Karl was indeed detestable, but even so, the arrow was already on the string—there was no choice but to loose it!
An army of one hundred thousand, the strength of an entire nation, had marched hundreds of kilometers, its supply wagons stretching like a dragon, its momentum vast and thunderous.
At this very moment, what would it mean if they hesitated before a single well-defended city, or even turned back and retreated?
It would mean that Sauron's war machine had shown fear before the name Karl von Schmidt! It would mean that he, Harald—the King of Sauron, who aspired to unify the Northern Territory and scheme for a southern campaign—had publicly admitted his fear of a border lord!
Once that news spread, morale would crumble in an instant—more fatal than any defeat on the battlefield.
The soldiers would think: Even the King fears Carnford. Why should we go die? If Sauron's banners appeared before the Carnford Army again in the future, they would likely lose their nerve before battle even began and collapse without fighting.
He would rather suffer grievous losses beneath this steel city wall—even endure a crushing defeat—than lose the army's morale before the battle! Once morale was lost, reclaiming it would require not merely victory, but ten times the blood and fire.
He suddenly shook his head, the motion somewhat violent, as though trying to completely dispel the gloom of casualty figures from his mind, along with that faint wariness buried deep inside him—a wariness he himself was unwilling to admit.
He was Harald, the king destined to conquer the south!
His gaze sharpened once more, burning with an unshakable will.
"Hyah!" Harald barked low, fiercely squeezing his horse's flanks. His powerful black warhorse gave a long neigh and reared up, then carried him charging toward a