NOVEL NEXT Chapter 250: Pure-Steam Island Campaign II
...
Alexander hurried alongside Aurum, their strides nearly in sync as they navigated the chaotic encampment. Their boots sank into the muddy quagmires, slowing their pace as rain dropped onto their mana shields, bouncing away in a beautiful arc.
The scene around them was a whirlwind of activity, each artisan and supporter engrossed in their tasks, striving to execute them with unwavering dedication. The air was thick with the mingling scents of damp earth from freshly dug ditches, acrid fumes of acid and acetone wafting from smoldering campfires where mages guided brewmasters through the delicate process of potion-making, and the fresh aroma of chopped wood as burly beaverkin felled trees and transformed them swiftly into sturdy structures.
Young mages activated mana lanterns, their pale light flickering across the canvas tents and casting jagged shadows. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic clank of metal on metal echoed—soldiers sparring in grim preparation, forging bonds through sweat, blood, and bruises rather than words.
The area they occupied, one of the camps, sprawled across the edges of Pure-Steam Island. Alexander's improvised navy had wrestled this rugged and resource-rich territory from enemy control. The island's defenses were softened through relentless bombardment, assaults, and continuous psychological warfare, forcing its occupants to flee or perish. Once secure, the young noble's forces set to work, flattening and fortifying the ground with spells, alchemical solutions, and relentless manual labor until it was firm enough to support a thriving war camp.
The camp lay relatively open, bordered by a dense and towering jungle. Around its perimeter, a network of traps and watchpoints had been meticulously set. According to reports, these defenses had to be reset and reinforced every night, often claiming the lives of assassins, scouts, or anyone bold—or foolish—enough to attempt an infiltration.
Strategically, the camp's layout offered both cover and defensive options. Multiple palisades served not only as physical barriers but also as a means to channel any potential intruders into controlled zones, where they could be more easily intercepted and neutralized.
All this was like returning home for the old oxkin veteran—Barry followed Alexander, observing the young noble with growing intrigue. 'Fascinating,' he mused, noting how Alexander's sharp gaze quickly identified every flaw in the camp's setup. 'Quite observant.'
Typically, young nobles embarking on their first campaign were never this tense. Usually, the occasion would be filled with boisterous cries of "harah," an atmosphere charged with honor and pride as they marched into battle. Their preparation was meticulous, almost textbook-perfect—sometimes, quite literally.
The reality, however, would swiftly shatter their illusions, driving them through dozens of emotional stages where they fell short of giving up—not by mistake, but by design. Parents from noble families across the land deliberately ensured these campaigns were grueling and unforgiving, believing failure and hardship were the greatest teachers. Great generals, after all, were forged through blood, steel, and the crucible of experience.
Interestingly, the market adapted accordingly. The moment word spread that someone was about to embark on their first campaign, the cost of hiring sellswords soared—placing an unmistakable price on life with rigid conditions.
Still, this was why merits had to be earned. The military was the ultimate proving ground for every aspiring leader—the line where the next Lord or Lady was determined. No matter how intelligent or powerful one might be, there was no title to claim without the ability to lead. These relatively inconsequential campaigns were a test by fire and disasters in waiting, often barely salvaged by experienced allies or advisors who eventually had to take control.
The current Lady's first campaign had been a near-catastrophe—rescued only by the intervention of the current Lord, whose own early experiences had been equally fraught. However, his background in dungeoneering and mercenary work gave him the edge of a battle-hardened veteran instructing a novice. Luckily, the enemy's mistakes were even more remarkable—the reports from that time were worth a read for every veteran if one wanted to have a great laugh.
Barry observed Alexander with eagle-eyed precision, but the old veteran didn't expect the sheer familiarity and poise the young noble exuded—moving through the field with the unshakable confidence of a seasoned soldier. His demeanor shifted seamlessly, baffling Barry as if the battlefield were his natural element. Yet, the old oxkin didn't miss the subtle twitch of Alexander's ears—a telltale tick whenever the Divine Ring chimed, signaling another skill's level increase.
'Hm, I... am actually not worried. Weird,' Barry mused, relaxing as his gut instinct reassured him that nothing catastrophic was imminent. Still, he remained vigilant, ready to protect Alexander should an enemy of significant power—first conjecture or higher—appear.
First and foremost, his job was to protect. Only if Alexander failed or a situation arose that he couldn't understand would advice be offered. While it was a trial by fire, specific problems were impossible to navigate through without experiencing them firsthand.
A sudden shout snapped Barry out of his thoughts. "What do you mean they're fighting?"
