The battle came to an end by noon.
Though the noble coalition forces were barely better than a ragtag mob compared to the regular army, Blake had timed his move to absolute perfection. It was like striking a snake right at its vitals—one precise blow that left the Sith heavy cavalry with all their brute strength but no way to unleash it. What's more, these poorly-disciplined private soldiers fought with a reckless, desperate ferocity that took the enemy completely by surprise. After all, intelligence briefings before their deployment had made it clear: while the **Doomsday Knights** were a force to be feared and closely monitored, this noble coalition was barely worth mentioning. The combat power of aristocratic private armies was practically negligible.
Yet once the fighting began, the Sith cavalry were shocked to find these private troops so fearless. They clung to the enemy relentlessly, heedless of casualties. In the end, after leaving nearly eight thousand dead on the battlefield, the Sith cavalry managed to break through the defensive line once more and fled for their lives without a backward glance. Even as they ran, they couldn't fathom what was driving these noble soldiers to fight with such suicidal courage. Was it loyalty to their families? Or love for their country? But surely that wouldn't make them fight this hard?
Of course, the cavalry had no way of knowing the real motivation fueling the noble coalition's bravery. In truth, before the battle began, these soldiers had never imagined they would face such a tough fight. In their minds, their commander was so powerful, and with a dragon rider corps at his disposal, they would never have to step onto the front lines. At most, they'd be stuck with mopping-up duties on the sidelines.
But just then, Blake suddenly announced that neither he nor Judy and the others would take part in this battle. They would have to fight on their own—and they must obey his orders without question.
The huge gap between expectation and reality threw the noble coalition into an uproar. Some even wanted to drop their weapons and desert on the spot. But they were quickly stopped short by Blake's cold warning—he made it crystal clear that anyone who dared to desert would be hunted down and annihilated by Judy and her dragon riders.
"If you turn and run, you will die. If you disobey my commands, you will die. If you fail to complete your mission, you will also die. Choose for yourselves."
Blake dropped these words with a smile, then turned and walked away, leaving the noble soldiers staring at each other in stunned silence. They all knew full well that this young lord meant every word he said. If they dared to defy him, they would end up as dragon food in the blink of an eye.
And so, the noble coalition was trapped in an impossible dilemma—desert, and face certain death; disobey orders, and face certain death; lose the battle, and face certain death all the same.
Though the terms were harsh to the point of tyranny, the noble soldiers had no choice but to submit. The man had the power to back up his threats, and no amount of resentment could change that. In the end, they had no option but to follow Blake's orders. After all, dying on the battlefield at least meant going down as martyrs for their country. But dying at the hands of their own side's dragon fire? That would be a death too humiliating to even put into words.
It was this overwhelming pressure that drove the noble coalition to fight beyond their limits against the Sith's elite regular cavalry. And the only thing spurring them on was not glory or pride—but the simple, primal fear of death.
In fact, during the battle, many soldiers fought while constantly glancing nervously over their shoulders, terrified that if they slacked off even a little, or if their comrades faltered, those dragons would come swooping down from behind… If that happened, their fate would be no different from that of the Sith enemies they were fighting.
"Cease fire and withdraw."
Seeing the enemy scattering in all directions, Blake quickly gave the order. Upon hearing it, the noble soldiers wasted no time in abandoning the pursuit and retreated back into the defensive lines.
"Then, my lord, we will go count the casualties."
Viscount Byrd and Della bowed to Blake, then hurried off. Only then did Ophelia finally let out a long, shaky breath, pressing a hand to her chest.
"Lord Blake… is it really over?"
"It's over."
Blake stood atop the watchtower, gazing out at the battlefield before him—a hellish landscape littered with the bodies of men and horses.
"It was just a little game. This is more than enough for today."
"But… we lost so many men."
"That's the nature of war," Blake replied flatly. "Even a game can get people killed. It's just a matter of how many."
Ophelia frowned at his words. She still couldn't bring herself to accept such losses. To her, even the death of a few dozen soldiers was a tragedy she could hardly bear. If she had her way, she would command her troops in a way that no one had to die. But her rational mind knew that was nothing more than a pipe dream. Battles always came with casualties, just as politics was never about total victory but mutual compromise. The same rule applied to war.
"Even the most skilled hunter can end up with his throat torn out by his prey."
Sensing Blake's gaze on her, Ophelia merely nodded silently, then followed him down from the watchtower and into the rear of the defensive lines.
By now, Viscount Byrd and Della had gathered the surviving noble soldiers together. Their faces were a jumble of conflicting emotions—relief at having cheated death (given their impossible predicament, it was hardly a shameful look), elation at the victory, anger, resentment, and complaints. All sorts of complicated stares were directed at the young man standing before them. But Blake merely nodded at them, then smiled faintly.
"Well done. You performed far better than I expected."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the crowd.
"We will remain here for a while longer. During this time, you will continue to obey my commands. No one is to leave without my permission. And if any of you are foolish enough to try to desert…"
Blake trailed off, his lips curling into a half-smile as he looked at the soldiers.
"Feel free to give it a try. Maybe I won't be able to catch you."
