The Holy Cross probe immediately uncovered something strange: the Locke force had grown weaker. With roughly equal numbers, the attackers actually scattered the enemy formation. Their excitement lasted only until they made a tentative push into the Locke camp itself. After his men searched every corner and confirmed that no danger remained, Fernandez entered in person—and stared in disbelief.

The Locke camp had been laid out with meticulous care. Not a ditch had been left shallow, nor a palisade built cheaply. Fernandez, however, had not come to inspect its workmanship. Where were the men? Not a single human figure remained inside. Only a flock of goats tied to great war drums continued kicking their hind legs, beating out the maddening rhythm the Holy Cross army had heard night after night.

The rear guard Fernandez believed he had defeated had never returned to camp. It had circled around the position and vanished with the main force.

“Where are they?” Fernandez roared. “Are my soldiers, scouts, and generals all blind? How did so many Locke men escape?”

Fernandez had multiplied the number of scouts several times over to prevent exactly this escape. They had reported isolated Locke soldiers slipping away, but nothing that could account for an entire army vanishing beneath their eyes. The conclusion was inescapable: this was another Locke deception, and every officer present had swallowed it whole.

More importantly, failing to destroy the army meant half his plan had failed. Its existence remained a great threat and prevented him from freeing his hands. He too had pressure: feeding hundreds of thousands, even with national support, could not last forever.

“Pursue. Find them. And kill these damned goats.” The goats now seemed to laugh at him silently.

Holy Cross forces began moving after long idleness. The escaped main force mattered, but the defeated rear guard had to be caught or officers could not face the enraged Duke.

Of course, Locke’s main army had left long ago. Even before the grain-store raid, Derek had quietly withdrawn troops every night under cover. The men visible during heavy surveillance were only the last batch. The rear guard was merely temporarily raised royal-city militia.

Derek waited for the Holy Cross to take the bait. In the eager pursuit, their troops split into groups. It seemed a safe victory. Many believed Locke had already fled to the Northern Province. Capturing the last scapegoats would earn favor, and half of Saint Miller had been taken already. How could a food-starved Locke army raise waves?

The rear guard truly was fleeing; there was no act in their panic. Their real officers had withdrawn long before, leaving commoners promoted on the spot to lead levies from cities governed directly by the Crown—men whose deaths concerned no powerful patron. The fastest Holy Cross pursuers claimed prisoners and kills along the road. Then they began finding loot: abandoned wagons, gold and silver, suits of armor, and discarded weapons.

Every object represented a fortune to an ordinary soldier. Officers would seize the largest prizes, of course, but could they strip-search every man for a few hidden coins or confiscate every useful blade? Greed drowned out caution. No one stopped to ask why a routed army fighting on its own soil carried so much plunder, or when it could possibly have found time to loot anything. The Locke men were running. Treasure lay underfoot. Their comrades surrounded them. What danger could remain?

Derek and heavy cavalry waited. Isolated Holy Cross men reached them first, saw a prepared Locke army, and were eliminated by light cavalry before they could turn. Any survivor returning would not be believed; men would think he wanted to stop them and keep loot for himself.

At last, a barely organized Holy Cross force appeared.

“Knights,” Derek said, “the prey has taken the hook.”

Starvation and shaken morale were illusions. His troops ate freely from southern food; when southern support stopped, they opened their own stores. Derek lowered his visor, and the knights followed. Simon wore a cruel smile.

“Charge!”

Thunder descended without warning. Heavy cavalry led the charge while the bewildered Holy Cross soldiers were still trying to understand what they were seeing. Only when the iron hooves drew close did many realize that they had thrown away their weapons to carry more treasure. One man clutched a gold chain in his left hand and a silver bar in his right. Somewhere else, he might have looked enviably rich. Here, facing the North's merciless heavy cavalry, what was he meant to do—whip a knight across the visor with the chain, or club him senseless with the silver?

Derek's head did not so much as twitch when treasure struck his armor; the scattered objects could not even scratch his visor. The heavy cavalry swept through with less difficulty than a stroll through a garden—there, at least, one had to avoid trampling the flowers. A single charge shredded resistance that had never truly formed. Infantry followed to harvest lives, while light cavalry scattered outward and sealed the battlefield.

That was only the beginning. Holy Cross detachments arrived one after another, each unaware of what had happened ahead. By the time the later units sensed danger, rested Locke troops were already moving to intercept them.

Fernandez received the news while still in the empty Locke camp. His anger turned cold.

“How many troops can still be controlled?”

“Less than ten thousand.”

“Can they hold the camp?”