Aurum hurried alongside him, slightly out of breath, eyes darting nervously. "They're at each other's throats, Mr. Alexander. Your sisters among them."
"Fuck," Alexander growled. He lifted the flap of a spacious command tent, revealing a scene bordering on mayhem: Sarah, Lorient, and Freya had surrounded Zaphiro, each unloading accusations that threatened to spiral out of control.
Lorient stood firm, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I refuse to let my people be treated as expendable meatshields!" She snapped, crossing her arms. "They're warriors, not shields."
Sarah, Alexander's fiancée, was known for her unwavering stance, unbreakable defense, and quick temper—especially since they hadn't seen each other for some time. "And you want us to cast magic practically on our own lines? That's insane." Her posture was rigid, her eyes aflame with barely restrained fury.
Freya was a muscular, no-nonsense fighter with no patience for polite euphemisms and, even less, not holding back from breaking the necks of people who seemingly annoyed her. "This half-witted scheme's a bleedin' death wish, lad!" she snapped, jabbing a thick finger into Zaphiro's chest and forcing him to stumble backward.
Zaphiro, a charming noble from the Count's lineage, struggled to maintain control of the spiraling conversation. He wiped the sweat from his brow and attempted a debonair laugh, but it emerged more like a wheeze. "My beautiful ladies," he began, forcing a shaky smile, "surely we—"
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Barry tensed. He knew exactly what was happening—charismatic young men who believed their social skills were universal tended to discover that female officers on the battlefield had no patience for empty flirtations. War was grim. The so-called "social generation" of men who excelled at administration and diplomacy often floundered in the harsh environment of a campaign. 'Another second, and they might literally tear him apart,' Barry thought, edging closer to intervene.
Before Lorient, Sarah, and Freya could deliver further humiliation, Alexander's voice cracked like a whip through the air. "Hey!"
A sharp aura rippled through the tent, enough to make them pause. One by one, they turned toward him, their anger still fresh, but their attention diverted. "All of you—out," Alexander ordered. "Go cool off. I need to figure out this mess without people screaming over each other."
They stalked out, glowering in various shades of fury. Barry caught Sarah's eye for a moment; she was livid, but she also recognized her fiancé's authority as the Architect of Warfare in the Leonandra household. Meanwhile, she occupied the post of Grand Beastlord, tasked with actual troop deployment once a plan was decided.
As the tent fell into a tense silence, Alexander pivoted toward Zaphiro, who was nervously dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief. The smile he forced was thin and tremulous, betraying his shaken confidence.
"Alex, my friend," Zaphiro said, his voice wavering. "Always… a pleasure."
Alexander ignored him and studied the large blackboard. Scrawled in chalk was a classic formation: a strong central phalanx, archers and mages positioned to fire overhead, and cavalry poised for flank charges—a standard "encirclement" tactic, widely accepted and battle-tested over centuries in Orbis.
Upon closer inspection, Barry understood the tension in Alexander's expression and the clenching of his fists. Zaphiro wasn't presenting a military strategy—it was a political maneuver. The front lines were composed entirely of fighters from the Strip of Hope, with Iron-Claw cavalry leading the charge and mages ordered to cast spells only after direct contact was made. All soldiers of the more "important" households were in more secure positions.
There were numerous flaws to criticize, starting with the obvious—cavalry was nearly useless in dense jungle terrain, except for a few lizard-mounted riders adept at navigating such obstacles. Placing the Strip of Hope fighters as vanguards would only result in needless casualties, as most were best used as scouts or archers. At the same time, the deployment of mages—still a relatively new addition—risked disastrous friendly fire in such chaotic conditions. Each of these errors could rapidly erode morale and hasten defeat.
Alexander pressed his fingertips to his temple, his frustration barely concealed. "Zaphiro," he said, his voice edged with exasperation, "did you even read the guides I wrote? Or the training materials for these theaters? This island is a labyrinth of hidden dangers—caves, swamps, and who knows what else."
Zaphiro straightened, attempting to project confidence. "I did. But these aren't minor tribal raids you keep referencing in your texts. We're commanding a massive, mixed army. Discipline could collapse if we give your 'distributed command' too much freedom."
Barry arched an eyebrow, hearing this for the first time. He had no objections to the strategy—it was commonly used in resistance operations, splitting into smaller groups to harass and destabilize the enemy. While unconventional for large-scale battles, it could still work here. The troop leaders would gain more autonomy, making decisions on the fly. As Barry recalled the finer points of the approach, he found himself intrigued by its potential.
