Chapter 67
Chapter 67
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 67
Chapter Title: Operation Enema (2)
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We pushed on without rest for two full days before finally reaching our destination. It had been a grueling journey over countless cliffs and mountains, but the moment we crested the cliff overlooking Polkin Pass, everyone's spirits soared—they were practically bouncing with energy.
Victory was in sight.
Once they seized this place, the war would take a dramatic turn, and they'd rack up massive merits for their homeland. The days of being scorned as failed heirs, the years of disdain as lesser sons—they'd all be behind them. Each one would rise as a proud high-ranking noble, forever etched in Sika Clan history as the greatest heroes for conquering the ironclad fortress of Polkin.
"Alright. Go silent and wait until nightfall. We strike precisely at midnight. Rest up until then—no slip-ups on the plan."
I let my men rest, then slipped off my mask as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. I descended the cliff path in secret and infiltrated Polkin Pass. There was one loose end to tie up before the main assault: Count Malthus.
Count Malthus was a mid-tier Master swordsman and the overall commander of Polkin Pass. Take him out, and our odds of success skyrocketed.
Plus, I needed to scout any potential variables inside the pass. There could be unexpected enemy forces or odd troop movements. The Kasim unit might've handled it regardless, but without them, caution was key.
Chatter filled the air.
Polkin Pass's entertainment district buzzed with life. Taverns overflowed with locals and soldiers alike, while the streets rang with the clamor of drunken revelers.
I popped into a nearby tavern and bought some booze. Then, feigning a solid buzz, I clutched bottles in both hands, staggered through the streets. Camouflage.
First, I passed by the barracks. Security was tight, as expected, but most of the troops—barring the guards—were hunkered inside. A swift rush should let us neutralize the bulk of them in their beds.
"Hey, who're you?"
A voice called from behind—Polkin guards. I glanced back casually.
"Me? Mercenary."
"Don't recognize you around here. Show us your badge."
Checkpoint, as anticipated. Polkin was no slouch on vigilance. I fished out my mercenary tag from my pocket.
"Here."
"What's a merc doing in Polkin Pass?"
"Just passing through to Braam."
One guard eyed me.
"Why?"
"War's on, right? Figured I'd cash in."
He tossed the badge back.
"Watch yourself. Heard a merc company got wiped out recently. Rumors say thousands bit the dust."
I flashed my bottle.
"Heh, that's merc life. 'Live fast, die young'—our motto and philosophy rolled into one."
"Fair enough."
The guards relaxed and moved on. I headed to the next spot: the walls near the gate. Hard to tell from down here, but judging by the torchlights shuffling about, there were around a hundred up top.
One oddity stood out. Tents blanketed the area before the gate, wagons lined up in rows. Beyond the few hundred soldiers, plenty of porters suggested a supply train.
'Damn. Extra five hundred.'
Enemy strength bumped to 3,500. Not elites since it was logistics, but still a wildcard.
Luckily, that was it. Guard levels matched routine, troop dispositions unchanged. Being far from the front lines, they hadn't ramped up security.
Recon done, time for the real job: nabbing Count Malthus.
'Snagging the count? Piece of cake.'
The count's strength and flaw alike: a near-obsessive routine. Well past sunset, he'd be deep in dreamland by now.
I hopped lightly from rooftop to rooftop in a quiet upscale neighborhood. My mana was thoroughly suppressed, my steps feather-soft on the tiles.
This was where Polkin's knights bunked. Masters or not, they all cultivated mana—senses sharp as razors. One slip, and I'd be busted.
'There.'
A grand mansion sat smack in the middle. One knight and five soldiers stood guard at the door; four pairs of patrols circled the perimeter.
I ducked behind a wall in the adjacent yard, timing it perfectly.
The gap came—I bolted across the street and vaulted the mansion wall. No external alarms yet.
I landed soft in the flowerbed, scanned around.
Clear nearby, mansion lights all out. I circled back, slid a thin rod through a closed window latch, unhooked it, and slipped inside.
Dead quiet within. Faint auras from the count's servants, but holed up in their rooms—no wandering.
The count despised nighttime prowlers. Servants handled even bathroom breaks in-room to avoid waking him and catching hell.
Smooth sailing—I crept up to the second floor.
'Bingo.'
Thick mana leaked from the central room's door crack. Had to be Malthus. I pulled a bundle of herbs from my pocket, lit it, and set it in a saucer from downstairs.
Loran's Poison Smoke.
