Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 94: The Battle of Carles 2

Chapter 94: The Battle of Carles 2

Upstairs, the soldiers who had climbed through the windows met an even worse fate. The moment their boots touched the wooden floors, shadows descended upon them—Northem warriors striking with silent efficiency. One by one, they fell unconscious before they could even draw their swords.

The few remaining soldiers who were yet to scale the walls felt that something was amiss. Why did they not hear the sound of metal clashing? Were the Northem soldiers too incapacitated that they couldn’t even cry out?

Then—an agonized scream tore through the silence.

"RETREAT! It is a TRAP!"

A few soldiers still outside the walls turned on their heels and sprinted for the open gates. But death followed swiftly—arrows whistling through the air, striking them down one by one.

Atop the town hall, a soldier reported breathlessly, "General, two escaped."

General Odin exhaled calmly. "Let them go. Their commanders will soon know they have walked into a trap. Round up the unconscious ones and lock them inside a room."

...

From the dimly lit interior of a shop facing the town hall, Mayor Roder Fuerte stood rigid, his breath shallow as he watched the last remnants of the Estalis forces crumble. The few soldiers who had managed to escape the bloodbath outside staggered through the back door, their faces etched with exhaustion and terror.

One of them, blood trickling from a wound on his shoulder, collapsed onto his knees before the mayor, gasping for air. "M-Mayor... they tricked us," he rasped. "There were poisoned soldiers, but only a handful. The rest were—" he coughed, swallowing his own failure, "—they were in perfect condition. It was all a trap."

Mayor Fuerte’s eyes darkened with fury. His foot shot forward, slamming into the soldier’s chest with a force that sent the already-injured man sprawling onto the floor. A strangled groan left the soldier’s lips before he lost consciousness.

"Damn it!" Fuerte seethed, his hands trembling. "I underestimated him."

A slow, amused chuckle slithered through the room, curling around his ears like a serpent. His irritation flared hotter.

"I told you not to underestimate that general," a voice drawled smoothly. "But you never listen."

From the shadows of an adjoining room, General Turik sauntered in, his long coat trailing behind him. In his hand, he elegantly cradled a glass of deep purple wine, swirling it lazily as though this entire debacle was nothing more than an evening’s entertainment.

Mayor Fuerte clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Six hundred soldiers. Defeated in less than two hours. A complete humiliation.

"So," he said through gritted teeth, his gaze shifting from the old advisor to Turik. "What do you suggest we do now?"

Turik took his time, savoring another sip of wine before answering. "Send soldiers to the gates," he said, his voice as unshaken as ever. Then, with a cold smile, he added, "And burn the town hall to the ground."

A sudden clatter rang through the air. The old adviser had dropped his teacup, the ceramic shattering against the wooden floor.

Fuerte’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You must be joking!" His voice rose, thick with outrage. "That building is the symbol of Carles’ pride! It has stood for a century, weathered wars, rebellions, history itself! And you expect me to set it ablaze?" His jaw tensed. "The exterior is stone, but the interiors... they’ll go up in flames."

Turik shrugged, completely unfazed. "Then build a better one," he said simply. "Unless, of course, you have a better plan to deal with those Northem soldiers? Send three thousand elite troops?" He let out a low chuckle. "They’ll be slaughtered just as easily."

Mayor Fuerte’s frustration boiled over. "Then we’ll send five thousand!" he snapped without thinking.

"Idiot," Turik sneered, his smirk deepening. He tilted his glass, watching the last droplets swirl before tossing the remainder of the wine into his mouth.

"You don’t need an army," he continued. "You need fire. Rain arrows on that building, burn them alive, and pick off anyone who tries to escape." He set the empty glass down with a soft thunk. "That’s how you win."

The mayor’s breaths came heavy and uneven. His mind raced, warring between pride and necessity. Burning the town hall—his town hall—felt like burning a piece of his own soul. But what choice did he have?

"Mayor," the old adviser interjected hesitantly, his voice quieter now. "General Turik is right. This is the most effective course... and it will minimize our own casualties."

Fuerte’s brows furrowed deeply. The weight of the decision settled heavily on his shoulders, pressing down until it nearly crushed him.

Across the room, General Turik leisurely refilled his wine glass, settling into a chair as he drummed his fingers against the armrest. His piercing gaze never left the mayor’s face, waiting. Calculating.

Finally, Fuerte exhaled sharply. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"All right, call the commanders here for an emergency meeting."

Turik’s lips curled into a smirk.

Finally.

The stupid mayor had made the right decision.

...

Inside the town hall, the Northem soldiers moved swiftly, rounding up their captured enemies, securing them like cattles in the dimly lit corridors. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and lingering tension. Boots echoed against the wooden floors as they worked efficiently, binding wrists, stripping weapons, and tossing unconscious bodies into confinement.

They had barely finished when an eerie glow flickered through the high windows.

Then, all at once—the night sky ignited.

From every direction, flaming arrows streaked through the darkness like falling stars, their fiery tips cutting through the air with a menacing hiss. Within seconds, the first of them struck the wooden framework of the town hall, embers exploding upon impact. Curtains ignited, tapestries curled into blackened husks, and the dry wooden beams of the grand hall caught fire, spreading the blaze in ravenous waves.

"RETREAT!" General Odin’s voice thundered above the chaos.

He had foreseen this move—the desperation of an enemy unwilling to accept defeat. He knew they would resort to fire, turning the town hall into a death trap rather than let it remain in Northem hands.

A cowardly act.