Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 517

Chapter 517: Victory(1)
Dawn crept over the battlefield, its light revealing the ruin left behind.

Where once a proud Oizenian war camp had stood—rows of tents, cookfires, supply wagons, banners swaying in the wind—there was now nothing but carnage.

The wooden walls of the encampment were empty ,taken over by men who had no need for battering rams. Inside, the ground was soaked in blood, a dark, congealed sea where the bodies of the fallen lay strewn without order or mercy.

Some had died on their feet, weapons still clutched in stiff hands, eyes wide with the shock of sudden death. Others lay in twisted heaps, trampled by fleeing comrades or crushed under the weight of their own collapsed tents.

Armor gleamed dully in the early light, blood and dirt smearing the once-pristine steel. Shields were discarded like forgotten toys. The banners of the Oizenian prince, once carried high and proud into battle, were now torn and trampled, half-buried in the mud beneath the boots of victors.

The bodies of those who had tried to flee were scattered beyond the walls, some lying with arrows sprouting from their backs, others fallen mid-stride, cut down before they could even clear the camp’s boundaries. Their faces were frozen in horror, their final moments captured in the contorted grimace of men who had realized—too late—that death had found them and would not let them go .

The prisoners, those who had either surrendered or been too wounded to continue fighting, knelt in huddled groups under the watchful eyes of Alpheo’s soldiers. Some wept, others muttered prayers, but most simply stared at the ground, numb with the unsureness of what was to happen.

In a single night, the most dangerous variable of the war had been erased.

This was the force that had come closest to threatening the capital itself, the one army that might have turned the tide against the Crown. And yet, here it lay in ruin—its soldiers dead, its leaders nowhere to be seen , its camp little more than a shattered graveyard.

Alpheo stood among the wreckage, surveying the aftermath. The weight on his shoulders had lightened in a single day.

Another night, another battle, another victory.

The war was far from over. But for the first time in weeks, Alpheo allowed himself a breath.

He had won.

He rode slowly through the ruined remains of the Oizenian camp, his steed’s hooves pressing deep into the blood-drenched mud. The morning sun bathed the battlefield in a golden hue, making the carnage glisten as if the gods themselves had wept over the fallen. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, steel, and death, yet to him, it was the fragrance of victory.

Around him, his men moved through the camp, some searching the bodies of the dead, others tearing through tents in search of valuables. The victorious always took their due. There were no solemn faces among them, no heavy hearts—only the ruthless efficiency of warriors rewarding themselves for the blood they had spilled.

Yet, among the looters, there was another group—the garrison of Aracina.

These were the men who had fought like cornered wolves, who had stood upon the walls of their city, staring down at this very army with dread for a month.

They had watched their comrades die, had fought off the endless assaults, had feared—no, had known—that their end was near. And now, here they stood, walking through the bloate and rotting carcass of what had once been their doom.

They watched the royal soldiers with strange expressions, as if gazing upon creatures of legend. The White Army had done in a single night what they had struggled to do for weeks. It was awe, respect, and perhaps a touch of fear. They had held their city, but it was Alpheo and his men who had broken the back of the enemy.

Alpheo smiled as he watched them.

They did not partecipate on the attack, not that they were asked to , as Alpheo believed that after a near month of dread, they deserved peace and rewards, both of which he would soon give, of course they were entitled to a piece of the loot.

His men rummaged through the ruins with casual confidence, but they were no mere band of brigands. Every coin, every piece of armor, every sword taken would be collected and counted, distributed by the high command so that every soldier would receive his rightful share. There was order in the looting—even victory was a business.

Atop his steed, he turned his gaze over the ruined camp. A battlefield, a graveyard, and a monument to his triumph.

He had done it.

Not once, but twice, he had shattered the Oizenians. He had not merely won a battle—he had crushed an entire third of the enemy’s total strength in a single night. No stroke of luck, no divine intervention—this was his doing. His plan, his warriors, his will.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he straightened in the saddle, basking in his own glory.

Not bad, Alpheo. Not bad at all.

Alpheo’s quiet admiration of the ruined battlefield was interrupted by the sound of hooves beating against the dirt. He turned, his cloak catching the wind, just in time to see Jarza riding toward him at a steady pace. The grizzled commander had the smirk of a man who had just seen fortune smile upon him, but the glint in his eyes suggested that he was still savoring the taste of victory, letting it roll over his tongue like the finest wine.

