Paul stood atop the towering walls of Laos, his fingers lightly tapping the stone bricks of the battlements.
In the morning light, heavy cannons stood in rows along the walls, their dark barrels gleaming with a cold metallic sheen. He reached out and stroked the chilly body of one cannon, a confident smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Are all our cannons ready?" he asked without turning his head.
"All cannons are in position, my lord."
Schroeder, standing beside him, answered with his back straight. "We have ample ammunition, and the gunners are all experienced veterans."
Paul nodded in satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over the Defensive Fortifications carefully arranged outside the city: three zigzagging trenches, Anti-Cavalry Obstacles covered in sharpened stakes, and pits that looked haphazard but had been placed with great care—all death traps prepared for the Orcish Cavalry.
The balloons being used for reconnaissance had already risen into the air, standing out against the azure sky.
"Excellent." Paul accepted the telescope. His calm eyes were reflected in its lenses. "Judging from the enemy's departure time, they're still about a day away. Let the soldiers get a good rest. When the enemy arrives..." His fingers slid across the cannon barrel. "We'll give them a proper welcome with these 'Salute Cannons.'"
On the city wall, the soldiers were inspecting their rifles. The clang of metal, the sounds of loading ammunition, and occasional laughter mingled together, revealing the tension and anticipation before the great battle.
Paul drew a deep breath. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and grease—this was the scent of war that belonged to him.
He turned to the officers under his command and said, "I'm going to make Alba suffer a major setback here. Hahahaha!"
Marquis Paul Greiman could be said to be