“No.”

He still had not realized that the entire plan had collapsed. In his mind, Derek had merely tricked him once; the Locke food shortage remained an objective fact. Fernandez closed his eyes, forced his thoughts into order, and made the ruthless choice without delay. “We withdraw first. Who is willing to remain behind and hold the Locke army?”

Leaving would cost at most fifty thousand troops and even save food. Once reorganized, he could fight again. But no one volunteered for a nearly certain death until a baron stepped forward.

“Your Grace, I will hold them.”

“Good. I will remember you.” Fernandez needed no more promises. Whether the man survived or not, he would be rewarded.

At the same time, Derek broke the last organized Holy Cross force. A gold chain somehow hung from his armor. Before him, captured noble officers knelt with heads lowered, some having wet themselves.

He took the chain in hand. “Look. The chain is mine again.”

They had laid down their swords to pick up gold, only for the gold to be taken from them in turn. Keep hold of the sword, and wealth could always be won again. Why did so few people understand something so simple? No one answered. Derek found the silence tedious, but he had no appetite for pointless killing. Every massacre he ordered served a purpose. These nobles would now accomplish more alive than dead.

After the battlefield was cleared, Derek returned to the abandoned camp where the two armies had faced each other. The goats Fernandez ordered killed had not even finished cooking. Waste not, want not—Derek reclaimed his own animals and invited his officers and noble prisoners to an open-air roast.

“Pity Grand Duke Fernandez could not eat the gift I left him,” Derek said.

“When we capture him, invite him again,” Simon replied loudly, waving a leg of lamb. He ignored the nobles’ looks and cut meat with his little knife. He had personally cut off more than ten noble heads; what were noble airs?

The captives finally understood Derek’s identity. Everyone believed he was in Birch Fort because Adrian had used his banners. No one expected Derek to substitute himself here. Their defeat now made sense.

But though the grain store burned, could he truly capture Fernandez? The Holy Cross main force still existed. Derek saw their expressions and knew their thought. Strictly speaking, it was reasonable; even the few thousand men blocking him would be troublesome if they held firm.

Yet his killing move had never been revealed.

“Spring planting is nearly over. Is there a Saint Miller noble among you?” Derek asked. Eyes gave one man away. Derek tossed him a rib. “Tell me: what weather comes next?”

“The rainy season,” the noble answered. “It is coming.”

The rainy season followed spring planting. Its rainfall did not normally cause floods, and Saint Miller had suffered none for at least ten years. That was under natural conditions, however. Human intervention could change the result.

Derek smiled. Heaven’s timing was coming.

“My opportunity is coming too.”

Why had he chosen this area for the stand-off and lured Fernandez to camp here? It was high ground. Thunder answered him, dark clouds rolling across the sky. Derek’s expression hardened.

“Fernandez, maddened by failure, dug open the riverbank to prevent our pursuit. Spring floods then inundated western Saint Miller, causing dreadful deaths, and Fernandez suffered the result himself. I, Derek—Commander of the Saint Miller Legion, Baron of Augusta, northern knight—swear to hang the Bruno family’s criminal in Saint Miller Province, making him atone for innocent dead.”

Lightning flashed as everyone stared at the cold-faced Viscount. The scheme was unprecedented, and its implications chilled those who understood it. Fernandez's denials would struggle against a prepared accusation, noble testimony, and the disaster itself.

“Will you testify to Fernandez’s crimes?” Derek asked the prisoners.

Public opinion did not belong to Saint Miller's million commoners. It belonged to the nobles participating in the war on both sides. Locke's nobles would never expose Derek, at least not openly. If part of the Holy Cross nobility testified against Fernandez as well, how could the Grand Duke or House Bruno wash the accusation away? The common people would never learn whether the witnesses had spoken under threat. Nor would anyone powerful care. The disaster required a scapegoat. If that scapegoat was not Derek, it could only be Fernandez—and many within the Holy Cross Kingdom, Count Connor foremost among them, would be delighted to watch him fall.

The prisoners hesitated; their foundations lay at home, and House Bruno could crush small nobles even if it could not reach Derek. Simon dropped his lamb leg, picked up a rope, and seized the handsomest captive. He tied the rope around the man’s neck and hanged him from a flagpole despite pleading.

That ended debate.

“I will testify,” a noble cried. “Fernandez—the criminal—is wicked. He treats Saint Miller’s millions as less than human. He deserves hanging.”

Once the first captive agreed, the rest became easy. A few stubborn men still refused. They went to the flagpoles. Derek von Augusta was, after all, a firm believer in democratic choice.