Chapter 253: Easy prey
The night had been sleepless for most. Even with the enemy scouts crushed, the image of them slipping through the mist lingered in the cadets’ minds like a nightmare that refused to end. Every rustle of grass beyond the palisades drew tense glances. Every whistle of wind through the trees had nervous hands gripping weapons tighter. Bedrolls were abandoned, fires burned low, and conversation drifted only in hushed fragments, as though the night itself had ears.
Some of the boys had tried to sleep, wrapping themselves in thin blankets and pressing their faces against rolled packs, but the ground was too cold, too damp. Their shoulders stiffened with every sound, their eyelids flew open at the faintest creak of wood or shift of footsteps. Even the ones who managed a few hours of rest woke drenched in sweat, breathing fast, as if still locked inside the mist-shrouded chase.
A few had sat around the dying fires, rubbing their hands together though no warmth came. One muttered about home, another about food, another about whether the enemy was even human at all. But none of them spoke long. The words died too quickly in the heavy air.
When dawn came, it did not bring comfort. The mist had thinned, but the air hung heavy, cold, damp, and clinging. Every breath felt as though it stuck to the back of the throat, coating the tongue with the taste of wet ash. The cadets gathered in the camp square at Sun’s command, armor buckled in haste, weapons strapped at their sides. Faces were drawn, sleepless eyes hollow, breaths shallow with anticipation. Some still had their hair tangled from the night, helmets tugged on carelessly, straps uneven.
The square itself was little more than a patch of packed dirt and trampled grass, ringed by wagons and tents, yet this morning it felt like a stage. Every cadet stepped onto it with the unease of actors waiting for a play they didn’t understand.
Sun was already waiting for them. His presence dominated the square, posture stiff and commanding, his dark hair damp with morning dew. Both of his swords gleamed across his back, untouched but polished to a mirror shine. He looked untouched by the night, as though exhaustion dared not approach him. There was not even the faintest shadow under his eyes. He stood tall, chin lifted, gaze hard, and the nobles clustered close around him, eager for clarity, for hierarchy, for something familiar to cling to.
For them, Sun was not just a leader. He was a tether to the order they had grown up believing in — noble blood at the top, commoners following beneath. Even fear could not erase that.
"We advance," Sun declared, his voice cutting through the morning haze. "The enemy won’t expect it. If we strike before they settle their formation, we can cripple their foothold. Boldness wins wars."
The words landed like stones thrown into water, rippling outward. A few cadets straightened instantly, their relief plain — decisive orders, firm direction, the kind of plan they could cling to even if it meant blood. They breathed easier at the sound of a leader who sounded sure, almost proud.
Others hesitated, glancing sidelong at one another. Their minds still replayed the night’s terror, the way panic had nearly broken them until Jae had anchored the line. They remembered how narrow their survival had been, how close the darkness had come. Boldness, they thought uneasily, had nearly cost them their lives already.
Byun, who had been leaning lazily against a wagon, twirled a coin over his knuckles. His grin was crooked, but his eyes gleamed with sharp awareness. The coin caught bits of the dull morning light, flashing with each turn. He angled his head toward Jae, his voice low enough to carry only between them. "Well, nothing like charging straight at death to wake you up in the morning. Better than coffee. Probably worse for your health, though."
Jae didn’t return the quip. No smirk, no faint glimmer of amusement. His gaze was fixed on Sun, calm but narrowing, as if weighing every word, as if taking the measure of the prince not only as a leader but as a man.
Sun went on, his hand sweeping toward the misty ridges. "We’ll split into three wings. My unit will spearhead the center line. The right flank sweeps the grassland. The left—" His voice sharpened, like a blade angled at a throat. "—will take the high ground. Farmboy, you’ll hold it. Do not falter."
The title stung, sharp and deliberate, a reminder of station and scorn. A few nobles smirked faintly at the insult, lips curling in cruel amusement. Others stiffened, caught between contempt and unease. The cadets heard it too, the insult folded into the order, and though none spoke, many shifted uncomfortably, their fingers twitching against their sword hilts or the edges of their shields.
But more than the insult, it was the plan itself that made the cadets shift. Even those less versed in strategy felt the flaw in their bones. To divide their already green forces into three separate paths, across enemy ground they barely understood, was reckless at best. At worst—it was suicide.
A murmur ran through the ranks, low and uncertain. Someone coughed. Someone else adjusted their grip on their spear, more out of nerves than necessity. Boots shuffled in the dirt. It was the sound of men too afraid to voice their doubts yet too aware of danger to stand easy.
But no one spoke. Not until Jae stepped forward.
"No."
The word was calm, quiet — but it cut the assembly as surely as a blade.
The murmurs died at once. Every head turned. Even the morning wind seemed to pause, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the enemy camp and holding it, waiting.
Sun’s eyes snapped toward him. His voice sharpened. "What did you say?"
Jae didn’t flinch. His red eyes glowed faintly in the pale dawn. "You’ll throw them away," he said evenly. He gestured toward the ridge, where enemy campfires still smoldered in the distance, faint wisps of smoke curling into the sky. "Split wings will be easy prey. They’ll roll over one side, then crush the rest. You’re not leading a strike. You’re walking us into their jaws."