Chapter 195 - Hasty Retreat

The dull thuds of artilery slamming against already broken rubble for the umpteenth time echoed once more across the reddish horizon, the sound nearly indistinguishable to the weary Count Leon, who was resting in his private tent, far away from the din of continuous fighting.

For months, he has been swamped in the city, fighting tooth and nail for each and every inch of land. Despite the assistance of the mage from the Duke, the Versians proved hardy and resourceful, utilizing everything they had to stall Count Leon’s men’s advance.

In any other scenario, Count Leon was confident that the Versians would have capitulated and left Ocra for dead. Yet for some reason, the enemy’s numbers nor supplies never ceased. Every flank, manoeuvre and special operation he had tried to pull off in order to isolate Ocra from Tenar had ended in failure.

His special flanking units were constantly exposed for unknown reasons, allowing the Versians to thwart his advances with ease. Not to mention, with the intervention of ADCON, Count Leon found it even harder to push.

However, retreating was a dim option in his mind – he had committed too much to the war to give up without claiming a single city. Even when he heard that Raktor was embroiled in civil uprising from the major gangs, he remained steadfast, focusing on what he needed to do.

Yet time after time, it seems that either the enemy was far too cunning, or his men were seemingly incompetent. Multiple occasions of miscommunication have led to disorganisation and lack of cohesion, and plans made by him and his generals not being able to be executed clearly.

It did not help that the urban combat in the city of Ocra was far more perilous than Count Leon had initially expected - every single building had to be cleared, and during the night, Versian defenders found ways to sneak past where they had already cleared, forcing Count Leon’s troops to clear the area against once more. If Count Leon had enough men to station one in every single bombed-out house, he would.

Even the invigorating potion that he had used on his men to keep their morale up was beginning to lose its effectiveness, the attrition clawing at their hearts and mental strength as they struggled in the dust and scorching heat every day, fighting for just a single block. Count Leon already had to personally execute fifty deserters who tried to flee the battle as an example, but more were routed by the day, some even turning themselves over to the Versians at the frontline to save themselves.

Even with the amount of investments being sunk into the war, Count Leon himself was beginning to revisit the option of retreating too many times, entertaining the thought in his downtime. He tried to reason as to why the war was not progressing, unlike what he had planned. Even without the Duke’s help, Count Leon was certain that he had the surprise and strength to barrel towards their capital.

Yet the Duke’s lack of help worried him slightly. He recalled a message from the Duke prior to his war plans, informing him of the Duke’s opinion that the Count should not invoke war. He had chalked it up to fear and contentment, dismissing it at the time. Capturing Versia would catapult his reputation to even the ears of the Emperor. The Duke probably doesn’t want me to grow any stronger – he wants me to remain weak. Luckily, our noble hierarchy does not restrict my ability to declare and wage war against foreign enemies.

Now, a few months into the war, Count Leon contemplated the real reason behind the Duke’s original message. Perhaps the Duke had been subtly trying to warn him, though he could not quite put his finger on it. The only reason he had landed upon was that the Duke was trying to force Count Leon to change his vassalage contract from a lenient one to something that was far more strict. He had already heard of other Counts under the same Duke being forced to sign a new contract through hook or crook. Like hell, I’ll buckle that easily. Not when Ocra is so close within grasp.

A sudden short rapid burst of hisses emerged from the side of his tent, beyond the pale white fabric where a shadowy figure could be seen. Count Leon instinctively drew his sword from the scabbard that lay by his bedside, readying himself for a potential ambush. It wouldn’t be the first time the Versians have also tried it.

Instead of an ambush, a letter sealed in a recognisable crest was slipped under the tent before the shadowy figure left without a word, disappearing into the throng of soldiers on rest break. Count Leon quickly placed down the sword, grabbed the letter and tore off the seal with haste.

As he read the letter, his eyes tracing each and every inked word, his eyes slowly widened, his mouth unable to close fully, agape from shock. It took him a few re-reads to truly believe the contents of the message, the first time far too incredulous for him to even give a shred of belief. This… this is impossible! I must return to Raktor with haste!

He glanced again at the ripped seal, checking its curves and indentations to prove that it was the same seal that he was familiar with. “By Yual…” Count Leon couldn’t help muttering out loud to himself, his own eyes glazed over as he stared blankly at the ceiling of the tent, the daylight filtered.

“Servant!” He suddenly yelled out loud with vigour unlike recent times. “My armour, and call for an emergency meeting with the generals immediately!”

“Y-yes, sir!” A lone attendant squeaked as he hurried away, prompting four servants to bring over the prized arctech armour that Count Leon had always worn into battle. He wore it on quickly, the motions ingrained in his muscle memories like a fluid movement.

His steps were furious as he stomped out of the tent with his sword in hand, heading straight for the centre tent while flanked by two of his personal guards, what remained of his precious knight order that had been lost in Tenar.

It took close to fifteen minutes for most of the generals to convene, save for the ones who were on the frontlines in the city of Ocra, who could not leave their position. However, Count Leon did not wait for them, instead immediately explaining the purpose of the meeting. “We must retreat to Raktor immediately.”

The sudden declaration of withdrawal caught the generals by surprise, especially when they had stayed up all night planning their next attack with Count Leon. For their leader to suddenly change directions meant that he received a critical piece of information.

“Are the Versians about to launch a full counteroffensive? There are no signs of such a plan – they have been more than willing to drag it out in attrition.” One of the generals pointed out.

“It does not matter the reason – within a week, we shall perform a general retreat from Ocra.” Count Leon waved his hands dismissively, beginning to assign the rearguard and positions to secure along the retreat.

“After all that we have sacrificed, we are just going to give up like this? Have we no shame?” A general interrupted angrily. “Our names would be dragged through the mud in the Yual Dominion if we were to return with no spoils!”

