Night cloaked the mountain forests. The wind howled through the trees as the people hurried along, panting.
Countless torches formed a winding dragon of fire, moving west along the rugged mountain road toward Vicon Gorge.
The mobilized peasant soldiers, dressed in homespun clothes, gripped their pitchforks, hoes, and axes. Flames burned in their chests, scorching their bodies as their blood boiled.
The promise of "land in return for military merit" burned in their hearts more fiercely than the hottest fire.
Suleiman rode at the front, watching the farmers carrying all manner of tools. Only a few had military spears. They had no armor, and could only tie wooden boards to their bodies as makeshift protection. He sighed.
The weather had warmed, and the ice and snow in the Brightmoon Mountains had melted, swelling the river into a raging torrent. There could be no better opportunity. If he missed it, who knew how long he would have to wait? But damn it, Bana and Bolong still hadn't returned. He didn't have enough armor to equip everyone, or even enough standard-issue weapons. All he could do was give three hundred junior officers cloth armor and battered swords, then equip fifty personal guards with chain mail and good swords. As a vital strategic resource in the age of cold weapons, iron ore was a problem he had to find a way to solve.
The column reached a fork in the road.
One path led west to Vicon Gorge, the battlefield marked on the map.
The other wound downhill toward a riverbank shrouded in darkness, where the torrent from the Brightmoon Mountains rushed past.
Everyone instinctively prepared to turn west.
But Suleiman suddenly raised his arm. His voice rang clear in the night wind, carrying an unmistakable command: "The entire army, turn! Our destination