The unit falls back quickly, retreating to the main battalion camp located in a hollow clearing half a mile away.
The moment they arrive, Aldo delivers the report to Officer Watkins. Hearing that multiple rebel companies are converging on their location, Watkins doesn't hesitate for a single second.
"Post warning signs along the outer perimeter immediately!" Watkins orders his sergeants. "Set up heavy fortifications around the camp! Dig in!"
The entire five-hundred-man force goes to work under the cover of night. The sound of axes biting into timber, shovels digging into soft earth, and heavy wooden posts being hammered into stone echo through the clearing.
Aldo takes charge of the camp's structural defense layout. He knows standard defensive perimeters are predictable targets for massed infantry. Instead of building a single fort, he designs a clever decoy system.
He directs the men to erect a larger, heavily reinforced outer palisade made of sharp pine trunks. Inside this main structure, he constructs a massive, oversized dummy tent built from spare canvas and timber frames, leaving several lanterns burning brightly inside to make it look like the battalion's main command headquarters.
Then, fifty yards away in the shadows of the rock face, Aldo sets up two smaller, low-profile palisades and subtle troop tents, keeping them completely dark and concealed beneath hanging evergreen branches.
Only after the decoys are fully constructed and the guards are posted do the exhausted soldiers feel safe enough to collapse onto their bedrolls. Aldo crawls into his dark, secondary tent, his body heavy with fatigue. He wraps his heavy coat around his shoulders, closes his eyes, and drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.
THWACK!
Aldo is violently jolted awake by a sharp, heavy blow to his stomach.
He gasps, sitting up instantly in the dark tent, his hand instinctively reaching for his knife.
Comtois is standing over him in the pitch-black space, panting heavily, holding an empty wooden bucket. Before Aldo can even speak, Comtois grabs the bucket and splashes a gallon of ice-cold stream water directly over Aldo's head and face.
"Gah!" Aldo sputters, shaking his wet hair as the freezing water shocks his system completely awake. "What are you doing?!"
"Wake up, Aldo!" Comtois whispers fiercely, his eyes wide in the dark. "The rebels are attacking! The camp is swarming!"
It is still dark outside, the sky a deep, pre-dawn indigo. Outside the tent, the air is filled with a chaotic din of screaming men, shouting officers, roaring battle cries, and the continuous, thunderous crack of musket volleys.
Aldo scrambles out of the tent, wiping water from his eyes.
Across the main clearing, Officer Watkins is already leading a fierce counterattack. The rebels, having launched a sudden surprise assault under the cover of darkness, have only mobilized a vanguard force of a few dozen skirmishers to break the perimeter.
Because of Aldo's decoy setup, the rebel attack force concentrated their entire assault on the largest of the three fake camps, storming the big dummy tent with burning torches and spears, completely unaware that it was empty.
Trapped inside the narrow wooden walls of the decoy palisade and illuminated by their own torches, the attack force became sitting ducks. Watkins, wielding his glowing magic gun, along with a tight line of two hundred armored soldiers, easily surrounded the trapped rebels, cutting off their retreat and capturing them in a matter of minutes through sheer superior numbers.
Aldo walks up to the smoking ruins of the dummy palisade, looking at the captured rebels being tied up by Watkins' men. He turns his head, scanning the dark forest beyond the camp perimeter. He knows this was merely a probe—a small vanguard sent to test their defenses before the main rebel companies arrive.
Aldo approaches Officer Watkins, who is leaning against an iron post, panting heavily as he finishes reloading his pistol.
"Captain," Aldo says, his voice crisp and urgent. "This was just an advance force. The main rebel companies will be here before sunrise. If we stay locked inside this camp, we will be surrounded and annihilated by overwhelming numbers."
Watkins looks at the dark treeline, then nods slowly, recognizing the cold truth of Aldo's assessment.
"Pass the order," Watkins commands his sergeants. "We retreat immediately. Break the battalion into small groups of twenty men. Move quietly through the thickets and regroup at the eastern edge of the forest."
Watkins looks at his officers, his face grim. "Afterwards, we will return to inform Duke Ferris II so he can prepare to mobilize more troops for a full-scale campaign."
The order is executed with remarkable discipline. Under the cover of the lingering pre-dawn mist, the five hundred and twenty men break down into small, nimble squads of twenty, slipping out of the camp through secondary supply trails, vanishing into the deep forest like ghosts.
The tactical retreat goes flawlessly. The thick fog and dense undergrowth conceal their movements from any rebel scouts. One by one, every single group arrives safely at the rendezvous point at the eastern edge of the forest. All five hundred and twenty men—conscripts, logistics personnel, and veteran guards alike—regroup without losing a single soldier.
Without stopping to rest, the column moves out of the treeline, stepping onto the hard, stone-paved surface of the ancient Triad Road. Under the cover of the dark night, they push forward at a rapid march, heading straight down the highway toward the safety of Carravin.
The rhythmic, collective sound of five hundred pairs of boots crunching against the stone road echoes through the quiet night air.
Suddenly, from the dark rocky embankment on the right side of the road, a blinding flash of golden energy erupts into the sky.
BOOM!
A powerful Blast spell detonates directly in the center of the marching column with a deafening roar.
The kinetic shockwave violently slams into the front rank. The sheer force of the explosion sends Aldo, Comtois, and several peasant conscripts flying through the air like ragdolls, throwing them violently into the roadside ditch in a shower of dirt and shattered stone.