“And our names would be dragged even further if we were to capture Ocra, but lose Raktor in return!” Count Leon barked back, silencing the general. The response caused the generals to raise a few eyebrows, but none dared to speak back to the Count any longer, only generating rumours in their heads.

Count Leon, however, was far too agitated to notice the discontentment among his men, only continuing to issue orders to the various generals. Some of the generals who believed it was a ploy were only now starting to realise that Count Leon was serious about a full retreat, their hearts plummeting slightly at the thought of admitting failure. It was inconceivable to them to declare a loss, especially with the strength of the Yual Dominion compared to the tiny Versia.

“You have your orders – execute them within a week! The first batch retreats today to clear the path; I will withdraw with the second batch. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The throng of generals still saluted, respecting the Count’s orders. As they departed the tent, one of the attendants that overheard the meeting instead headed to a tent not his own, one where the Duke’s mage resided. He was immediately stopped by the personal elite guard of the mage, one of which glared him down through the thin eye slots of his plate helmet.

“Who are you? This is not your tent?”

“Let him in.” The mage’s voice wafted in from within the tent, prompting the guards to let the attendant through. At the sight of the robed mage playing with a snowflake in his hand, the attendant quickly cowered, bowing with intense respect.

“Sir, the Count intends to have the troops retreat within a week. He will depart Ocra within two days.”

Instead of being surprised, the mage grinned under the hood, the snowflake shattering at his command into a million tiny pieces that scattered across the room. “Finally. I was getting a bit tired of babysitting him. Are our informants in place?”

“Yes, sir, they will follow him along in the retreat.”

“Good. You know what to do.”

“By the Duke’s will.” The attendant retreated out of the tent before spreading the word amongst those who were loyal to the Duke first and foremost.

Over the next two days, the retreat began in earnest. While the generals were dismayed, the surviving troops were overjoyed, no longer having to fight in the mud to no end and for seemingly no reason or prospect.

“We’re going home! Haha! Can’t wait to see my wife and kids!”

“Idiot, Raktor is in shit now!”

“That’s your West Sector, not for me! I already heard my East Sector is the safest place in the whole of Raktor. If you want, you can join me! Your girlfriend probably already ditched you for another man!”

“Grrr… I’ll consider it.”

“East Sector? Pah, useless. The Seven Snakes’ shopping arcade is still standing strong despite fighting against their major gang! That’s got to be the safest place if you ask me!”

“Of course, an underdog would love an underdog gang. Go join the losing side for all I care.”

The men discussed and bickered, but there was a jovial mood; the mood of the men uplifted at the idea of returning to Raktor.

On the second day, with the retreat path cleared, Count Leon’s guards and troops began to retreat, leaving the camp, the rows of soldiers marching into the distance as far as the eye could see.

Count Leon however, was not relegated to walking on foot, sitting in a cushy seat in an armoured arctech wagon. Despite his luxurious surroundings, he tapped his armoured feet incessantly, continuously glancing out of the side windows for any potential ambush.

“Sir, the first group has already ensured the security of the path. They are protecting us now as we speak.” Count Leon’s guard assured.

“Of course, of course.” Count Leon mumbled to himself, far more occupied with examining his surroundings for any hints. The contents of the letter had made him more paranoid than ever, his hand clutching the pommel of his sword tightly while his free hand ran over the engravings on his arctech armour, ensuring that everything was pristine and undamaged.

“Sir, perhaps I can scout ahead to assuage your fears.” The guard offered, but Count Leon instead quickly waved his hand in dismissal, putting his hand out of the window. Despite the metal gauntlet baking under the daylight, it was far from hot – rather, Count Leon could feel the metal cooling rapidly.

On the other side of the wagon, he noticed his men beginning to shiver, their eyes also confused as the sudden temperature drop. However, to Count Leon, there was only one reason for such a drastic change in season.

He quickly slapped the driver at the front of the wagon. “Drive faster, now!”

“Uh… are we not meant to keep pace with the troops?”

“NOW!”

The driver floored the acceleration pedal on command, the engine churning louder as arcia fuel bubbled, the central gear shaft of the wagon spinning fast as they sped off, overtaking the slow marching troops in a blur. Soon, they were far ahead, barreling down the road alone more than a few dozen kilometres away from their troops.

Just as Count Leon was about to relax, he suddenly watched a hailstorm of icicles slam the wagon from the side, their sharp ice tips denting the armour with impunity. The momentum of the cumulative impacts threatened to flip the wagon, and the driver struggled to keep the wagon stable as it swerved violently.

Count Leon’s guard soon realised what was happening, quickly readying his rifle and scanning the surroundings for signs of a mage.

“Drive like your life depends on it! Faster!” Count Leon hollered from the back; his hands clenched tight as he braced against the violent swings of the wagon.

Just as the wagon was about to speed up even more, a giant icicle suddenly emerged from the ground in front of them, the wagon crashing right head onto it. With a deafening sound, the wagon’s engine ignited with a furious rage, the blue flames immediately exploding with force and ripping the armour apart.

The thunderous explosion could be heard from a mile away, the wagon now a smouldering wreck with no visible survivors. As quickly as it appeared, the icicle disappeared like it was never there, leaving no trace. The temperature change was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only the soldiers trailing behind to find the burning wreck nearly half a day later.

The first few soldiers gingerly checked the wreckage, searching for survivors. Soon, as a soldier hauled a large plate away, a blackened, unrecognisable figure, its face charred by the arcia flames, was found, wearing part of the clearly distinguishable Count Leon’s armour. Another human body was found, that of the driver. The soldiers gulped as they stared at each other, unsure of what to do.

“Count Leon… has been killed!”