Lord blessed by the elves

Chapter 38 Plan
"Kim!" Trudeau's voice was low and hoarse, filled with undisguised rage. "Where's Robert?! Why did you come back alone?!"

Kim trembled with pain, feeling the murderous glare from Duluth. Terrified, she forgot even the pain and stammered, "Boss... Boss! Robert... Robert... he was discovered by the Lion Fangs... shot down with an arrow... captured... captured! I risked my life to escape back and report!"

"Arrested?!" Durut's pupils contracted sharply, his fist clenched tightly, and his knuckles cracked. His worst fears had come true!

Not only did the Lion Fang Clan discover their spying, they also decisively took action and captured them alive!
In an instant, countless thoughts flashed through his mind.

Will Robert succumb to torture and sell them all?
Lion Fang Territory is definitely on guard now, and may even have set a trap!
Should we abandon the plan immediately and slink away with our few men, or...?

He suddenly raised his head, his fierce gaze sweeping over his men who looked panicked and hesitant.

Escape? Where could you run to?
The food is almost gone, and behind us is the bandit-suppression zone patrolled by the Earl's detachment!

Thinking of the soon-to-be-ripe, golden pea fields of Lion's Tooth Territory, greed ultimately overwhelmed caution and fear of unknown risks.

"Damn it!" Durut stomped his foot, as if he had made a huge gamble, his face contorted, and he forced out the order through clenched teeth: "We can't wait any longer! Listen up, all of you!"

His roar, like that of a wounded beast, was particularly jarring in the quiet forest: "Pack your things immediately, check your weapons! We'll move as soon as it gets completely dark! Our target is the grain fields of Lion Fang Territory! Don't worry about anything else, harvest them as fast as you can! Take as much as you can, fill the bags and get out of here! Anyone who dares to dawdle, I'll be the first to chop him up!"

This order was like cold water thrown into boiling oil, instantly causing an uproar in the previously silent camp.

Panic, hesitation, but more so, a madness driven by hunger and Durut's ferocity began to spread in the eyes of every bandit.

As night fell, torches crackled in the open space in front of the castle, their flickering light casting long and short shadows that illuminated tense and uneasy faces.

All the men in the territory who could take up arms were gathered together.

The twelve regular militiamen remained relatively calm. Although their faces were solemn, they at least managed to grip their weapons and stand at the front of the formation.

The twenty reserve militiamen behind them presented a completely different picture.

These young serfs, who had been toiling in the fields for food just a few days ago and had only recently received brief training, were now mostly pale-faced, their eyes filled with undisguised fear and bewilderment.

They gripped the brand-new spears clumsily, their knuckles white from excessive force, their bodies trembling slightly, as if they were holding not weapons, but red-hot branding irons.

The shadow of death and the unknown of the battle coiled around their hearts like cold, venomous snakes.

Rezal paced back and forth in front of the ranks, trying to boost morale with the most impassioned words he could think of, his voice hoarse with anxiety: "...Cheer up! Remember what you've been training for! Follow me, follow the veterans' movements! For your families, for the food you've finally managed to get, hold onto our rations..." However, his rambling seemed to have little effect. The reserve militiamen remained as tense as frightened birds; his words about families and food seemed pale and powerless in the face of cold weapons and impending bloodshed.

Just then, Knight Commander Wilstone's composed figure walked through the crowd and came to Kruze, who was standing quietly to the side, observing everything.

The stench of blood on him had not completely dissipated; his face was cold and hard, but his eyes remained sharp as ever.

"Young Master," he lowered his voice and reported succinctly, "we've gotten all the answers we needed to know."

Kruse immediately turned his head, a glint of light flashing in his eyes, all his attention focused on him: "Oh? Tell me more."

The fatigue was instantly dispelled, replaced by an urgent need to obtain crucial intelligence.

Wilstone spoke at a steady pace and with clear enunciation, precisely extracting the information obtained through interrogation: "The attackers were not a professional band of robbers, but a rabble hastily assembled by refugees from several nearby villages who could not survive, as well as a small number of famine refugees. The total number was around one hundred and fifty."

He paused, then added the most crucial information: "However, this group included a large number of the elderly, women, and children. The number of able-bodied young men who were truly capable of fighting was estimated to be between fifty and sixty. Their equipment was extremely poor; most of them only had machetes, pitchforks, and simple wooden clubs. Iron weapons were few and far between, and they had almost no decent armor. Their leader was called 'Scarface,' a ruthless fellow who seemed to have some battlefield experience."

After the report was finished, Wilstone stood quietly to the side, awaiting Kruse's decision.

“I see…” Kruze stroked his chin, a calculating glint in his eyes. “The total number sounds intimidating, but in reality, there are only about fifty capable fighters, and they’re poorly equipped. Their core objective isn’t to attack or kill, but to seize supplies!”

He instantly grasped the crux of the conflict. The enemy wasn't there to destroy, but to survive and seize; the difference in mindset and tactical choices between these groups was immense.

“Wilstone, come here.” Kruse beckoned the old knight closer, then lowered his voice and quickly explained his plan.

He spoke quickly but clearly, each step designed to address the characteristics and objectives of the refugee militia.

Wilstone listened intently, his expression gradually shifting from seriousness to surprise, until finally his eyes lit up with disbelief as he looked at Kruze. He couldn't help but exclaim, "Brilliant! Young Master! This not only resolves the crisis, but also... You truly... truly have a flawless plan!"

However, after his initial admiration, a deep worry appeared on Wilstone's face. He hesitated for a moment before finally speaking, his voice filled with caution: "Young Master, your plan is indeed brilliant, enough to crush or even severely damage those rabble. But... the final step in your plan, to recruit those refugees... please forgive my bluntness, isn't this too risky?"

He counted on his fingers, his brow furrowed: "Even if we defeat those fifty or sixty able-bodied men, the remaining elderly, women, and children will number close to a hundred. We've just given the people a glimmer of hope for having enough to eat thanks to those purple sweet potatoes, and there's hardly any grain left in the granary! Suddenly, a hundred more mouths to feed... This... this will probably trigger a food crisis immediately, and could even lead to conflict between the people and the refugees. The situation will likely be even more difficult to manage than a bandit attack!"

(End of this chapter)