The fortress beneath Derek’s feet was called Birch Fort.

The Kingdom of the Holy Cross had built it solely for war, stripping away every unnecessary feature. Towers, defensive walls, crenellations—Birch Fort possessed everything a military stronghold required.

Derek guessed its original purpose had been to contain the threat from the Kingdom of Locke. Even if Saint Miller Province fell, a retreating army could regroup here, block an enemy advance eastward, and use the fortress as a base for a counterattack.

Roads from Birch Fort led directly to every major town in Saint Miller Province. Unfortunately for the Holy Cross, the weapon built to contain Locke had fallen into Locke's hands.

Derek used every remaining day to repair the fortress and train his soldiers. With the Panel, a little over a month was enough to turn recruits into competent troops.

Then, as the weather turned cold, scouts from the Holy Cross began appearing around Birch Fort in large numbers.

Derek immediately ordered his forces gathered in. He had no intention of fighting in the open.

This would be a static war of attrition, with little room for maneuver. Other Locke nobles had somewhere to retreat if they failed. Derek did not.

He had taken too much while his reputation was at its height, and no one dared target him then. But if he lost his lands, trouble would surely follow. Still, abandoning such a fine opportunity was even less possible. In his view, the odds of victory were high.

To fight for anything would offend people. Why not act when the cost was lowest?

No matter how many troops the Holy Cross sent, he would hold.

As long as Birch Fort stood, the Holy Cross’s army could not inflict major damage. Sending small forces past it would be suicide. Sending a large force past it would let Derek devour the troops left behind and cut off the invaders’ retreat.

Birch Fort would become a nail driven into the province, a millstone of flesh and blood that ground the Holy Cross army down until it withdrew.

Many people would die.

Derek understood that his ambition would cost many lives, and this was only the beginning. All he could do was limit the deaths where possible and ensure the fallen and their families were treated properly.

Standing on the fortress tower, Derek saw dust rising in the distance. A large army from the Holy Cross had arrived.

Triangular pennants represented knight after knight. Behind them trudged far more ragged serf soldiers.

Derek did not relax because of that. Serf soldiers of the Holy Cross were famously weak in battle, but they were also famously cheap. The slaves Locke smuggled into the Holy Cross were high-quality serfs, private property of nobles and clergy. The men before him were mostly free commoners seized at random or royal slaves, contemptuously labeled serf soldiers and driven at will.

Men numbed to suffering could be as difficult to stop as elite troops.

Derek saw it soon enough. The Holy Cross army had barely settled in. Though noon had passed, they did not build a camp. Instead, they drove serf soldiers to attack Birch Fort. There were scarcely any ladders; they simply forced the serfs forward.

“How ruthless,” Simon said at Derek’s side. Even he, usually hardhearted, found the Holy Cross nobles brutal.

“They are all wealth,” Derek said regretfully.

To the Holy Cross, these serfs were cheap cannon fodder. To him, they were walking gold coins. Unfortunately, he had to destroy those coins himself.

That small pity could not shake his resolve. He watched coldly as his soldiers, directed by their officers, slaughtered the attackers.

The nobles of the Holy Cross might be corrupt, but they were not fools. Driving the serfs forward was not meaningless cruelty. The attacks tested Birch Fort’s defenses. If Derek revealed a weakness, it would be struck hard.

But no matter which direction they tried, Birch Fort showed no flaw.

Soon, the main body of the Holy Cross army arrived and began building camp. Many cavalrymen surrounded a group of officers inspecting the front.

In an age of cold weapons, generals who only listened to subordinates’ reports when marching and deploying might die without knowing why. They had to survey the ground and conditions personally before making even a relatively correct judgment.

Even personal reconnaissance could miss something. If the enemy found the gap, a single oversight might decide a battle remembered for generations.

At the sight, Simon grew eager. “My lord, should I lead men out and make a charge?”

The cavalry had expanded. Simon thought the close distance offered a chance.

“If you want to die, go ahead,” Derek snapped. “Idiot, look carefully. They have kept an infantry square unmoving the entire time. It is there to guard against a raid. These Holy Cross men value their lives far more than the barbarians do.”

Simon hunched his shoulders and fell silent.

...

In the distance, the Holy Cross commanders were discussing Derek as well.

Unlike Locke’s purely military organization, the Holy Cross army included missionaries. They usually did not interfere with battlefield arrangements, though they were extremely diligent at collecting money.

The army was commanded by Count Connor Radd, known as the Sword of God. He was a veteran, though his greatest fame came from crushing a serf uprising and slaughtering tens of thousands.

The Holy Cross elite cared little how many commoners Connor slaughtered. By preserving the Church's rule in the region, he earned the title Sword of God, a landed county, and the Church's powerful backing.

That did not mean he lacked ability. Militarily, Count Connor was even considered excellent. At least many nobles who had suppressed the uprising beside him had been killed by the lowborn.

Watching the serf soldiers attack, Count Connor’s expression grew solemn.

“Have we identified the commander here?”

“It should be Derek von Augusta. I hear his new fief lies behind Birch Fort.”

Three months ago, no Holy Cross noble would have recognized Derek's name. Now, few remained ignorant of Viscount Derek von Augusta.

“Then the rumors are true. Viscount Derek is no lucky accident. Not everyone can arrange a defense so well.” Count Connor’s praise was sincere.

Sound fundamentals revealed real ability more clearly than flourishes. Few knights in the Kingdom still possessed that foundation. Connor suspected the coming battle would be difficult.

His feeling came true quickly. From the next day’s probing attacks onward, the Holy Cross army bled continuously.

...

