Chapter 59: The Ruthless Bargain

Having seized command over the entire military of the Kingdom of Berstein, Zenon issued his first order—one that left the generals of the capital speechless.

“All forces will depart the capital immediately. We march for the Silver Plains.”

“P-Please wait, Zenon-sama!”

Marshal Gerhardt hurriedly objected.

“The soldiers are not yet prepared! Their arms and armor must be checked, provisions need to be replenished, and above all, the departure ritual has not yet been performed! It is vital for raising morale—”

“Unnecessary.”

Zenon cut down his protest with a single word.

“Does a ritual fill the stomach of a soldier? Does it sharpen his blade? It is nothing more than sentimentality and a waste of precious time. The fact that you are unprepared is simply the result of your failure to maintain proper crisis readiness during peacetime. You will leave immediately with the equipment you have now.”

His order was merciless—yet undeniably logical.

The generals’ faces twisted with humiliation, but they could say nothing more.

The royal warrant granting Zenon full authority over the military rendered every objection meaningless.

Thus the army of the Kingdom of Berstein set out for the decisive battlefield in the most chaotic, unprepared, and demoralized state in the kingdom’s history.

No knight sang the song of departure; they simply urged their horses forward in silence.
The infantry marched with heavy footsteps, carrying insufficient rations, and lacking any sense of glory or duty for a battle that would decide the fate of their nation.

All that filled their hearts was resentment and distrust toward that cold-blooded young commander who now ruled their fate.

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Several days later—Silver Plains, the site of the coming battle.

A vast grassland stretching endlessly to the horizon.
There, fifteen thousand soldiers of the kingdom had set up camp.
But their formation lacked cohesion, and a mood of exhaustion and quiet defeat hung over them.

And then— From the western horizon, another army arrived.

At its head fluttered the crest of House Arkwright.
It was Zenon’s personal army—
The Arkwright Forces, five thousand strong.

At first, the kingdom’s soldiers could not believe their eyes.

The force approaching with a rumbling like distant thunder looked like no army they had ever seen.

Hundreds of lightly armored cavalry led the procession—
Yet in their hands were not lances, but strange iron tubes.

Behind them marched thousands of infantry in perfectly aligned ranks, progressing across the plain like a single giant centipede.
Their steps were synchronized, no one spoke, and the only sound was the steady rhythm of their boots striking the earth.

Their equipment was uniform as well:
Light armor built for mobility, identical iron helmets, and on each of their shoulders—again—those eerie iron tubes: muskets.

There was no knightly splendor, no mercenary wildness.
Only cold iron, leather, and mechanical discipline.

“…Is that supposed to be an army?”

One kingdom knight muttered in disbelief.

“They look like a troupe of craftsmen from a factory. Where is their knightly pride?”

“Those eyes… they’re dead. They creep me out.”

Even the commanders—Marshal Gerhardt, General Gustav, and others—felt a chill.

“What… remarkable discipline…”

Gerhardt whispered, shuddering.

“Even our knightly order could never achieve such perfect group movement. But… those are not warriors. They’re dolls. No souls reside in them.”

And that was not all.

Behind the Arkwright forces came a massive supply convoy—
Hundreds of wagons, far more than the kingdom’s entire supply train.
Mountains of rations, crates of ammunition, and among them, several enormous objects covered in thick cloths stood ominously.

While the kingdom’s forces suffered from a lack of supplies, Zenon’s army had brought everything needed to fight their war.

Upon arrival, the Arkwright forces constructed their camp with machine-like precision.
Pickaxes and shovels swung in perfect rhythm.
Deep trenches were dug in moments, sandbags stacked swiftly, and defensive lines erected with uncanny efficiency.

Zenon oversaw everything from horseback, issuing commands without hesitation.
There was no chivalry, no honor—only terrain, supply lines, firing arcs.
His mind operated purely on calculation.

The kingdom’s soldiers could only watch in stunned silence.
While they had been resting sluggishly, this other army—supposedly their ally—had rapidly prepared for war.

It was as if an army from an entirely different nation, an entirely different era, had appeared beside them.

Marshal Gerhardt felt humiliation tightening his chest—and something else.
Fear.

Zenon Arkwright had not merely taken command.
He was rewriting the very concept of “war” they believed in—from the ground up.

Two armies now stood side by side on the Silver Plains:

• The kingdom’s army, clinging to the old ways of chivalry.
• The Arkwright forces, built upon the ruthless logic of a new age.

Between them yawned a deep and frigid rift.

Zenon’s true battle was not only against the empire—but against the outdated army that was supposed to be his ally.

The moment the decisive battle began was now only a heartbeat away.