Holding my breath, I eased the door open and slid the smoldering dish inside.
'Dead or alive? Would be nice to capture for leverage... eh, dead works too.'
The smoke paralyzed on inhale, lethal in high doses. A full pinch in a sealed room? Civilians goners, but a Master might pull through.
After a while, I aired out the room through a cracked window. Smoke cleared—I approached the bed.
The blond count lay corpse-still. Slaps got zero reaction. Fully paralyzed.
Checked his breathing, pulse—faint, but alive. I trussed him tight with rope and stuffed him in an oak barrel in the basement.
Back at the cliff with my unit, I briefed on adjustments: reallocating for the gate's supply troops. West wall: 200. Barracks assault: 1,500. Knight district: 1,300. East gate: 700. Remaining 300 as my reserves.
Midnight struck—we descended en masse, launching the Polkin seizure.
Into the outskirts, men fanned to their zones.
I led reserves to the upscale district—highest risk, central for rapid support anywhere.
"Who the hell are these guys?"
"Look like Sika folk. Union army maybe?"
Pass locals gawked, clueless as we paraded the entertainment strip. Hadn't clocked us as invaders yet. But my casual slaughter of patrolling guards shattered that—screams erupted as they scattered.
Those screams echoed futilely. We dispersed faster to our posts.
Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling.
Emergency bells from the barracks rang once, twice—then silence. Bayan had them pinned smooth. Next, torches thrashed on the west wall—fighting there too.
At the knight district, I carved through patrols, pushing inward.
Sounds of forced entries: windows shattering, doors kicked in. Men dragged out underwear-clad knights and families at swordpoint.
I rounded to the count's mansion. Armed holdouts inside.
The guarding knight froze at our dark rush, then lunged as I closed in.
"Halt! What unit are you?!"
Subdued before drawing steel. Nearby soldiers dropped spears at our overwhelming numbers, hands up.
Cries of terror begged mercy everywhere. Lobros knights, half-dressed, surrendered sans fight to save kin.
'Too easy. Flashy exterior, hollow core.'
First time for such a cakewalk battle. Eerily smooth and quiet—unsettling even. Occasional shouts and steel clangs faded quick into tomb-like hush.
I redirected reserves to the east gate.
This zone was done.
Knights pinched themselves en route, dazed. Pulled from beds, no fight in 'em.
"Enemy! Invasion!"
A few messengers from the gate dashed over, yelling. Mistook me for ally at first sight—till my troops encircled, disarming them.
Ordered men to haul them off, rushed to the gate. Messengers meant trouble there.
"Hold them!"
"Take the wall!"
Chaos at the gate. Supply troops mopped up, but wall assault stalled.
Single straight ramp up the left—blocked by barricades, funneling our rush into arrow fodder.
I found Nazir glaring anxiously upward.
"Nazir, status?"
"Well... some wall troops spotted us infiltrating. By arrival, they'd barricaded the ramp and were waiting."
Wall was towering—great sightlines, easy to spot attacks. Wide plaza between district and gate delayed our timing too.
I patted Nazir's back.
"Unavoidable. Enemy got the drop—no helping it."
"But..."
"Don't sweat it. I'll handle."
Yojjo gripped tight, I charged the ramp. Arrows incoming, but no matter—Freyker leather bounced them clean.
Nearly at the top, I leaped, beheading the command knight in one stroke. Swept Yojjo wide, shredding barricade and nearby defenders.
"Master cleared the path! Charge!"
Everything snowballed. Archers dropped bows under our hundreds; resisting spearmen folded to encirclement.
Soon, one Lobros soldier sheathed his blade in surrender—wall secured.
'We did it?'
Kara's banners rose across Polkin. Near-bloodless triumph—our cheers roared; foes and civilians stared in stunned defeat, dragged off or peering from windows.
But ops weren't over. Battle won, tasks remained. I barked my hyped men to order, started cleanup.
"Bayan, corral prisoners under watch, bolster wall defenses."
"Yes, sir."
"Nazir, form patrols for internal security, inventory city resources and supplies."
"Yes, sir."
Tasks delegated, I stashed the count politely in a warehouse, then hit the magic comms relay. Detailed the victory to every Great Desert emir.
Short version: war's done—fall in line. Part of softening Desert forces and Lobros army morale.
Duke Bastain's Lobros host had homeland supply lines cut, but local Desert sourcing lingered.
They'd scrape by minimally, but severing it fully would cripple Lobros mobility.
End of Operation Enema (2)