Chapter Sixty: The Map

A cliff, a brook, a plain, a meadow... After traversing a long distance, the army of several thousand finally stopped to rest on a plain ten days later.

"Your Majesty, the scouts we sent out have returned!" Nadir, standing at Artis’ side, reported.

"The enemy numbers over five thousand, but the exact count of knights is uncertain. In their rear, they have conscripted many laborers to transport supplies."

"Their leader is said to be Count Yates from the Duchy of Barlow, reputedly an Earth Knight."

Upon hearing this, Artis nodded, casting a meaningful glance at the man beside him.

That man understood at once, and soon produced a rough map for all to see.

It was a map made from parchment—crude in appearance, with simple markings of Cecil and the nearby city-states.

Though primitive compared to the maps of Artis’ previous world, its depiction of the region was clear. The major terrain features were noted, as were the routes and roads between the city-states—an uncommon level of detail for this era.

Nadir was startled at the sight. "What is this?"

"A map of the areas around Cecil, and indeed of much of the northern territories," came a voice from beside him—Carter.

Carter, clad in armor shimmering with divine energy, gazed at the map with a hint of emotion. "This map was created years ago, at the cost of great hardship by many faithful followers and priests."

"Over the years, countless devout souls lost their lives exploring the wilderness for this purpose."

In these perilous times, venturing into the wilds was fraught with danger. Even priests could perish if unlucky enough to encounter a band of magical beasts. The cost of producing such a map was, therefore, unimaginable.

Artis sighed softly at the sight, feeling the weight of fate deepen around him.

Carter stepped forward and began to explain. "There are several routes from Barlow to Cecil, but based on their movements, they have chosen the fastest one."

"Given their route and our marching speed, they will reach our current position in no more than half a month."

Artis bowed his head slightly. "Then we shall choose a suitable place nearby as our battlefield. Here, we will await them."

Carter nodded, pointing to a specific spot on the map. "Half a day’s march from here, directly on their path. We could establish a camp at that location."

Meanwhile, on another plain, a somewhat disorganized army was advancing. At the front, a tall, broad-shouldered man frowned beneath the blazing sun.

"Ivan, tell the other lords to rest," he said with measured gravity.

At once, a handsome young man at his side went to relay the order.

Soon, as the command spread, over a dozen separate contingents halted in turn, gradually bringing the army to a stop.

Had Artis been present, he would have noticed that among these thousands, the troops were divided into many separate forces, each from a different origin. Their scattered fortunes converged in a loose manner upon a single, larger current of destiny, barely forming a faint red aura of military might.

This aura, though vast, was diffuse and lacked cohesion, making it weak.

Such was the result of the army’s diverse origins. In this world, the structure of the city-states was inherently fragmented. Each expedition was summoned by the royal family, with lords mustering their own troops in response. Thus, the quality of the forces was uneven, and unity was hard to achieve.

"Lord Yates, what troubles you?" a voice called out.

Yates started. "Have the orders been given?"

"They have. All the lords are now having their men rest."

"Good," Yates nodded gently, gazing into the distance in silence.

"What is it, my lord?" Ivan asked, noticing the hint of worry on Yates' face.

With a helpless sigh, Yates replied, "Our enemy this time will not be easy to handle."

"How can that be?" Ivan was puzzled. "This time, all the lords have responded to the king’s summons as never before, gathering over five thousand men. With you leading us, we could attack Cecil itself, let alone face a foe in the midst of civil strife, unlikely to gather their knights in time to oppose us."

But Yates only smiled wryly. "Victory is not decided by knights alone."

Before Ivan could protest, Yates continued, "Ivan, have you heard of the priests of the God of Nature?"

"The God of Nature?" Ivan frowned. "I believe that deity’s cult spread from the north a few years ago."

"Their priests are renowned throughout the duchy as healers, said to possess divine power."

He paused, then scoffed, "But in battle, while not weak, they are no match for a true knight. And their numbers are so few—what difference can they make?"

Yates shook his head. "You’re mistaken. What you’ve seen is only the lowest order of priesthood."

"According to information from traveling merchants, in the north, priests are divided into several ranks. You’ve only met the lowliest—those in white robes."

"Above them are the Red Robes, on par with Grand Knights; then the Yellow Robes, equivalent to Earth Knights; and above all, the High Priest, rivaling the mightiest Sky Knights."

"According to the informant who sought our aid, a Yellow Robe priest was seen in the recent Cecil uprising."

At this, Ivan’s face turned pale, a sense of foreboding rising within him. "Impossible, surely?"

Seeing Ivan’s reaction, Yates actually smiled. "What’s this? Afraid now?"

He stood, clapping Ivan on the shoulder. "There’s no need to worry too much. Even with priestly intervention, the advantage remains ours."

"From what we know, two months ago a wave of magical beasts struck near Cecil. Regardless of the outcome, the city must have suffered heavy losses. Then came the civil war, with the rebels storming the city and besieging the palace—there’s no way that didn’t weaken them further."

"As soon as we received word, we mustered our army and set out, all within a month. The palace may not even have fallen yet, let alone given them time to gather their forces."

"So even if they have priestly support, our five thousand will surely prevail. It’s only a matter of time."

He offered this explanation with a smile, but Ivan only looked more bewildered.

"If that’s so, why are you still so concerned, my lord?"

"My worry is not about Cecil, but about those right before our eyes..." Yates replied.

"Do you really believe these lords responded so swiftly out of loyalty to the king?" He cast a cold glance at the clearly segregated forces behind him.

"Remember five years ago, when the previous king was beset by monsters in the wild? Hardly any lord answered the call for aid, and the old king perished."

"This time, the lords have responded so eagerly not for the king’s sake, but because the Cecil uprising presents them with opportunity."

"With Cecil in turmoil, its forces spent, the outlying villages and towns are virtually undefended. Now is the perfect time for pillage."

He fixed Ivan with a cold look. "These lords, if they remain loyal at all, do so out of fear of the Ancestral God. Otherwise, they would have rebelled long ago."

Ivan bowed his head in silence, then asked, "If that's the case, why doesn't His Majesty the King call upon the Ancestral God to bring them to heel?"

"Surely if the Ancestral God appeared, the lords would not dare defy him."

"It’s not so simple," Yates replied, shaking his head.

"These lords are, strictly speaking, also descendants of the Ancestral God. Their annual sacrifices are no less than the royal family’s."

"In the end, the Ancestral God cares little who is king, as long as his bloodline continues and the rituals are observed each year."

Ivan had nothing more to say. Yates gazed once again toward Cecil, his thoughts drifting.

"Besides," he mused, feeling a vague sense of unease, "things may not go as smoothly as we imagine."