Chapter 656: No rest for the wicked

1,640.

Arnold repeated the number in his mind like a curse, each recitation echoing louder than the last. It didn’t feel real, and yet the ink on the parchment in front of him was all too permanent. That was the final count—1,640 men.

A far cry from the nearly 3,000 they had raised just four years prior, back when the royal banner still commanded fear and respect, and the mere whisper of the prince’s name could compel lords to sharpen their swords. Now? Now they barely scraped together half that number, and even that meager host was a ragged shadow of its former self.

Out of the 1,640, barely 200 were knights—the rest a scattered mix of levy spearmen, half-trained retainers, and aging veterans drawn from whatever garrison stronghold had not yet emptied their numbers. Even calling it an army felt like a courtesy. It was a wall of cracked shields barely holding back a flood.

Arnold shifted his gaze across the dim interior of the tent.

“Have we received an answer from the Prince of Habadia?” Arnold asked, his voice steady but clipped, as if afraid that giving too much hope to the question might make its absence hurt more.

The silence that followed was answer enough.

So that’s it.Even that foreign court has turned its back.

Arnold bit down the rising disgust in his throat. Seems I’m not the only one who’s lost faith in him, he thought coldly, his eyes narrowing as he studied his father.

The fire in him had dulled, and in its place remained only coals—coals that might never be rekindled.

Less than half of the lords had answered the call.

This pitiful gathering, this last breath of resistance, was all that remained of what had once been one of the most formidable princedoms in the region. The lands of Herculia had been a furnace of steel and gold—powerful, unified, and proud. Now, those same flames were dying, dwindling into cold ash. Just cinder, waiting to be scattered by the next wind.

He remembered vividly the campaign against the peasant rebels. Back then, they had marched with confidence, with better weapons, tighter formations, and the luxury of a central command. The very idea of defeat had been foreign as they were moving against peasant.

But that was against rebel, this one was Alpheo the fox.

Now, their enemy held all the cards—superior leadership, a well-structured supply line, men who had tasted victory time and time again. Alpheo’s army wasn’t just bigger; it was hungrier, leaner, forged through fire and hardened by success.

And we… we are rotting.

Arnold’s eyes drifted to the flap of the tent, where a cold wind howled through the entrance. The fabric snapped violently against the poles, as if nature itself was trying to tear through and scream, move!

He clenched his jaw.

There’s no point in staying here.

No use counting rations and waiting for more allies who would never come. Stagnation would only hasten their ruin.

The enemy wouldn’t wait. Alpheo wouldn’t wait.

His hand fell to the hilt of his sword—not in anger, not in fear, but in decision.

He took a breath, steadying the thoughts swirling in his mind, and turned to his father, ready to push the old lion into action one last time.

He stepped forward, boots crunching over the cold dirt of the tent floor, bypassing the empty urns that littered the ground like discarded memories of purpose. The air was thick with the acrid stench of wine and ironically enough, cider, its sweet tang clinging to the canvas like a mocking perfume.

The prince—his prince—slumped over a low chair, looking every bit the ruin of a once-great man. His cheeks were flushed with the telltale blotches of sustained drinking, lips wet with the remnants of whatever cup he had last clung to, and beneath his eyes were deep, sagging hollows, the skin bruised with exhaustion and indifference.

What a sorry sight it was

Arnold stopped just short of him, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned pale. It was almost hard to look at him.

“Father,” Arnold said, calm and clear.

No response.

“Father.” Again, sharper now. It was only after the second attempt that the prince stirred, lifting his bleary eyes to meet his son’s with a sluggish, vacant stare. His gaze seemed to struggle with focus, blinking as if the very idea of being spoken to was unfamiliar.

Arnold inhaled tightly through his nose and pressed on.

“You have to give the order to advance,” he said, voice clipped and tense. “The enemy is at the gates of Herculia. Lord Cretio is still holding the walls, just as you commanded. He’s bought us time—time we can’t afford to waste. The men are mustered, the banners are raised. All we need is your word.”

The prince furrowed his brow, blinking slowly. “But… we’re still… waiting,” he slurred, the words sloshing from his mouth like the wine that stained his robes. “The other reinforcements… they’re not—”

“There are no more.” The words came out louder than Arnold intended—firm, sudden, and sharp as steel. His voice cracked through the stale air of the tent like a whip. “This is it. This is all the strength your crown can summon.”

