Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 522

Chapter 522: Dealing with starving men(3)
Alpheo drummed his fingers idly against the table as he waited for Egil’s arrival, his gaze lowering once more to the stack of reports before him, which he hadn’t had the chance to finish reading . With a casual flick of his hand, he turned the page, his eyes skimming the newly revealed content. His smirk widened almost immediately.

He let out a low chuckle, then whistled. “Well, well,” he murmured, tilting his head as he scanned the numbers and figures before him. “Now this is impressive.”

Jarza, who had compiled the report himself, nodded with a knowing smirk. “It seems our dear prince, in his grand effort to flee with his tail between his legs, forgot something rather important,” he said dryly. “Namely, the entirety of the campaign treasury he brought with him.”

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes as he leaned back into his chair. “Oh, how utterly tragic of Shamleik” he mused, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “To think he ran for his life only to leave behind everything along with his life.”

A bounty. A true bounty.

Jarza snorted. “No wonder they broke so fast. Carrying all that gaudy shit must’ve weighed them down.”

Alpheo laughed at the comment, exhilarated by the situation surrounding him.

7,900 silverii in pure coin. He let that number settle in his mind, rolling it over like a fine piece of wine against his tongue.

It was a sum large enough to fund at least two months of campaigns . And that wasn’t even considering the jewelry and other fine luxuries they had stripped from the prince’s private quarters—silver goblets, gold-threaded fabrics, ornate daggers likely meant more for show than for war.

But as lucrative as the coin was, Alpheo knew that wealth wasn’t just measured in silver. He flipped to the next section of the report, eyes glinting as he examined what was arguably an even greater prize—the spoils of war in steel.

By the end of the battle, his army had seized 1,200 pieces of chainmail. Countless helmets, spears, swords, and shields. Enough to outfit an entirely new force should he ever need it. And while footmen’s arms were valuable, the true cream of the loot lay elsewhere.

The cavalry’s equipment.

Alpheo’s fingers tapped against the list as he read through the final tally: 320 warhorses. 370 steel breastplates.

That was a fortune in itself—warhorses alone were priceless, bred and trained for battle in ways that common mounts could never match. And the breastplates? Full steel, crafted for the elite. To outfit heavy cavalry was expensive, often costing more than the men wearing the armor were worth. And now?

Now they belonged to him.

Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head as he looked over at Jarza. “I almost feel bad for them.”

Jarza snorted. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Alpheo agreed, grinning as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Empathy is what makes friends, after all.”

As the last words faded, the gleam in Alpheo’s eyes didn’t. He wasn’t merely counting coin or trophies—he was thinking of the long-game he played .

Because war wasn’t won by what you took. It was won by what you built from what you took.

Alpheo’s army moved to a different rhythm than the traditional hosts of the southern princes. Where his rivals built their forces around the earth-shaking charge of armored knights—those glorious, plated behemoths that noble ballads loved to glorify—Alpheo had crafted something leaner. Faster. Deadlier.

His cavalry were not the ponderous warhammers of conventional warfare, but the razor’s edge of a dagger—light, swift, and lethal in motion. They struck like vipers, fading before the enemy could rally, throwing javelins while keeping the enemy at a distance . They were wolves, not bulls.

Yet for all their effectiveness, Alpheo was not blind to the limitations of his forces. There was a place for heavy cavalry in war—the decisive hammerblow that could shatter enemy formations when the moment demanded it. And though he possessed such a force, they did not ride under his banner alone.

The Golden Steed.

One hundred knights clad in gilded steel, their lances tipped with the promise of ruin. But they were not his. They were his wife’s. Landless nobles, most of them, sworn to the crown.

And now, spread before him on the inventory scrolls, lay the means to change that.

320 warhorses. Prime stock, each beast worth a decade of a footman’s salary.

370 steel cuirasses. Gleaming like silvered mirrors, ready to turn men into moving fortresses.

