Hector's frontline camp.
The once solemn command tent was now thick with a stifling, restless tension.
"We can't fight this war anymore... we really can't."
The portly Viscount Perez slammed his helmet down on the table, his voice trembling with tears.
His face was flushed, not merely with anger, but with a grief more befitting the loss of his parents.
"Lord Hector, just yesterday! Those damned birds dropped bombs on my manor! My gallery, the oil paintings my grandfather left me... all destroyed!"
Perez clutched his chest as though his heart were bleeding.
"My newlywed wife is still weeping in the ruins, and my subjects are fleeing. My lord, I've paid out of my own pocket to feed, clothe, and equip the five hundred private soldiers I brought here for the past three months! I've already mortgaged two mines for this war!"
At this, Perez stole a glance at his fellow nobles. Seeing the same distress on their faces bolstered his confidence. His voice still trembled with tears, but it was unusually firm.
"Now my estate has been bombed, and I truly... truly cannot afford these enormous military expenses anymore. Please have mercy and allow me to take my troops home to defend it. Even if you only let me go back to see the ruins!"
The eyes of the dozens of nobles standing in the tent-barons, viscounts, and even two counts-flickered uncertainly.
Over the past three days, bad news had indeed arrived one report after another.
Yet beneath this outward gloom, a number of them harbored a secret relief they could hardly admit.
Under the Duchy's laws, there was a time limit on how long vassals had to answer a levy and fight at their own expense. But this damned standoff was a bottomless pit. Every morning brought thousands