Prince Lechlian blinked at him, eyes cloudy with confusion. “The other lords… they must be—”

“They’re not coming.” Arnold’s voice dropped, not from lack of passion, but from the exhaustion of repeating truths that no longer held meaning. “They’ve turned their backs. This is all we have”

The prince’s face contorted—something between disbelief and despair. “How are we supposed to fight with that?” he muttered, a child’s question disguised as a king’s lament.

The fury in Arnold’s chest burned hot.

How dare he?

How dare he sit here, drowning in wine and cowardice, while good men bled for a cause he himself had abandoned?While his wife’s father was bleeding for him.

He took a step closer, restraining the shaking in his arms, willing his hands not to betray the rage rising in his gut. “Father,” he began, slower now, each word deliberate, hammered in place like nails. “As we speak, Lord Cretio is holding the walls of Herculia. Your city. Your capital. My brother is there. They are fighting for their lives while you—” his voice faltered, not from weakness, but from the storm building beneath it, “—while you rot in this tent, hiding behind the bottle like a craven.”

Still, the prince said nothing.

Arnold’s fists trembled. He leaned in, close enough for the prince to feel the heat of his breath. “You have no right to complain about the number of men who still follow your banner—not when others have chosen to fight despite the odds. Not when some of the few loyal to you still bleed in your name.

How can you watch yourself rot here while better men are dying in your name?”

There was no movement. No flicker of defiance. Just dull, sunken eyes lost in a fog of self-pity.

That was the final crack.

Arnold reached forward, seized his father by the arm, and yanked him to his feet with a force that startled even the attendants nearby. The chair clattered to the ground, and the prince swayed for a moment before catching himself on Arnold’s chest, breath reeking of drink.

“Stand up, Father.” Arnold growled through gritted teeth. “Mount your horse. Raise your banner. And act like the man you once made me believe you were.

Act like a proper prince.”

Stillness followed, heavy and uncertain, as the tent seemed to hold its breath.

Arnold didn’t release his grip. He stared hard into his father’s eyes, searching—pleading—for the man who had once held the rein of an entire realm in his hand.

“Because if you won’t lead,” Arnold whispered, voice low and dangerous, “then don’t expect anyone to follow.”

Prince Lechlain swayed where he stood, the firm grip of his son still on his arm. His gaze wandered the tent as though searching for a way out, for an answer that wasn’t there.

His mouth hung open slightly, dry and trembling, before he finally spoke—his voice not regal, but hollow like a nut that had been smashed open.

“How… are we supposed to fight?” he asked, almost a whisper, as if the very thought hurt. “How do we win? With what? With half an army and no hope?”

Arnold stepped back, his eyes burning with a fire that refused to die, even in the face of his father’s cowardice. He looked as if he were about to scream—but instead, he breathed deeply and spoke with steely resolve.

“There’s still a way.” His voice cut through the despair hoping to carve some courage in the man . “We strike now—hard and fast. While Yarzat’s dogs are still busy besieging your city , we hit them. We crash into their lines like thunder, and when we do, the garrison will sally out.”

Lechlain blinked, confused. “The garrison?”

Arnold nodded, fierce now. “Yes. Lord Cretio. Thalien. The whole damn wall. They’ll see the banners, they’ll hear the horns—and they’ll know. They’ll pour out behind the enemy like a hammer falling from the heavens. We’ll have them trapped—cut between two blades.”

The prince looked at him, uncertain, the hint of old courage flickering for a moment in his bloodshot eyes.

“But only,” Arnold continued, his voice darkening, “only if our men believe it can work.”

He turned away from his father and paced once, running a hand through his hair as he spoke aloud, more to himself than to the prince.

“They have to see it. They have to believe in it. Because this isn’t a fight we win by clever tricks or cautious plans. This is a bet—all or nothing. A charge, not a chessboard.

This is the last hope we have”

He turned back, facing Lechlain again, his gaze hard as iron.

“And if we’re going to gamble everything on aggression, then it has to start with you.”

Lechlain flinched slightly.

Arnold stepped closer, pointing a gloved hand at his father’s chest.

“They have to see their prince at the front. They have to see you with sword in hand, cloak flying, riding like the fire of the gods themselves. You don’t win hearts by hiding behind walls of wine —you take them when you ride first into danger.”

He took one final step forward.

“If you want them to believe this can be done, then show them. Show them the prince of Herculia still breathes. Show them that even now, in the shadow of defeat, their banner still leads the charge.”

Lechlain stared at him. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind howled through the gaps in the tent. But slowly, something shifted behind his dull eyes—a flicker of the man he used to be. A memory. A spark.

Arnold held that stare, unwilling to look away. Waiting. Hoping.

And somewhere, deep in the hollow shell of the drunken man before him, a decision began to stir.