Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 119: The Real Battle Begins

Chapter 119: The Real Battle Begins

Lara had just finished her breakfast inside the infirmary when the indescribable, otherworldly sounds she’d heard earlier that morning drifted into the tent once more. The strange cacophony tugged at her curiosity, pulling her to her feet.

She stepped outside, the morning sun casting long shadows over the camp. Spotting Angus and Aramis nearby, she approached them.

"Those people did not leave yet?" she asked, her brow furrowing. She craned her neck to get a view of the Gwamuros plain.

"No," Angus replied, arms crossed as he watched the commotion. "They advanced by about a hundred meters. Looks like they’re performing some kind of ritual."

"Ritual?" Lara’s interest was piqued. Without waiting for more, she strode toward the front of the camp, where the entrance of the Sentro loomed in the distance.

What she saw made her pause. A vast crowd sprawled across the field — men, women, and children of all sizes forming a living tide. The older villagers and women carried drums, bugles, and trumpets, their hands weathered and trembling. For some, it might be their first time holding such instruments.

The children, too small for proper instruments, banged pans together like makeshift cymbals. The air throbbed with sound as they paraded back and forth in front of the camp, their rhythms chaotic, their horns blaring toward Northem’s encampment with unsettling purpose.

Lara’s gaze drifted to a group gathered under a shady tree at the camp’s edge. The two Norse generals, Odin and Marlon, and other commanders stood there, their faces dark with contemplation. Slowly, she made her way toward them, her eyes flicking back to the bizarre display.

"What are they doing?" she asked aloud to one in particular.

"Don’t you see it? They are marching in front of the camp and just going back and forth, making all that noise and doing the stupidest thing." Merlin commented with a hint of arrogance.

"Our spy said they have a religious leader among them, riling them up. He told the people that they will camp for six days blowing the bugles and the trumpets and banging the drums and on the seventh day, the army of Northem would perish from the wrath of the Neptuno, who is the god worshipped by the people of Carles." He sneered. "Superstitious fools."

Lara frowned. The story sounded strangely familiar. She heard the story before. Her mind raced, sifting through old tales and legends until the memory clicked into place.

The fall of Jericho.

She’d heard it before — the tale of the Israelites marching around the city walls for six days, blowing their trumpets, and on the seventh, the walls crumbled, and Jericho fell. Was that what the religious leader told the people of Carles? Was that what these villagers were trying to replicate?

A grin tugged at her lips, though she wasn’t sure if it was amusement or unease.

Suddenly, a familiar scent drifted past her nose — medicinal herbs, and the weight of a presence loomed behind her. Lara turned — and nearly collided with a broad chest. She stumbled back, blinking up into Alaric’s face.

The surroundings stilled. It was as if someone pressed the pause button. Whispers rippled through the ranks.

"Huh! That soldier is so bold. He did not apologize to the prince!" someone muttered.

Lara, acutely aware of the hushed murmurs surrounding her, wanted to avoid complications. Determined to keep the situation from escalating, she lowered her head slightly. With a voice loud enough for others to hear, she declared, "I sincerely and humbly apologize to His Highness," her tone laced with humility, "I was lost in thought, my gaze wandering, and nearly collided with you."

Everyone was dumbfounded. The murmurs quieted, though the tension in the air lingered. They felt that something was off in her tone, but were unable to put their finger on it.

Alaric’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. Without a word, he stepped past her, his stride long and purposeful as he approached the tree where the generals and other commanders stood. Lara exhaled quietly, feeling the weight of the moment lift from her shoulders.

"General, who is watching the rear?" Alaric inquired when he noticed that Marlon and Merlin Norse were both present.

"Commander Amnon and his troops are at the rear, Your Highness, while Bener is guarding the east side. After our meeting, General Marlon and his son will guard the camp’s west side."

Alaric hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze narrowing as he turned back toward the villagers. The rhythmic pounding of drums and the wailing bugles filled the air, pressing against his senses. His eyes tracked the strange procession, watching as they marched to and fro in their relentless, deafening ritual.

The sound lingered — unsettling, relentless, and heavy with meaning.

"Aren’t they getting tired yet?" Kane’s smooth voice drifted through the air, drawing the men’s attention. He stood a short distance away, the morning light casting soft shadows across his face, his expression pleasant.

General Odin let out a heavy sigh, his gaze returning to the endless parade of villagers. "It looks like they are doing it on rotation. Earlier, it was a different group. Perhaps, after they rested well, they will swap places and continue this ridiculous performance." His voice was grim, each word laced with growing unease.

Odin was no stranger to war. He’d fought countless battles and emerged victorious every time, his name becoming a legend on the battlefield. But this... this was something else entirely. He could feel it — a strange, gnawing sense of helplessness sinking into his bones. If Turik was the mastermind behind this bizarre tactic, he was no mere strategist. He was a devil, cunning and ruthless enough to wage war without ever drawing a sword.

He feared that he would be facing his first crushing defeat.

"We’re running out of provisions," General Marlon Norse muttered, his brow furrowed in frustration. "We can’t just sit here and let them wear us down. Why not capture these people? Hold them hostage. We could even accuse them of rebellion — that would stop this farce."

A tense silence settled over the group. Then Alaric’s voice rang out, cold and commanding.

"General Marlon Norse..."