Only God
Chapter 351 - 308: Insignificance

Chapter 351: Chapter 308: Insignificance

Prince Tyrone rode atop a brown steed, clad in a close-fitting breastplate forged of fine iron. The armor was sculpted to resemble muscles and adorned with patterns on the chest, both for decoration and to protect vital areas.

A lengthy procession followed him, their hands gripping a variety of weapons. Most lacked armor, wielding short knives and short swords, along with wood staves and spears tipped with blade edges. Only a few soldiers donned exquisite armor, with finely crafted swords at their waists—they were the nobles or citizen militia of Danschel.

The army was a formidable force of three thousand strong. Though they could not face the enemy head-on, as a vanguard whose task was to sow chaos, they were more than sufficient.

Prince Tyrone turned his head to gaze at the soldiers marching in a single-file formation, his heart inevitably beating with intensity.

After all, Danschel was a minor kingdom with limited strength, unable to muster numerous cavalry units. Even after scouring the entire kingdom, they could only assemble eighty warhorses. King Phillip was well aware that eighty horses were hardly enough even to pick one’s teeth. He ordered that some sturdier pack horses be fed copious amounts of food to repurpose them as warhorses and even integrated some camels, ultimately mustering only one hundred and thirty cavalry in total.

And of these one hundred and thirty riders, a full one hundred were committed to Prince Tyrone’s vanguard.

Seated on his horse, Prince Tyrone took a deep breath. Danschel had not seen battle for many years, boasting at most some minor experience in repelling the nomadic beastmen and barbarians.

Logically, as a prince, he should not be leading the vanguard into the heart of enemy territory.

Initially, King Phillip was reluctant to send his son into jeopardy, but acceded to Tyrone’s insistence, allowing him to lead the troops and appointing a general skilled in repelling nomadic invasions as his adjutant.

Prince Tyrone’s request was not borne of a desire to lead from the front but rather... the throne.

His elder brother had been appointed heir apparent, and it seemed his succession was all but assured, but Tyrone knew that nothing was absolute.

"If only... If only I could secure an unprecedented victory for the kingdom..."

Prince Tyrone gripped the reins tightly, murmuring to himself.

By then, the entire kingdom’s ministers would grovel before him, the generalissimo, and his brother’s seat on the throne would become unstable. Tyrone was confident enough to coerce—or rather, persuade—his father to pass him the throne.

Prince Tyrone’s grip on the reins grew ever tighter, causing his mount to let out a pained neigh.

This cry startled the army trailing behind him, where soldiers drawn by the famine, resembling walking corpses, lifted their eyes with gazes as lifeless as dead water.

...

The internal turmoil of that greater nation played right into Prince Tyrone’s hands.

The city-states along the border spiraled into chaos, crowds starved everywhere, and the enemy soldiers, pale as corpses, crumbled when Prince Tyrone brandished his sword and led the call to charge, his adjutant sounding the horn and raising the battle flag high. Though mostly a ragtag crowd, the soldiers surged forward with a momentum like an unstoppable flood.

The enemy, weakened by famine and unprepared for the assault by Danschel’s troops, were swiftly overwhelmed by the disordered tidal wave of humanity. The enemy’s lines broke immediately upon engagement, and what could have been a battle dissolved into a mere slaughter.

Prince Tyrone effortlessly plundered a city-state, taking all the grain and conscripting the city’s able-bodied men into his army. As for the remaining elderly, women, and children, he felt that by sparing their lives, he was showing the utmost mercy.

The joy of initial victory filled Tyrone with an unrivaled arrogance as he led his burgeoning army to pillage city-state after city-state.

And so, two whole months passed. Under Prince Tyrone’s command, the Danschel forces swept through the land unopposed, not merely ravaging the borderlands like horseflies but also penetrating deep into the enemy’s heartland, dealing blow after blow, winning battle after battle.

The once disorganized army grew more elite through the crucible of war.

The wind howled across the fields littered with corpses.

Plague, famine, and war... Prince Tyrone became a part of it all, reveling in the advantages bestowed by the times and terrain. The once distant throne now seemed ever closer.

Prince Tyrone personally witnessed a child who had just lost his father on the battlefield kneel before them, begging for food, and cursing his father who had been drafted into the army.

Here... death became trivial, kinship nothing more than a fragile word, and a person’s life so meager, like dust upon the earth.

Tyrone felt no pity.

Precisely because life was now so insignificant did he see an opportunity to make his mark.

He wished his life was even more insignificant, more so than dust and dirt.

Victory had gone to his head.

In the heartland of a great nation, atop the plains, Prince Tyrone was mounted on his warhorse, considering which city-state to march on next.

Victory after victory told him that this great nation was already critically ill; diseases and famine ravaged it, while King Nesol was but a quack, reducing the nation to greater ruin each day, as he drew closer and closer to the throne.

Suddenly, a fierce wind blew.

Dust on the ground swirled up in the wind, and the air was filled with the scent of blood.

Prince Tyrone’s warhorse neighed.

His heart skipped a beat.

A premonition suddenly descended but slipped away like a comet, leaving no traction for him to trace it when he tried to follow.

Prince Tyrone looked around, but he saw nothing.

"When will the scouts we sent out return?"

Prince Tyrone asked his adjutant.

"They should be back soon."

The adjutant replied so.

As the time neared dusk, the sun was half-hidden, and visibility gradually weakened.

In the distance, scouts were slowly approaching on horseback.

Prince Tyrone breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps his recent premonition was merely an illusion.

He kicked his warhorse, urging it forward to meet them.

Swoosh!

Prince Tyrone suddenly looked up.

Arrows fell like rain, suddenly launched from a hidden knoll. In the shadow of the sun, they came at them in unison.

"Blow the horn! Blow the horn!"

Prince Tyrone bellowed, tearing at his throat.

In the blink of an eye, the scout who had come from afar was pierced by dozens of arrows, dying on the spot with his horse.

These arrows came down like a downpour, but due to the distance, only a dozen men were hit.

They scrambled to regroup amidst the sound of the horn, with the neighing of horses and men echoing everywhere, and in the distance, the enemy’s banners had appeared.

Prince Tyrone’s head buzzed.

That was the banner of King Nesol...

They were about to face the king’s Forbidden Army...

If a man wishes to belittle others, then he should remember that he too is insignificant, and hardly worth mentioning.