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Chapter 58

Chapter 58: Offensive Operations
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Third POV

The morning sun hung low on the horizon, bathing the territory of Stilwood in hues of amber and scarlet.

The peaceful countryside, with its distant hills and whispering trees, seemed untouched by the chaos that loomed ever closer.

A column of eighty soldiers marched steadily along the road, their footsteps striking the earth in disciplined rhythm.

At their head was Centurion Dalton, his sharp gaze locked on the fortified village perched atop a hill in the distance.

Trench lines scarred the land around the village, and faint silhouettes of archers and hastily armed conscripts moved along crude wooden barricades.

The defenses were a desperate patchwork, the movements of the defenders clumsy and uncertain.

Dalton raised his hand, halting the march.

At just twenty-three, he embodied the strength of Neméos' rising power—a former lumberjack who had risen through the ranks to become the first Centurion of their infantry program.

His wolf-fur-crowned helmet caught the fading light, the untamed tufts lending a savage nobility to his rugged features.

From his belt, Dalton drew a Lionheart far-eye, holding it steady as he surveyed the village.

"Forty... maybe fifty defenders," he muttered to himself, noting the farmhands with spears and the haphazard movements along the barricades.

"No training. No discipline. No armor. No match for Neméos steel." He concluded after observing the defenders.

He snapped the far-eye shut and reattached it to his belt.

His lips curved into a cold smile as he turned to his men. "Form up," he ordered, his voice firm and commanding. "Ready yourselves for your first skirmish."

The soldiers responded without hesitation, shifting into formation with the precision of a veteran force.

Dalton reached for the whistle hanging from his neck and blew a sharp, piercing note.

At once, the column began to advance. Soldiers clad in chainmail and plate jogged forward in unison, their rectangular shields gleaming in the sunlight.

The rhythmic pounding of their boots on the dirt path grew louder, steady and unstoppable.

As they neared the archers range, Dalton blew the whistle twice, and the shields snapped together, forming an impenetrable wall of steel—the testudo.

From the trenches, the defenders loosed their first volley of arrows, the shafts hurtling toward the advancing wall of shields.

The arrows thudded harmlessly against the locked shields or buried themselves uselessly in the dirt, unable to break the disciplined formation.

Round after round rained down, but the soldiers of Neméos held firm, unshaken.

As the column drew close to the trenches, Dalton raised the whistle to his lips and blew sharply three times.

The testudo split with practiced precision, opening like a machine to prepare for the next maneuver.

Infantrymen at the rear hefted their spears with practiced precision, the weapons whistling through the air as they arced high above at the defending villagers in the trenches.

Like deadly rain, the projectiles descended into the trenches, striking with brutal accuracy.

Cries of pain erupted as the sharpened points struck true, sowing chaos and fear among the defenders.