And with that, the strangest post-battle address in history came to an end. The soldiers dispersed quickly, while Viscount Byrd and Della presented Blake with the casualty list. A total of fifteen hundred soldiers had fallen in the battle. While the ratio of losses could be considered acceptable, the combat strength of these noble private troops was truly abysmal. After all, most of them were expendable cannon fodder sent by their families, not elite warriors. Even when fighting to the death, they could inflict only minimal damage on the enemy. It was only thanks to Blake's masterful command and control of the battlefield that the casualties hadn't been even higher.
In truth, Viscount Byrd and Della had felt quite dissatisfied when reporting the numbers. After all, it had been twenty thousand against fifteen thousand, yet the final casualty count stood at fifteen hundred to eight thousand—a rather embarrassing ratio. Fortunately, Blake didn't seem to care about the figures at all, and once the report was finished, everyone dispersed.
Though it had been nothing more than a small skirmish, all the necessary post-battle procedures still had to be carried out. Men were sent to collect the bodies, tally the spoils of war and supplies consumed, and compile a detailed report. Though Blake was not from Wester, as the commander responsible for defending the right flank, he still had to review and sign the report before sending it to General Celt. Of course, everyone knew this was just a formality, but with nothing else to do for the moment, they might as well follow protocol. By the time everything was finally done, the night was already deep.
"Phew…"
Blake set down his pen after signing the last document, stretched lazily, and looked around. The entire right flank had fallen silent. Inside the room, a magic stone glowed with a soft, warm light, casting a cozy atmosphere over the space.
"Master, have you finished?"
"I'm done."
Blake took the cup of milk tea Charlotte handed him, answered casually, took a small sip, then closed his eyes, savoring the warm, delicious drink. After a moment, he opened his eyes and glanced around.
"Any word from General Celt?"
"The Sith forces have fallen back a distance, but they show no signs of retreating. They're beginning to reorganize their formations, but the banners of the two Gifted Knights are still nowhere to be seen."
"It's three," Blake corrected her, cutting her off mid-report.
"I heard the Sith princess has also arrived?"
"Yes, master."
"What kind of person is she, in your opinion?"
At Blake's question, Charlotte pressed a finger to her chin and thought carefully for a moment before answering.
"Hmmm… She's a very intelligent and steady young lady. Truly worthy of being the Sith princess, I'd say. She gives off a similar vibe to Lady Ophelia, but there's an extra streak of determination in her. That's probably the main difference between them."
"Is she beautiful?"
"Her beauty is on par with Lady Ophelia's, master. I swear on my soul—you'd never tire of her, even after a hundred times."
"Oh?"
Blake's eyes widened slightly at that, a dangerous glint flickering in their depths.
"Is she really that beautiful? You're not pulling my leg, are you, Charlotte? If your report turns out to be inaccurate, the punishment for lying to me will be quite severe."
"I understand perfectly, master. Rest assured."
Though their tones were serious, the faint smiles on their faces made it clear that they were only joking. Just then, Blake stood up and set his teacup down.
"It's getting late. You should go rest… Where's Ophelia?"
"Lady Ophelia is at the front of the defensive lines, master. It seems she's lost in thought about something."
Even when she wasn't by their side, keeping track of their whereabouts was second nature to Charlotte.
"I see."
Blake nodded.
"You may go rest now."
"As you command, master."
Charlotte let out a soft laugh, opened the door, and prepared to leave. But then she paused, turning back to him.
"Master… would you like me to warm your bed for you? The night is quite cold, after all."
"If there are no unexpected guests, you're welcome to try."
"Your wish is my command, master."
Watching Charlotte's retreating figure, a helpless smile tugged at Blake's lips. His relationship with these wandering spirits was truly a complicated one. In truth, during the time they had been following him, almost all of them had shared a physical relationship with him—but there was little genuine love involved in most of those encounters. After all, Blake was only one man; he could never be "loving" enough to hold over a hundred young women in his heart at once.
And for these wandering spirits, even though they were already dead, they had all been young girls once. Moreover, as the elite of their respective factions and groups, they had dedicated their entire lives to their goals when they were alive, with little time left for matters of the heart. Take Charlotte, for example—when she was alive, as a genius alchemist, she had spent almost every day cooped up in her laboratory, surrounded by her familiars. Men had been nothing more than an abstract concept to her. Blake still vividly remembered the first time he'd embraced her—instead of showing even a hint of shyness, the young lady had actually tried to cut off his manhood out of curiosity, wanting to take it back to her lab for research… It was a memory both dangerous and utterly cringe-worthy to recall.
Thus, even though these young women had had no time for romance in their lives, after death, bound by necromantic magic, they suddenly found themselves with endless time to ponder such matters. For the wandering spirits, finding a prince charming of their own was no easy feat; many of them had never even considered such a possibility before. Besides, even if they did find someone they liked, there was no guarantee that a living person would be interested in a dead spirit. They could have chosen to ignore these desires, of course—but these were all young girls who had died before experiencing the full life of a woman. It was only natural that they would feel a sense of regret. And so, in the end, they had all turned their attention to Blake.
