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TWL Chapter 368: The Calm Before the Roar
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 04:32:40 +0000 UTCThe battlefield around Lyria thundered with shouts. Though outnumbered several times over, the Lyrians’ will to fight remained fierce. Northerners often saw Lyrians as backward and savage, they were very much like the people of Cintra.
Yet in this world governed by reality, sheer willpower does not create miracles. The fierce cries of the capital soon began to weaken.
Even given the elite nature of the Black Army, it was unusual for them to breach a fortified city this quickly—but Ardal showed no surprise. With practiced patience, he waited a while longer outside the walls… and soon, the moment he’d anticipated arrived.
The nearly-collapsing city gate slowly opened before Ardal. The Black Army escorted a group of Lyrian nobles forward to stand before the commander.
They had come on behalf of the Lyrian court—to formally surrender.
Suddenly, one of the elderly nobles at the front of the group broke away and rushed forward. The Black Army soldiers immediately raised their weapons toward him, but Ardal raised a hand and signaled for them to stand down, allowing the man to approach—until he was ten paces away.
“Duke aep Dahy.” The old man, dressed in a flamboyant ruffled collar and green brocade, leaned on a jeweled cane as he spoke. “As you can see, I’ve fulfilled my end of the agreement and eased the way for the Black Army. So, will you...?”
“Count Caldwell,” Ardal called him by name and title. “Of course. As we agreed, we will support Prince Villem’s ascent to the throne. And you shall continue serving as his tutor—guiding him on how to become a ‘proper, competent’ king.”
Hearing Ardal’s promise, a pleased smile spread across Count Caldwell’s plump face. He planted his golden-inlaid cane firmly into the ground and straightened his back as if he were the victor here.
Ardal’s expression remained gentle. He didn’t hate these spineless traitors—on the contrary, he loved them. They allowed his courtly scheming to take root on the battlefield. Thanks to them, he had achieved even greater victories than seasoned generals, and with that, gained ever more influence within Nilfgaard.
Though Caldwell was still putting on airs, Ardal could tolerate it. He needed the man alive—and doing well—so he could continue applying his political machinations to the wars yet to come.
But Ardal’s expression quickly darkened. Staring at the fallen city of Lyria, he asked the most pressing question: “Count Caldwell. Where is Queen Meve?”
Caldwell’s face paled slightly. He swallowed hard. “Her Majesty departed two days ago… toward the border between Rivia and Aedirn. I believe she went to seek aid from Demavend III…”
“Two days?” Ardal repeated, voice rising. “Two days—ha!”
The Eastern Army Group’s supreme commander suddenly roared: “Just two days! And you couldn’t even delay that woman Meve?! Do you have any idea how much effort your incompetence will cost us?!”
Count Caldwell’s grip on his cane faltered, and he staggered back a step. In a soft, trembling voice, he stammered: “My deepest apologies, Duke aep Dahy… but you—you can’t speak to me like that. I’m your friend. A man of standing, not one of your subordinates…”
Ardal’s fierce expression instantly gave way to calm. He looked at Caldwell with courtly elegance and nodded gently. “Yes. Of course. As your friend… may I point out a small mistake you’ve made? Just to help you. A favor, let’s say?”
“Thank you, most sincerely… What sort of favor?”
Ardal offered a court-perfect smile and turned his gaze to the side—where the remaining senior Lyrian officials stood. Many were already cursing Caldwell’s betrayal in fury and despair.
“You shouldn’t have revealed our relationship here. You must maintain the image of a loyal subject if you’re going to help me manage Lyria… Now poor Prince Villem is about to lose a good number of his old advisors…”
With a sudden wave of his hand, Ardal gave the order.
The Black Army obeyed instantly. Their steel pierced through the bodies of Lyria’s dignitaries. Some frantically reached toward Caldwell for help, but it was useless.
After the soldiers’ blood, the nobles’ blood stained the capital of Lyria.
“Look what I’ve done for you, Count Caldwell. Consider this my first return gift to you. Do you like it?”
Caldwell’s face turned even paler. “Duke aep Dahy… many of them were my friends—our friends. Achieving this outcome… wasn’t something I could’ve done on my own…”
Ardal cut off the pudgy old man mid-sentence. “No, Count, you can do it. And you will continue to do it—for us, and for Lyria.”
Seeing Count Caldwell lower his head once again, Ardal maintained his impeccable smile and stepped forward, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Now then, take me to see Prince Villem. He’s still in the city, isn’t he? I don’t have much time, so I hope you’ve already tried talking some sense into him—for the people of Lyria, for peace, and all that.”