Alexander nearly rolled his eyes. "Large or small, the principle remains the same. Different races fight differently—there's no one-size-fits-all formation. And—" he jabbed a finger at the board, "—where's your 'softening' phase before you commit ground forces? Where is the air support? We have avian kin and druid-trained birds—use them! I want those little bastards to earn their keep!"
Zaphiro looked faintly embarrassed. "Crumbling the terrain with broad spells feels... undignified. Mages should deliver decisive strikes, not scatter magic aimlessly across the battlefield."
"Oh?" Alexander clenched his jaw, taking a measured breath. "Since when did you become the expert on using mages? If I recall, before me, Moorgrel had only a couple of those fat lizards as aides, and that was it!"
Zaphiro narrowed his eyes at Alexander. "So what?" he shot back. "Just because you know how to cast spells doesn't mean you understand how to maximize their use in a real battle!"
'This... is hard to decide,' Barry muttered, ready to intervene, though even he struggled to pick a side. Mages in such numbers were a new resource, their potential still largely uncharted due to the absence of established writings. Even in central Mal-Gil, where dragonkin households borrowed esteemed mages, they were treated with reverence—an approach that hardly fit the current battlefield scenario.
"Listen. We have wide-range spells and specialized artifacts to back them up. On this island, there's no guarantee the enemy will conveniently line up for your cavalry charge." Alexander's voice was taut with restraint. "We must break their morale before we advance. If we don't shake them first, we'll be the ones shaken."
Zaphiro's voice rose, frustration twisting his features. "But if it fails, morale collapses, and the troops will see your 'experimental approach' as a fiasco. We'll be labeled reckless from day one!"
Alexander stepped closer, aura pressing ominously against Zaphiro. "This isn't a fencing competition. You cling to outdated tactics, and we'll lose more than morale—we'll lose hundreds of men and women." He folded his arms, gaze boring into the young Count's son. "Have you even read the reports on advanced weaponry or bizarre technology these enemy factions might possess?"
Zaphiro shrugged, face souring. "I saw references to 'supreme weapons' and advanced machinery. But we've got no proof."
Alexander's temper flared. "We do—Oyaras showed me enough. If you think Orbis' standard gear can't be outmatched, you haven't fought the right enemies." He tore open a spatial pouch, pulled out a greenish-brown uniform, and tossed it to Zaphiro. "Wear that instead of your gaudy coat. Also, for the love of Orbis, use coded language to discuss strategic details. If I see leaders bragging about plans in open tents, I'll personally tie them to a stake in front of the mages."
Zaphiro's face darkened, but he held his tongue as Alexander strode outside, muttering under his breath, "Fucking Nepos. Feels like Mali all over again."
Barry followed Alexander. He'd seen enough: The boy understood the nuance of warfare—like controlling information flow or preventing moral collapse. No textbook teaches that Barry marveled. It hinted that Alexander had real, boots-on-the-ground experience, or at least knowledge gleaned from countless hours of drilling. Regardless, Barry was under strict orders not to intervene unless Alexander risked an outright tragedy.
As Barry walked out with Alexander, an eerie silence settled around the boy. Barry followed his gaze, watching as Alexander meticulously analyzed every flaw and oversight in the camp. 'Remarkable,' Barry thought, a slight smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. 'They were wrong about him.'
Kairoso and Marisia instructed Barry to watch closely and prevent extreme actions. They feared Alexander might deploy some new invention that could endanger their troops, even if it meant overwhelming the enemy. However, after observing his exchange with Zaphiro, it became clear that such recklessness wasn't on the table—at least not this time.
However, there was another recurring problem—the same one faced by the Lady and Lord of the North. They were overwhelmingly powerful, capable of fighting and winning battles independently. Yet, aside from their personal trainees, their leadership skills remained average at best.
Geniuses often carried enormous egos and insisted on handling everything themselves, but even the best couldn't be everywhere at once. Some attempted to solve this by taming creatures, cloning, or creating copies of themselves. However, these methods rarely succeeded. Once they were gone, the military collapsed with them. Far too many short-lived kingdoms and empires crumbled because they relied entirely on one individual.
The Leonandra household had endured its share of terrible leaders over the generations. Fortunately, Marisia understood the value of a strong foundation, and Alexander's leadership would ensure that that legacy of stability endured.
When Alexander halted outside, he pressed a palm against a wooden post, aura surging in a visible ripple. "They're children," he muttered, exasperation coloring his tone. Then, inhaling sharply, he magnified his voice with a spell: "ALL LIEUTENANTS, OFFICERS, AND TROOP LEADERS—REPORT TO TENT 28 IMMEDIATELY!"