After all, Blake was a man, and not an unpleasant one to look at. What's more, as their master, he had forged soul contracts with each of them—a bond that ran deeper than flesh and blood, and in a way, was not so different from love itself. For Blake, it was a choice he had no reason to refuse.
Of course, he wasn't shameless enough to claim that he loved every single one of these girls. And for the wandering spirits, their physical intimacy with him wasn't always rooted in love either. Some simply wanted to make up for the regret of never having experienced womanhood, and lost interest after a time. Others sought solace in the pleasure to forget the pain of being bound as spirits, coming to him again and again. And then there were those who truly loved Blake, with all their hearts—Charlotte was one of them.
The once naive alchemist who had cared for nothing but her research had changed so much.
Thinking about this, Blake let out a helpless chuckle. They were always changing, always groping their way forward. Was this really a good thing for these wandering spirits?
Shaking his head, Blake forced these thoughts out of his mind, then stood up and walked out of the room.
The night wind was bitterly cold, but Ophelia didn't feel a single trace of it. She stood on a small hill at the front of the defensive lines, staring out at the battlefield, now shrouded in darkness.
"What are you thinking about?"
Blake watched her slender figure from behind, then walked slowly toward her, a faint smile playing on his lips as he looked at Ophelia. Sensing his gaze, she turned her head to meet his eyes, nodded slightly, then turned back to stare into the distant darkness.
"Lord Blake… it's so late. Why aren't you resting?"
"I was bored, so I decided to take a walk. And you? What are you doing out here at this hour? The Sith took a beating today—they won't dare launch a night raid. There's no need to be on edge."
"I know."
Ophelia replied softly, then bit her lip, a troubled look crossing her face.
"I just… wanted to see the battlefield."
Blake didn't say anything in response. He merely shrugged his shoulders, then turned to gaze out at the night scenery as well. For a long moment, the two of them stood in silence, the only sounds being the howling of the cold wind and the faint crackle of the bonfires burning the bodies far away in the darkness. After a while, it was Ophelia who finally broke the silence.
"Lord Blake… I used to not hate war."
"…"
"Though I've always kept a certain distance from the military, I've always known that political power and military strength are inseparable. To achieve our goals in diplomacy and other affairs of state, we need the backing of military might. And the most direct way to demonstrate that might is through war. Of course, I also took it for granted that even though soldiers might die in battle, their deaths would not be in vain. They would be sacrificing their lives for their country, and we would honor their sacrifice in return… But now, it seems that things are not at all as I imagined."
Ophelia shifted her gaze to the distant bonfires as she spoke.
"I never thought a battle like today's could happen. So many people dying for nothing more than a meaningless probe. Their deaths seem so pointless—even though we won the battle. And I don't even know why these soldiers died. All I know is that they didn't receive the honor they deserved. They didn't even get a proper burial. Their bones will be reduced to ash in the flames. Even if their loved ones want to come here to mourn them someday, they won't even have a grave to visit."
Ophelia lowered her eyes, her voice trembling slightly.
"Lord Blake… I've only just realized how shallow my understanding of war really is. Perhaps I'm not suited for the battlefield at all."
"Everyone has their own opinion about war. That's perfectly normal."
Blake finally spoke up, reaching out to pat Ophelia gently on the shoulder.
"The fact that you think this battle was meaningless just means you haven't fully embraced the role of a commander yet. Whether a battle is meaningful or not is something for politicians and historians to debate. After all, to those armchair generals who love to criticize from the sidelines, even a clash between hundreds of thousands of troops can be dismissed as pointless… But we are not historians, and we have no use for such hindsight. For a battlefield commander, our only purpose is to seize control of every battle and emerge victorious. Questions of justice, human rights, and all that nonsense can wait until after the war is over."
"So…"
Blake paused for a moment.
"You don't need to dwell on this. Because for us, the question of whether something is 'meaningful' is completely meaningless in itself."
"…Honestly, I still don't understand what you're saying."
Ophelia thought carefully about Blake's words, then shook her head helplessly.
"I simply haven't had enough experience to judge whether what you're saying is right or wrong. Just like I can't see through you, Lord Blake. To this day, I know nothing about you. So I don't know how to take your words."
"Is this a complaint?"
"It's just a statement of fact."
Under Blake's amused gaze, Ophelia blushed faintly and looked down at her feet.
"After all, I was once the princess of Wester. But even I had no idea that Grand Mage Laribaud knew you… or about the **Doomsday Knights**. Lord Blake, everything about you is a mystery to me. So I…"
"The unknown breeds confusion and fear. I understand exactly what you mean, Lady Ophelia."
Blake cut her off with a smile, saving her from her awkwardly cautious wording.
"I've never intended to hide anything from you, you know. It's just that you never asked, so I never volunteered the information."
"So does that mean you'll answer any question I ask, Lord Blake?"
A spark of interest lit up in Ophelia's bright blue eyes at his words.
"I reserve the right not to answer."
Blake clapped his hands together with a grin.
"Well then, Lady Ophelia. What is it you want to know?"
"Then…"
Ophelia thought for a moment, then looked up at the young man before her, her eyes filled with curiosity.
"I want to hear your story, Lord Blake."