The temptation was palpable. With this windfall, he could raise a heavy cavalry force of his own—knights sworn directly to him. A fist of steel to complement his army’s swiftness.

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair.

If only it were that simple.

The ledgers did not lie. His standing army—1,050 professional soldiers, paid year-round—already strained his coffers to their limits. Wages. Weapons. Provisions. The endless hemorrhage of silver required to keep a professional force battle-ready, fed and with the best equipment of their time. His monthly income of 2,900 silver was stretched thinner than parchment over a candle flame.Plus, there were many other expenses to take care of outside the military.

So adding a heavy cavalry wing with all of that?

Suicide.

A single warhorse costs between 150 to 230 silverii— just to purchase , and on top of that they had to maintain it . Grain. Fodder. Smiths for their shoes.Trimming. And the riders themselves? They expected a fat stipend at the end of the month.

Alpheo’s fingers drummed against the table.

But waste this opportunity? Never.

His thoughts drifted back to the capital, a place he could finally call home. The royal breeding program of that was a shadow of what it should be—underfunded, mismanaged, a disgrace for a princedom.

Still , a slow smile curled his lips.

Breeding stock.That is what they were going to be

These captured horses were more than battlefield assets—they were bloodlines. Coursers crossed with local mares could produce a new generation of warhorses. In five years? He might never need to buy another mount again.

Jarza, leaning against the wall , arched a brow. “That’s your plotting face.”

”Is it?” Alpheo said, touching his face, which was now showing a smile.

As Alpheo sat in his chamber, salivating over the possibilities of the future the door swung open. The wooden frame creaked slightly as a familiar figure stepped in, moving with the lazy confidence of a man who had seen too much war to be impressed by anything anymore.

The man glanced around before resting his gaze on Alpheo, his expression unreadable.

“You asked for me?” Egil’s voice was as rough as ever, like gravel crunching beneath an iron boot.

Alpheo nodded, leaning forward as he placed his elbows on the desk. “I have a mission for you.”

Egil simply tilted his head, waiting.

Alpheo wasted no time. He explained the situation with the prisoners—all 760 of them. He told him how selling them quickly was impossible, how keeping them was a drain, and how an alternative solution was needed.

Egil listened, arms crossed, his fingers idly tapping against his leather bracer. He gave the matter about five seconds of thought before giving his answer:

“If we can’t sell them, a slit throat is the best option.”

His voice was calm, devoid of hesitation.

Jarza let out an amused snort .

Alpheo only smirked, shaking his head. “That is exactly what Jarza suggested. And yet… I can’t help but think it would be a waste.”

Egil raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Alpheo leaned back in his chair and continued.

“Instead of simply killing them… perhaps we should make use of them.”

Now, that caught their attention.

“Tell me,” Alpheo asked, his eyes gleaming, “do you all know what my biggest complaint in this war is?”

The group exchanged glances before shaking their heads.

Alpheo’s smile widened, but it was not a pleasant one. It was the smile of a man who saw something others did not.

“My biggest problem,” he said, “is that I cannot focus on a single foe. True, I have no problem besting them in the field, and yet I am unable to capitalize on it.There are three of them and only one of us ”

Silence filled the chamber.

“Take this situation as an example. We just sent an entire enemy army underground—utterly crushed them. And yet, we cannot press forward into Oizenian lands. We cannot strike while the iron is hot, because we are stretched thin.The moment we march deeper into their lands, the other jackals will strike at our backs. So, we must hold and go take care of the others first.”

He leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table.

“But what if we didn’t have to? What if we could ensure that someone else fought the war for us, waged battles we ourselves cannot mount?”

His men exchanged glances again. They were intrigued but still not quite sure where he was going with this.

Then, Asag spoke up, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“And… where exactly do the prisoners enter into all of this?”

Alpheo turned to him, smiling.

“Why, my dear Asag… they will be those soldiers.”

And from those innocently-muttered word—

Hell broke loose.