After surveying the battlefield, Asher stepped into a narrow stone chamber, the clash of steel and war cries still echoing faintly outside. Behind him followed Count Alec, Ser Paul, and Ser Lambert—all bearing the marks of battle.
Inside, they found General Clegane leaning against an elevated stone slab, where the corpse of an immortal soldier lay motionless. A man in robes stood over the body, his weathered hands moving with practiced precision as he examined the remains. The smell of old herbs and tinctures clung to him—an apothecary, Asher deduced.
Asher's shadow fell across the corpse, but General Clegane didn't look up. His voice came low and heavy. "This is the first time we've killed an immortal and managed to retrieve the corpse."
"How many were slain?" Asher asked, his gaze fixed on the body, jaw clenched.
Alec stepped forward. "Six hundred."
"That's an absurd number…" General Clegane murmured, turning his head. "Your soldiers are truly as good as they say. Even killing six hundred immortals in their first battle against them."
"Did you include the number I killed?" Asher asked, still staring at the body.
Alec's voice was calm but carried a weight of reverence. "One hundred and twenty-eight were slain by you, my lord. We did not add that to the others."
General Clegane's eyes widened at the number, his expression one of muted disbelief.
The apothecary finally broke his silence. He lifted the cracked jawbone of the corpse using a pair of iron tongs, turning it slowly under the brazier's light. "These bones…" he began, voice dry and even, "are over six hundred years old."
A hush fell over the chamber, heavy and suffocating like a damp cloak. Asher's eyes shifted from the corpse to the apothecary.
"What?" he asked, the word sharp and cutting.
The apothecary didn't flinch. "There are traces of sap-stone residue fused within the bone matrix, and the marrow has crystallized into resin. These features indicate extreme preservation—far beyond natural means. It is impossible to achieve this feat with apothecary alone."
He turned toward the lords, eyes glinting beneath the cowl of his robe.
"This man has surpassed the limits of human endurance. Not even those at the Awoken One ranks live this long. I could almost say this thing isn't human—yet by every measure, it is."
"What do you mean?" Clegane asked solemnly.
"I mean there's no logical explanation for this soldier's existence. But understand this—you are facing a warrior with centuries of battle experience. Near-immortal. Tireless. Able to fight under any circumstance."
"What class does this kind of troop belong to?" Asher asked grimly.
"Certainly above the Nightmare Class."
Asher's eyes narrowed at the apothecary's answer. "I see. If there are three thousand here, how many has House Intis kept for itself?"
General Clegane's eyes widened as the grim implication settled in.
With a weary sigh, Asher said, "Our men need food. So do we. The enemy could strike again at any moment. We eat, and we rest."
Meanwhile, in the camp of House Wyvern…
A figure cloaked in black materialized from thin air, slipping past sentries and wyverns that stood guard over Count Rimmon's pavilion. Silent and surefooted, he entered through the flap of the war tent.
Inside, Count Rimmon sat at a broad table surrounded by his senior military leaders, their faces grave and shadowed by lamplight.
"We lost five thousand light infantry, with twelve thousand injured. Over seven hundred immortal corpses lie behind us. And our air units—completely wiped out," reported the light infantry commander, his jaw clenched. "This war is slipping from our hands, my lord."
Rimmon's expression remained unreadable as he turned toward the man in black.
The man gave a small nod. "It is." His gaze swept the room. None of the commanders knew the nature of his mission. "While the battle raged, I used my talent to slip inside the castle. Their water reserves are now poisoned. They'll be feasting soon."
A harsh laugh burst from the light infantry leader. "One step ahead, as always! None can match your cunning, my lord."
Count Rimmon allowed himself a thin smile.
"Tell the men," he said softly, "we take the castle by dawn."
Asher strode into the castle hall, where the air pulsed with victory and the scent of roasted meat. The chamber brimmed with men eating, laughing, and raising their voices in celebration. Though they had suffered losses, they were nothing compared to the slaughter inflicted on the United Army.
For the soldiers of House Nubis, this night was a triumph. They drank only water, yet to them, it flowed like the richest ale, made sweet by the taste of survival.
A smile played on Asher's lips as he walked through the jubilant crowd. He wore a light tunic, form-fitting pants, and his sword swayed gently at his side.
This battle was more than a victory—it was a stand for the independence of the True North. His domain.
He knew well: if the United Army had seized the Dukedom of Nubis, a greater force would have followed, pressing deeper. His walls would have been next. The lifeblood of his land—trade—could have been cut off, bleeding his dominion until it withered. This win had bought them time... and hope.
"It's Lord Asher!" General Clegane rose from his seat, raising a cup high. He wore only his trousers, his battle-hardened torso marked by old scars that glinted under the torchlight. "It might be water in our cups, but lift them high, you runts!"
Cheers erupted, and even the soldiers of House Nubis, proud and stoic, let themselves laugh and shout.
As Asher moved to take his seat, a Nubis soldier—one of the elite trained under the Dark Sky banner—suddenly began to choke.
At first, it seemed like a common cough. But the sound turned harsh, wet. The men around him rushed to help—until blood sprayed from his mouth.
General Clegane's eyes widened as more men began to cough and fall.