Bodies piled up beneath Birch Fort. Every day, the corpse collectors were sickened to the point of vomiting.

Count Connor repeatedly approached the fortress and tried to lure its defenders into a sortie. But Derek was as steady as a stone. Whether the situation looked favorable or unfavorable, he simply held position.

Derek knew he would win if he dragged things out. Why take a risk?

The finest generalship often produced no dazzling legend. Outsiders admired victories won against impossible odds without seeing how one careless decision could have destroyed everything.

If he had a choice, Derek would rather use more men to bully fewer.

He had not been idle, either. Taking advantage of the Holy Cross’s helpful performance, he turned Birch Fort into a practical lesson in attack and defense. How should defenses be arranged? How could morale be encouraged? If you were attacking, how would you do it?

Teaching the lesson forced Derek to sharpen his own understanding as well.

“War is never isolated. We must know its purpose. Strategic victory always outweighs tactical victory. Look at Count Connor across the way. Why does he repeatedly risk coming to the front?

“I guarantee that if we go out—even if we kill a group of Holy Cross officers—he will smile from ear to ear. Why? Tactically, you may have struck the enemy. But if we suffer heavy losses, Birch Fort changes hands, and we lose the lands behind it, perhaps even Saint Miller Province, have we won or lost?”

Inside the fortress tower, Derek pointed toward the count’s banner as he lectured.

“Simon, tell me. If you were Count Connor, would you risk serving as bait?”

Simon was finally beginning to understand. Daily exposure had taught him how to reason through similar situations. Becoming an excellent commander was difficult; becoming a competent one was not. In an age of generally poor generalship, competence alone put a man ahead of nine commanders in ten.

“I understand,” Simon said smugly. “Next time, I can serve as bait too, and lure out the troops defending a city.”

Derek turned around and kicked him in the rear.

“Connor is stupid. Are you going to be stupid like him? Find someone about your size, put him in your armor, and give him your banner. Then there is no danger at all.”

Simon and all the officers stared.

None of them had considered such a simple deception.

“But... but that is not honorable,” Simon stammered.

“Which matters more, honor or your life? Lie in a grave, and nobody will call you honorable. Stand in front of the enemy’s grave, and nobody will call you dishonorable either.”

Derek's words struck at everything the knights had been taught. Some would wrestle with the question for days; others, perhaps, for the rest of their lives.

Later generations might praise him or condemn him. Did that matter?

It did not.

Derek looked toward Count Connor. He was certain the man was cursing him now. But could that cause him even the slightest harm?

No. On the contrary, if it could lure Derek out of Birch Fort, Count Connor would pay any price.

And Count Connor truly was at the end of his patience.

Having risen from the lower nobility, Connor believed he had seen every kind of ambitious young man—the prodigies who became famous early and the fools swollen with pride. Derek fit neither pattern. Nothing Connor offered could provoke him into leaving the fortress.

Connor suspected that even a room full of naked beauties could not lure Derek beyond those walls.

“Damn it! Where did this monster come from?”

Count Connor gave up on the ruse. He tried personally acting as bait, then tried sending men to negotiate with Derek. They were shot dead before they could approach. The assault never stopped, but Birch Fort’s defense seemed only to grow stronger.

“Keep attacking. Press the rear to send more men. We have one month left. The long winter is coming. If we miss this year, the chance to recover Saint Miller Province will be even smaller.”

More than ten thousand lives had already been lost beneath the fortress. Even with reinforcements arriving, Connor dreaded the cost of another month.

He had considered attacking in another direction, but Count Perez was just as experienced and gave the enemy no opening.

The war continued. Soil below Birch Fort darkened with blood. Many portions of the wall were broken and then dangerously plugged by the defenders. Serf soldiers of the Holy Cross attacked like madmen.

The intensity continued to rise. Over the last few days, one or two thousand men died each day.

Weariness. Revulsion.

Derek worked constantly to control the army’s emotions and extinguished several early signs of mutiny. In such an environment, every mind was stretched tight and could break at any moment.

As the cold wind strengthened, both sides knew a halt to the fighting was near.

The good news was that troops from the Kingdom of Locke began entering Saint Miller Province in small numbers. These were nobles from the kingdom’s center, originally preparing to answer the call for war against the barbarians. In the end, they all changed routes to seek opportunities in Saint Miller Province.

With the rear stabilizing, Count Perez was not idle. He began directing small units to probe across Saint Miller Province’s defensive line. It could not achieve much, but it placed powerful pressure on the enemy.

The message was unmistakable: Locke's reinforcements were arriving, and the Holy Cross was running out of time.

Count Connor did not waver. His own conviction was just as firm, forged from endless blood. He even increased the attacks, sending not only serf soldiers but private troops of the nobles onto the field.

This inflicted greater casualties on Birch Fort. But it was still far from enough to make Derek yield.

When the winter solstice arrived, the Holy Cross army attacked madly for three days and left another five or six thousand corpses behind.

After gaining nothing, the camp that had remained for a month and a half finally began to move differently.

“Those Holy Cross bastards are finally withdrawing,” Simon said. Even a battle-lover like him felt exhausted to the bone.

The army preparing to withdraw was in chaos, with even small disturbances breaking out.

“They have lost twenty or thirty thousand men. Their army must be coming apart inside. Count Connor probably cannot hold it together much longer,” Derek said. Connor might even be stripped of command when he returned. Losses on this scale demanded a scapegoat.

“Then should we take advantage of it?” Simon suggested. “Leave at midnight and strike before dawn. Perhaps we can keep them all here.”

This group of knights had truly grown. A year was enough to remake every one of them.