“A fine night to claw our first victory, and what a glorious one at that ”

Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his gaze back to the camp. Smoke still rose from torched tents, the embers of once-proud banners smoldering among the wreckage. The Oizenian army had been laid to waste, its once-imposing presence reduced to little more than scattered corpses and abandoned weapons.

“Too easy,” Alpheo finally mused, “They grew lazy, soft. Too used to holding the reins of this war, deciding when to attack and when to rest. We reminded them of a simple truth—there is always a bigger predator lurking in the waters.”

Jarza let out a short laugh, but there was an edge of seriousness behind it. “The prince,” he began, shifting in his saddle, “likely rode off into the night before the first horns finished their cry. Coward fled before he could even see the battle lost.”

Alpheo snorted. “Typical.”

Still I would probably do the same, was I in his shoes, Alpheo lampooned wondering if Jarza knew that too.After all until now they only were met with the elegant taste of victory, so who knew what he would do when tasting the mud for the first time?He was certainly no hero to die in the fighting , he was instead the coward who would take the first horse away from death.

“But,” Jarza continued, his tone growing more amused, “in his haste, he left behind something quite valuable.”

That piqued Alpheo’s interest. “Oh?”

Jarza leaned forward slightly, grinning like a wolf. “His entire baggage train, along with the campaign treasury.”

For a moment, Alpheo simply stared. Then, his lips parted in a slow, delighted smile. “The treasury, you say?”

Jarza nodded, the amusement never leaving his expression. “The men are still emptying it as we speak, quite the catch…”

A deep, satisfied breath filled Alpheo’s lungs. If victory had tasted sweet before, this made it even richer. Defeating the Oizenian army had been one thing—but to strip them of their wealth, their resources, the very coin that kept their war effort alive? That was nothing short of divine justice.

“This war just keeps getting better,you would have hardly thought of it a month ago” Alpheo murmured, almost to himself.

Jarza grinned. “I’d wager half their lords will be at each other’s throats when they hear of this. Not only did they lose their army , but also their coins.”

Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression growing thoughtful. “A war fought with empty pockets is a war half-lost,” he agreed. “Given that they just got kicked out of the picture, I don’t think they will mind if we were to use them to buy more food and recruit more men .”

His gaze flicked back toward the looted baggage train, where soldiers moved like ants, pouring over the wagons and crates with eager hands. His lips pressed together in faint amusement, knowing all too well what unchecked greed could do to an army.

With a smirk, he turned back to Jarza. “Make sure our men don’t start handing themselves an early bonus. I’d rather not have half the treasury end up in their boots before we can divide it properly.”

Jarza let out a snort, shaking his head. “Already handled,” he assured. “I know my men too well. Leave them to their own devices, and they’d be stuffing coin down their trousers and swearing they found nothing but rations.”

Alpheo chuckled, satisfied with the answer.

Breaking his laughter was however the rhythmic thunder of hooves against the dirt . Alpheo turned, the dawn’s light casting a long shadow as he watched a lone rider pull his horse to a sharp stop before them.

Ratto, sat atop his steed, his breath still heavy from the ride.

Alpheo let out a chuckle, crossing his arms. “Well, if it isn’t the little thieving kid himself,” he mused, his voice laced with amusement. “Tell me, how was your first taste of battle? Did it live up to your grand expectations?”

Ratto hesitated for only a moment before answering, his voice quieter than usual. “Eye-opening,” he admitted.

Alpheo studied him for a moment, noticing the shift in his demeanor.It was good that the kid who once spent his days pilfering pockets and slipping through alleys finally grew up, after all he wouldn’t be of any use to him without some proper changes.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to think about it later,” he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I doubt Egil sent you galloping all this way just to reminisce. We can do that properly when we celebrate this victory .”

Ratto gave a sharp nod, his expression shifting back to focus. “Lord Egil is inside the city,” he said. “With those he captured.”

Alpheo’s brow arched. “Is that so?” he mused. “And why, pray tell, did they not pass through here?I suppose he would be the first to flaunt his achievements in front of us, he is quite the peacock after all.”

Ratto shifted in his saddle, glancing toward the distant city walls. “Most of the prisoners were in dire need of medical assistance,” he explained. “Above all… the enemy prince.”

A quiet hum left Alpheo’s lips, his fingers tapping idly against his sword hilt. His gaze flickered toward the ruined battlefield before returning to Ratto, suspicion creeping into his expression.

“…What?”