Arthur stood atop Diogo's head. Diogo's enormous body sprawled lazily over a small hillock, his three massive heads extending over a cliff more than a hundred meters high as he looked down upon the soldiers marching through the valley below like a black dragon.
Armor clanged, and steel-plated boot soles struck the ground with booming thuds. This was the Snow Tiger Legion, one of the elite heavy infantry corps Arthur had spared no effort to forge. One hundred thousand high-spirited soldiers marched in neat formation, howling battle songs as they advanced at a brisk pace with an aura that promised to destroy all and tear all apart.
Diogo yawned atop the cliff. The Snow Tiger Legion soldiers saw dragon breath billowing from his nostrils, yet not only were they not the least bit afraid, their fighting spirit soared even higher—when such a mighty dragon stood in their camp, what enemy could possibly withstand their assault?
Ten miles away, another army marching through a different valley made Arthur, watching from above, furrow his brow.
Compared to the elite personal legion beneath his feet, which Arthur had spent several years equipping, the army ten miles away dragged its feet as it marched. Every soldier shuffled forward step by step, limp and listless, like walking corpses. There was not a shred of fighting spirit or vitality to be seen in them, and the sight of those soldiers clad in leather armor made Arthur's anger flare again and again.
A few months ago, these vast numbers of soldiers had still been farmers, drifters from the streets and markets, and small merchants in the cities. But with a compulsory conscription order from Arthur, these able-bodied men had been forcibly drafted into the army. More than ninety-nine percent of them were ordinary commoners; they had only