Reincarnate as the Villainess's Husband - Chapter 87

Chapter 87: Battle of Donkeys(3)
The end of the war was announced by a grim silence that followed hours filled with the intensity of battle. Instead of celebrating victory, Neonidas’ army gazed upon the destruction left behind by the conflict. The battlefield had become nothing more than a slaughterhouse, littered with burned corpses, overturned chariots, and severed limbs.

The ground had turned to mud, soaked with the blood of fallen warriors. With every step, boots sank into the crimson sludge, the crunching of broken bones echoing across the field. The few remaining soldiers of the enemy army knelt in surrender, their heads bowed in defeat. But there would be no mercy in this victory.

Neonidas’ orders were clear: “Every surviving enemy is a threat and the seed of a future war.”

As the infantry gathered the remaining captives, the sound of swords rang out. Some prisoners accepted their fate, while others made a desperate attempt to flee. Yet the outcome remained the same—war was crueler than captivity.

The wind drifted across the battlefield, carrying the smoke of burning corpses into the sky. A layer of ash began to settle over the dead, as if nature itself sought to bury the scars of war. As Neonidas sat atop his horse, watching the scene unfold, there was neither pride nor sorrow on his face. For him, this victory was nothing more than another step forward.

Upon entering the abandoned enemy camp, it became evident that the war had not been fought solely on the battlefield. The bodies of soldiers who had failed to retreat lay piled in front of the tents. Some had been slaughtered before they could even draw their weapons, while others had bled out before their wounds could be treated. Inside the tents, treasures, documents, and military records were found. As Neonidas’ officers swiftly gathered these spoils, they also discovered women and children hiding within.

Some were the families of soldiers, others mere servants. Many shrank back in fear, awaiting their fate at the hands of Neonidas’ men. The warlord’s gaze swept over those standing at the front.

Just like in his previous world, he knew that in a hundred or even a thousand years, changing ethical standards could turn his reputation into that of a monster or a tyrant.

“Do not touch the women and children, they are my slaves from now on. The men will be put to work. Those who wish to become soldiers and swear loyalty will be accepted. The rest will be executed.”

Truthfully, Neonidas did not care about the lives of women and children—he merely sought to establish a lasting reputation in the eyes of the present and future generations. After all, the imperial historian stood right beside him, documenting every event. He had also purchased a bard and commanded him to compose an epic tale of the battle. For now, he would play the role of a “merciful” leader.

His orders were carried out without question. Those who refused to swear loyalty were forced to kneel, and one by one, their heads rolled. The remaining captives were swiftly chained and grouped together. Some wept, while others accepted their fate in silent resignation.

Before leaving the battlefield, the victorious army buried its own fallen soldiers. The enemy dead, however, were left where they lay—some to the flames, others to the mercy of the crows. Neonidas took one last look at the field of death.

His men looted the corpses of the fallen enemy soldiers, searching for valuables—some for a precious gem, others for a gold-engraved dagger, or a well-preserved suit of armor. Some did not stop at emptying pockets; they broke fingers to steal rings or cut them off with their blades.

This was the unchanging truth of war. One side triumphed, while the other did not simply perish—they were also stripped of everything. Watching from atop his horse, Neonidas did not flinch. This was the nature of battle, and denying it would be self-deception.

Meanwhile, Zalira approached on her mount, with Allea riding beside her. The two women seemed to have formed a bond during the journey.

Both of them were stunned by Neonidas’ unorthodox and brilliant strategy.

Setting donkeys on fire to frighten the enemy’s war beasts, causing them to trample their own soldiers—this was a tactic that only the most cunning minds in history would have conceived.

Her brother’s transformation sometimes unsettled though Zalira, she now preferred this version of him without a doubt. Fortunately, Neonidas had already confided in Zalira that he came from the future. Otherwise, with her growing friendship with Allea, she might have begun to suspect something.

As for Allea, the only thought occupying her mind was that Neonidas was undoubtedly the best possible husband for her. No longer was it just about strategy or mutual benefits—after this battle, she had truly come to admire him. He possessed knowledge of the future, intelligence, and, most importantly, he was still in love with her. She had begun to believe that he was her destined soulmate.

Of course, Neonidas was neither from the future nor in love with her. But one thing was certain—he was cunning.