Count Caldwell wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded, trembling.
However, before Ardal could enjoy the sweet taste of victory with his 'friend', a low, rumbling horn suddenly echoed from behind them.
Ardal spun around sharply. That sound meant only one thing—an enemy attack!
A rider galloped toward him at speed. Even before reaching the command group, he was already shouting: “General aep Dahy! Enemy forces approaching from the north!”
At the report, Ardal wasn’t alarmed—he was delighted. He quickly climbed up to the battlements of Lyria’s city wall and demanded a spyglass. In an instant, the distant battlefield snapped into focus, as if it were right before his eyes.
The Nilfgaardians made no move to retreat into the city or rely on its walls for defense. That wasn’t their style—they excelled in open-field warfare. With horns blaring across the landscape, the Black Army soldiers—many of whom had failed to distinguish themselves in the previous siege—quickly reorganized themselves with renewed morale, eager for the chance to prove themselves against a fresh enemy.
“Let’s see now… quite a few banners. It’s a coalition. Aedirn is bringing up the rear, trailing behind the forward troops... Hah. A coalition already showing cracks?”
“The black hawk over diamonds banner… that’s Meve, no doubt. She must’ve rushed back after hearing the capital had fallen. Too bad—it’s too late. And she moved too quickly—got separated from Aedirn’s forces, didn’t you, Meve…”
Having identified the enemy composition, even Ardal couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. So far in Nilfgaard’s northern campaign, the major gains were the captures of Cintra and Lower Sodden. But today—he had a real chance to surpass those victories!
“Wait… what’s that cavalry unit at the very front? It’s far ahead of Meve’s troops…”
Ardal leaned in closer, then froze slightly.
“That banner… the Cintran Three Lions?!”
Ardal slammed down the telescope, his entire face flushed with excitement. He forced himself to take a deep breath and think clearly, then turned and roared at the messenger: “Deploy our cavalry! Send in the Ard Feainn Division! Today, not a single one of the enemy must leave this place alive!”
...
A fierce wind swept across their faces, and the Three Lions banner snapped violently overhead.
Beneath the banner, the Lion of Cintra galloped at the head of the formation.
Blackwind stood at least a head taller than the warhorses around him, allowing everyone in the cavalry column to clearly see Lann’s back—and the Gryphon cloak fluttering behind him.
At that moment, he seemed to have become a banner himself.
There were no other Cintrans by Lann’s side. Instead, he was surrounded by cavalry from Lyria, Rivia, and Aedirn. Closest to him was Rayla, who still couldn’t quite believe she had agreed to take part in such a reckless plan.
As hooves pounded and dust flew, her mind drifted back to when Lann first proposed this plan inside the command tent—
…
Facing off against an enemy force, charging through the frontline to kill the commander and capture their banner was, in Lann’s view, the simplest, most direct, and most effective tactic. But given the disparity in strength between both sides, he feared that their coalition army might collapse before he even broke into the enemy formation.
And considering the temperaments of Queen Meve and Demavend III, Lann decided to opt for a slightly more sophisticated method—teleportation combat.
This 'teleportation' didn’t refer to the system skill Lann possessed. Since he had never been to Rivia and thus hadn’t placed a teleportation marker there, he couldn’t use the system’s long-range jump feature.
No, this teleportation referred to the mages’ Teleportation Gate magic.
But that brought up a new problem: mages had no way of knowing the exact location of the enemy commander. Magical reconnaissance to determine their position was out of the question, since Nilfgaard’s main camp would certainly have its own mage units equipped with countermeasures—and possibly even counterattacks—against such probing.
So the only option left was a more dangerous approach: send in harassment units to provoke low-intensity skirmishes, thereby forcing the Black Army to mobilize their forces. This would compel the Nilfgaardians to raise their largest command flag to rally morale—a flag that Ardal usually kept carefully hidden. After all, no commander would normally make their position so obvious during encampment.
That raised flag would then serve as the coordinate for the teleportation gate.
To avoid launching an all-out assault too early, Demavend and Meve’s armies had to hold back and let the harassment units act first—waiting for the exact moment when Nilfgaard descended into chaos. Only then would the entire army charge forward, maximizing their advantage and aiming to break Nilfgaard’s forces in a single strike.
This meant that the harassment units, operating apart from the main army, were essentially “bait.” And not just any bait—they had to be strong enough to endure Nilfgaard’s initial probing attacks and provoke a full-scale mobilization of their forces.
So Lann stepped in and raised his Three Lions banner. Meve and Demavend sent their finest warriors to support him.
That, in essence, was the plan.
