Chapter 293: Come Hit Me If You Dare

If Charlot Mecklenburg had said such a thing before going to Saint Michael Island, at least half the generals in Menielman Soumet’s military council would have scoffed: “Idiot!”

Sabastine might even have pointed at Charlot's nose and bluntly declared, “Get this fool out of here.”

But ever since Charlot returned from Saint Michael Island, not a single general under Menielman dared underestimate him.

Menielman had fought battle after battle, capturing over twenty ships—a feat worthy of study in the imperial military academies. Yet Charlot, without so much as raising a fuss, brought back over a hundred ships and seven or eight thousand people along with him.

Who would dare look down on him now?

What garnered the most respect from Menielman’s generals was that Charlot handed over all those ships—leaving only ten for Ban Lamorak—and kept none for himself. All the rest were given to Menielman.

Still, no one believed Charlot could have achieved such a feat without complications.

Even though Herolf the Golden Ram had fallen into dire straits, this was an extraordinary world. The ingenious military strategies developed on Earth held no sway here.

Once, a so-called “military genius” in Byron attempted to use the Van Gogh Clan's Infinite Mirror World to move troops with unparalleled unpredictability. However, human Transcendents from the great empires united to ambush them, killing several Van Gogh Clan vampires. The Byron army was cut off, left with no escape or supplies, and met a horrific end.

It was, in the most literal sense, a total annihilation.

The stench of the burning vampire corpses was said to have carried all the way back to Byron's borders.

Even the Transcendent vampires who retreated found themselves hunted along the way by relentless human Transcendents. Not a single one made it back to Byron alive.

Though Herolf had lost all his ships and countless pirates, he was still a Saint-ranked Transcendent with a magical alchemical warship and the fortress-city of Saint Michael Island at his disposal. Even with the four Saint-ranked Transcendents Menielman could muster, defeating him in battle was no easy task.

In this extraordinary world, only Transcendents could determine the outcomes of such confrontations.

Charlot could feel all eyes on him, but he paid it little mind. He’d become hardened—he could even deliver a PowerPoint presentation before hundreds without breaking a sweat.

Calmly, Charlot said, “Before I left, I took all the grain stored on the bottom six levels of Saint Michael Island!”

“Right now, the first level of Saint Michael Island probably has only a small amount of provisions left. If it’s just Herolf alone, even a little grain could last him. Besides, he can always fish.”

At the mention of fishing, Menielman’s generals couldn’t help but chuckle. The idea of a Saint fishing for his meals was indeed amusing.

Charlot continued, “But the first level also houses his personal guard. For them, even a one- or two-month survival would be pushing the limit.”

“Our current advantage lies in our fleet size. If we surround Saint Michael Island, we can simply wait for the pirates on the island to starve.”

“Just a bit of patience!”

“Victory is... well, just that simple.”

This plan was anything but novel, yet Menielman’s generals, accustomed to thinking within the constraints of this world, reacted as though they were hearing divine revelation. The very idea of such a siege was unprecedented—after all, the greatest strength of Transcendents wasn’t just their power but their unparalleled mobility, which made encirclement almost impossible.

But as Charlot explained the strategy, Menielman’s generals unanimously approved.

The most formidable asset Herolf had was not his magical alchemical warship but Saint Michael Island itself, a fortress-city that functioned as a colossal war machine.

Even a Saint needed food to survive!

Starving Herolf to death was undeniably easier than storming Saint Michael Island.

Menielman immediately made the call: “We attack Saint Michael Island at once. They must not be allowed to gather supplies.”

Tumisan smirked subtly, thinking to himself, If we can take Saint Michael Island, I’ll be able to recruit even more assassins from the Orc Assassin Alliance.

Sabastine, brimming with confidence, envisioned certain victory.

Ban Lamorak was eager, imagining the glory of participating in the siege of Saint Michael Island—a city with a storied history of never falling to direct assault except through betrayal. Adding his name to such a chapter of history would be an unparalleled honor, even greater than winning over Aurora Soumet.

The High Priest Auguslatin, meanwhile, remained unfazed. Charlot had been exceedingly generous, depositing a hefty 100,000 écus into the priest’s account—a sum equivalent to eighteen or nineteen modest “small goals” on Earth.

The High Priest was content. He and Charlot now shared an “unshakable” friendship.

From Cappadocia to Saint Michael Island, it was only a day’s journey by sea.

Previously, Cappadocia, as a hub for the slave trade, had enjoyed a precarious peace with the Golden Rams Fleet. Later, the Golden Rams’ plans to attack the city fell through for various reasons. No one expected the tables to turn, with the seemingly weaker Cappadocia launching an assault on Saint Michael Island.

Menielman, an exceptional commander, calmly deployed her fleet to surround Saint Michael Island. The city was completely cut off.

Such a feat would have been impossible before. But now, with Menielman commanding an overwhelming number of ships and Saint Michael Island left with only a single magical alchemical warship, the situation had changed.

Upon learning of this, Herolf the Golden Ram was enraged. He leapt into the sky, preparing to deploy his magical alchemical warship. However, upon seeing four radiant figures rise to meet him, he swallowed his fury and remained over Saint Michael Island, hurling curses instead.

Menielman, as a noblewoman, and Auguslatin, as a High Priest, would not stoop to trading insults.

Tumisan, as an orc, had no such reservations but lacked the eloquence for verbal sparring. After a few clumsy exchanges, he grew furious and attempted to charge but was repelled by Saint Michael Island’s guardian spirit.

Sabastine, ever bold, resorted to calling Herolf a pig and accusing him of eating dog feces—insults that, while vulgar, lacked sting.

Yet, in her characteristic cunning, Sabastine carried Charlot Mecklenburg aloft into the sky and let him do the talking.

Charlot, a refined man, wasn’t skilled in verbal altercations. Weakly, he shouted, “Herolf the Golden Ram, your Queen Bee warship is mine! Your men and ships are mine! If you have the guts, come hit me!”

“If you don’t, you’re nothing but a puppy!”

What followed stunned every one of Menielman’s generals.

Herolf the Golden Ram spewed a mouthful of blood skyward before crashing back to the ground.

Charlot touched his own forehead and, feeling it slightly soft, quickly pulled his hand back. “This must be a ploy to lure us in,” he speculated.

“I’ll just insult him a bit more!”

“Herolf! Come hit me!”

Though Saint-ranked, Herolf’s fury had injured his very essence. As he struggled to stand, Charlot’s next taunt reached his ears. His chest burned with rage, and he spewed another mouthful of blood.

Insults, after all, aren’t about their vulgarity or elegance but about hitting the target where it truly hurts.

Charlot Mecklenburg had struck Herolf precisely where it hurt most.

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