launch a desperate surprise attack.
And so, they prepared… but not enough.
As the final days ticked by, the magic cannon neared completion. Four days to activation.
And on the fourth night, the moon was little more than a sliver. Darkness blanketed the plains.
The castle gates creaked open.
Soldiers crept down the slope in tight formation, sticking to the shadows of the town's narrow path.
They crossed the river—normally a natural barrier—via a narrow wooden bridge, splitting into three squads.
"Good fortune be with you," whispered Prell, clasping forearms with the other commanders before slipping into the night.
It would be a long night.
Suddenly, the plains were alight.
Cavalrymen charged toward the enemy camp, their torches blazing. Behind them, archers loosed flaming arrows, soaked in resin and oil. Barracks caught fire instantly. Panic erupted.
The Dusel camp was in chaos.
Soldiers stumbled out half-dressed, some barely able to grab weapons. Screams rang out. Horses bucked wildly. And still, fire fell from the sky.
The first volley was followed by a second, then a third.
While Talon's troops scrambled for buckets of water, Leo and his reinforcements watched from a distance, hidden in the brush.
"It's an ambush," he muttered.
The flames rising from the Dusel camp confirmed Friel's intentions.
He's going for the cannon…
But the mana cannon's defenses were formidable—surrounded by traps, archers, and layers of guards. It wouldn't fall easily.
Still, Friel wouldn't attempt this unless there was some chance.
Leo gritted his teeth. His unit—barely trained—was in no position to assist.
We'll defend the castle. That's all we can do now.
He led the conscripts toward the rear gates, careful to avoid patrols. When they reached the bridge, Leo raised a torch and unfurled the Izell banner—a signal to avoid being mistaken for foes.
Fortunately, the castle guards recognized them.
"Leo!"
"Sir Jack!"
They were welcomed at once. Familiar faces greeted them.
Meanwhile, Lords Friel and Izell had drawn close to the mana cannon.
It loomed ahead, larger than expected.
"Think we can do it?" Zane asked, eyeing the archers in the torchlight.
"There's no way a direct assault will work," Friel replied grimly.
Zane turned, stunned. "Then… why are we here?"
Friel said nothing. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a scroll.
A Raging Thunder Scroll.
Not a top-tier one—but powerful enough to matter.
"…That's…"
"It'll work from this distance. Not many uses, but enough to destroy the cannon."
"Is it… safe?"
That scroll cost more than half a year of Friel's tax income. A precious thing.
"If we don't use it now, we won't have a territory left to protect," Prell said.
Zane fell silent.
He couldn't argue. If they lost this battle, their houses would be ruined.
They crept closer—dodging arrows, ducking behind ridges—until they reached a spot where the guards' faces were visible in the torchlight.
Then—
Ziiiiiing—
Prell tore the scroll.
Magic surged around him, wind and crackling light coiling like a storm.
The moment had come.
The night would be decided by thunder.