As Neonidas surveyed the battlefield, he noticed Zalira and Allea approaching. There was a difference in their expressions—Zalira’s gaze carried a look of approval, while Allea’s eyes held something more lively, or perhaps more intrigued, than before. Sitting tall on his horse, Neonidas nodded at both women.

At that moment, several soldiers dragged a group of men before him.

“My lord, we have captured this man who claims to be the enemy army commander, along with his officers!”

Neonidas turned his gaze toward the captives. One among them stood taller than the rest—his posture still bore the pride of a warrior who had refused to break. His sharp features, upright stance despite his wounds, and defiant eyes marked him as no ordinary soldier. This must have been General Velmar of the Hindonpon army.

Dismounting his horse, Neonidas took a few steps forward. The soldiers forced the general to his knees, but Velmar resisted. His bloodied, dust-covered armor remained on his body, though his sword had been taken. A deep cut on his face had left a trail of dried blood along his chin. He had survived the battlefield, but that did not necessarily mean he had been granted a better fate.

Neonidas tilted his head slightly as he studied the man before him. “So, you must be General Velmar. I have heard much about you.”

Velmar lifted his head and locked eyes with Neonidas. “And I have heard much about you, Neonidas… I heard you were a son of a bitch! Huhahaha!”

A brief silence fell over the battlefield as Velmar’s defiant laughter echoed. The surrounding soldiers stiffened at his crude insult. Some watched in anticipation, curious about how Neonidas would react, while others merely wondered how much the general would suffer before he met his end.

There wasn’t the slightest sign of anger on Neonidas’ face. He let out a weary sigh, as if Velmar’s outburst was nothing more than a waste of time. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he drew his sword. The movement was so sudden, so fluid, that Velmar only realized what had happened when the gleam of steel flashed before his eyes—by then, it was already too late.

For a moment, time froze. Velmar’s eyes widened, his head jerked back slightly. Yet, in that instant, he felt no pain.

Then…

Velmar’s body remained kneeling for a heartbeat longer, as if still whole. For a few lingering moments, his head seemed to rest atop his shoulders. But then, as the cold steel of the sword had severed his throat, the nerves and muscles betrayed him—and his head slowly parted from what remained of his neck.

The wet, unmistakable sound of torn flesh echoed as Velmar’s head hit the ground. It rolled once before sinking into the mud, his lifeless eyes still locked on Neonidas.

His body lingered for a few seconds, as if refusing to accept its fate… then, like a discarded puppet, it collapsed to the side.

A complete silence fell. No soldier spoke, no prisoner dared to breathe. Only the wind remained, carrying the stench of burnt flesh across the battlefield.

Neonidas paused for a moment to wipe the blood from his sword before sheathing it with calm precision. It was as if he had not just killed a man, but merely completed an insignificant task.

His gaze flickered to Velmar’s headless corpse, a fleeting expression of disdain crossing his face.

“Such a meaningless pride,” he thought. “To challenge death when its inevitability is absolute… truly foolish.”

The surrounding soldiers watched his cold execution with a mixture of awe and fear. Some swallowed hard, dreading their own fate, while others felt a renewed respect—and terror—for their ruthless lord.

Neonidas mounted his horse and turned to his officers.

“Gather all the bodies and burn them. We will rest here for a few days, then march directly to Hindonpon’s capital. Also, prepare an envoy and a prisoner. Send them to the King of Hindonpon and inform him that we have won this war. Tell him that if they do not surrender, I will burn the entire city to the ground. But if they yield, I will not harm a single soul.”

With those words, Neonidas turned to Princess Allea.

“Your Excellency, if you permit me, I shall take my leave and rest for now.”

As the soldiers rushed to carry out his orders, Allea silently watched him. Her face betrayed no emotion—no admiration, no fear, no satisfaction. Only deep silence. But Neonidas noticed the faint glimmer in her eyes.

Understanding this woman’s thoughts was no simple task. She was no ordinary princess; every word she spoke, every glance she cast, and every silence she maintained was the result of careful calculation. She never openly displayed admiration for Neonidas, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. On the contrary, the way she suppressed it only made her more dangerous.

“Of course, Neonidas. Rest well. You have earned it after battle.”