Simultaneously, dozens of dark figures burst out of the roadside thickets, launching a fierce, overwhelming ambush on Watkins' main force.
"Ambush! Hold the line!" Watkins screams, his voice swallowed by the roaring chaos of gunfire and clashing steel.
Aldo crashes heavily into the wet grass of the ditch, his lungs burning as the air is knocked completely out of his chest. His head spins, but his combat training takes over immediately. He pushes himself up onto his knees, shaking off the ringing in his ears, and reaches down to grab Comtois and two peasant conscripts by their shoulder armor, violently dragging them to their feet.
"Get up! Get up!" Aldo growls through gritted teeth.
Before Aldo can draw his weapon, a tall, masked assailant erupts out of the gunpowder smoke. The man lunges forward with wild speed, shoving Aldo backward with immense force. The attacker leaps over Aldo, pulling a long, wicked iron dagger from his belt, and thrusts the blade down with lethal intent, aiming straight for the side of Aldo's exposed neck.
CLANG!
The sharp dagger blade strikes the heavy steel chainmail collar wrapped around Aldo's neck. The iron point glides off the interlocking rings, sliding harmlessly past his skin without piercing the flesh.
Aldo doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He drives his heavy elbow straight into the attacker's ribs, pushing the man off his chest. Leaping to his feet, Aldo dashes in the direction the attacker stumbles into the darkness.
His hands sweep through the black air, finding the stranger's wrist in the gloom. With a sharp, violent twist, Aldo wrenches the attacker's arm backward, popping the wrist joint.
CRACK!
The stranger drops the knife, gasping in pain. Aldo slams the man face-first against a stone road marker, pulls a length of heavy hemp cordage from his belt, and rapidly binds the attacker's hands and legs together with tight, unbreakable knots.
Ten paces away on the other side of the ditch, Comtois is engaged in a brutal, hand-to-hand brawl against three other attackers. He uses the heavy iron pommel of his broadsword like a hammer, smashing one man across the jaw, kicking another squarely in the chest, and slamming the third headfirst into a wooden fence post until all three lie dazed and bleeding in the dirt.
Aldo stoops down, slinging his bound captive over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Comtois walks over, groaning as he grabs two of his unconscious attackers by their collars and drags the third under his arm, gathering all four captives together into a single pile near the road marker.
"Secure them!" Comtois grunts, tossing the men down.
Without pausing to catch their breath, Aldo and Comtois sprint back onto the stone road to support Officer Watkins.
The ambush has been repelled, but the cost is evident. Dozens of soldiers lie groaning on the road, and Officer Watkins sits against an iron cart wheel, clutching a deep, bleeding wound on his side, his face ghastly pale under the moonlight.
Aldo approaches quickly, dropping into a crouch beside Watkins. He inspects the wound, then turns his head to scan the surrounding men.
"Is anyone seriously injured?" Aldo shouts, his voice firm and steady. "Listen to me! Those with minor injuries who do not feel their condition worsening, try to reach the nearest Thromium city, Blumenau! Move in pairs!"
Aldo turns to Onaga, who is already bandaging a conscript's arm nearby.
"Onaga!" Aldo commands sharply. "Instruct the healthy and lightly wounded soldiers to carry the seriously injured back on stretchers. Organize the transport groups right now!"
"On it!" Onaga replies without hesitation. He leaps into action, barking clear orders, organizing the men into organized carry teams, ensuring every wounded soldier is placed onto a stretcher or supported by a healthy comrade.
The retreat resumes, the wounded being carried carefully down the dark Triad Road toward Blumenau.
As they march through the cool night air, Comtois suddenly stumbles. His knees buckle, his iron plate armor clattering loudly as he crashes heavily onto his side in the middle of the road.
"Comtois!" Aldo shouts, stepping back instantly to check on him.
Aldo drops to his knees beside Comtois, rolling him onto his chest. He quickly pulls back Comtois' heavy leather coat, inspecting his back. Near the left shoulder blade, Aldo finds a tiny, red puncture mark surrounded by a dark, purplish bruise—a distinct wound caused by an anesthetic injection dart.
Aldo rapidly pats down his own body, checking his neck, arms, and torso for similar puncture marks, but finds nothing wrong.
"He's poisoned... anesthetic," Aldo mutters under his breath. He grabs Comtois by his armpits, hauling his heavy frame off the road, and pulls him toward the back of a slow-moving supply carriage.
Hano, standing on the footboard of the moving carriage, leans over the side, extending a hand down toward Aldo.
"Get in, Aldo!" Hano urges loudly, his face filled with anxiety. "Drag him up! Hurry!"
Aldo nods, lifting Comtois' heavy legs over the wooden tailboard of the carriage. He takes a single step forward, intending to pull himself up onto the wooden floor—
Suddenly, the world violently spins.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of intense vertigo hits Aldo like a physical blow. The stars in the dark night sky blur into long streaks of light. The sound of shouting men and clattering wagon wheels instantly turns into a muffled, underwater echo. His vision rapidly narrows into a dark, suffocating tunnel.
The delayed effect of a grazing anesthetic needle finally catches up to his bloodstream.
Aldo's knees buckle beneath him. His hand slips off the carriage tailboard, and his tall, armored body collapses onto the cold stone surface of the Triad Road.
As darkness completely consumes his consciousness, the very last sight Aldo sees before losing total awareness is Hano leaping frantically from the moving carriage footboard, his face twisted in horror, sprinting wildly back toward him through the night.