Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 42: No Mercy, No Retreat

For a full week, the Pendralis army meticulously prepared for battle, following Arthur's carefully laid-out strategy. Every unit was assigned its position, every maneuver rehearsed, and every soldier drilled in the precise execution of the plan. Their goal was clear—meet the Aragonese army at Tiko Plain, a location strategically chosen four kilometers west of the Sarsat River, where the terrain would work in Pendralis' favor.

At the same time, Aragonese scouting units had also discovered Pendralis' troop movements, and the intelligence quickly reached the Aragonese high command. With both armies marching toward each other, it was now inevitable. By tomorrow afternoon, the forces of Pendralis and Aragon would clash at Tiko Plain in what was set to be the most decisive battle of the war.

As night fell over the Aragonese encampment, Duke Pedro Arias, the appointed commander of the Aragonese army, gathered his noble officers inside his large command tent. Unlike other lords, Pedro Arias was not simply a high-ranking noble chosen by status—he was directly related to King Juan through dynastic marriage alliances, a bloodline that ensured his loyalty. Inside the massive tent, the noblemen, dressed in heavy plate armor with ceremonial swords hanging from their belts, gathered around a large wooden table covered with battle maps and reports.

Pedro surveyed the gathered lords before speaking. "Tomorrow, by midday, we will engage the Pendralis army." Several of the assembled lords exchanged confident glances, their armor gleaming under the flickering candlelight. Though they had heard the shocking news of Pendralis capturing the fortress, they were not overly concerned. The Fasi navy had already cut off Pendralis' supply lines, meaning Arthur's army was stranded, with no reinforcements or resupply.

One noble scoffed. "Even the Fasi Kingdom, who have attempted to take that fortress several times, only succeeded with massive casualties—and they still couldn't hold it against an Aragonese counterattack. Pendralis will face the same fate." Another lord nodded in agreement. "They must know they can't hold the fortress," he said, "Yet instead of retreating, they march to fight us in open battle?"

Pedro leaned forward, rubbing his chin. "It is… peculiar," he admitted. "Does anyone here believe Pendralis has a hidden advantage that we are unaware of?" A noble laughed, shaking his head. "No, my lord," he said mockingly. "The Pendralis army is led by their young prince, Arthur Pendragon. He is still a boy, inexperienced in real war. Most likely, he has learned of the Fasi blockade and, in a fit of youthful rage, has chosen to face us head-on, like a foolhardy child."

The tent echoed with laughter as the lords mocked Arthur's supposed arrogance. They convinced themselves that Pendralis had no secret weapon, that their victory was already assured. Believing the battle to be a mere formality, the Aragonese officers ordered a feast for their troops—giving them extra rations of food and alcohol to boost morale before the coming battle. This was a common medieval practice, as well-fed and drunk soldiers were thought to fight with greater bravery and enthusiasm.

As the Aragonese army celebrated, drinking and feasting late into the night, their enemy was preparing in a completely different manner. While the Aragonese soldiers reveled in wine and laughter, the Pendralis army was hard at work. Every soldier was cleaning and maintaining their rifles, checking artillery positions, repairing broken equipment, and reconfirming their battle assignments. Engineers ensured the artillery was properly calibrated, gunners double-checked ammunition stockpiles, and officers briefed their units one final time.

Pendralis' military moved like a machine, each soldier a cog in a meticulously designed war engine. Discipline was absolute. Precision was everything. The night passed, not in feasting or merriment, but in focused, methodical preparation.

At first light, both armies began their march toward the battlefield. By mid-morning, the Pendralis army reached its designated position—the best possible terrain for Arthur's trap. They stopped. Within the hour, on the horizon, the Aragonese army appeared. A vast sea of soldiers, stretching as far as the eye could see, their banners fluttering in the wind. From his position at the front, Arthur watched them approach, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He raised his spyglass and carefully studied the enemy force.

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At the same time, Duke Pedro Arias observed the Pendralis formation. He noted their numbers—far smaller than expected. His concerns faded. He turned to his fellow nobles, who were now smirking with confidence. The same noble who had mocked Arthur the previous night laughed again. "My Lord Pedro," he said, grinning, "I told you. They have no secret weapon. Their only reason for facing us is because Arthur is a fool."

The other lords laughed along, convinced that victory was already won. Pedro, though equally confident, was more cautious. Yet seeing that the terrain was open, with no visible defensive advantages, he made his decision. "We will end this battle quickly," he declared. What he didn't know, however, was that Arthur was counting on him making that exact decision. Pedro raised his hand. "Prepare the attack," he commanded. The Aragonese lines began to move.

As Arthur lowered his spyglass, he knew the moment had come. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly and rode along the Pendralis front lines, his voice cutting through the cold morning air like a blade.

"Men of Pendralis! You see that army before you? They march today not to fight, but to die. They think they come to reclaim their fortress, but that fortress is ours now! The land beneath their feet? Ours. The rivers that flow? Ours. The sky above them? Ours!"

He pulled his horse to a sharp stop, turning to face the thousands of soldiers before him, their bayonets gleaming under the morning sun.

"They march to reclaim what is lost. But they do not understand we take, and we do not give back! We have spilled their blood once, and today, we will drown them in it!"

He raised his sword high.

"They have come here to fight. But they will never leave. Not one of them!"

A thunderous roar erupted from the Pendralis ranks, boots pounding the earth, rifle butts slamming into the ground in perfect unison. The rhythmic, controlled thunder of their movements sent a single message across the battlefield—Pendralis was not an army of men. It was a machine built for war.

Across the battlefield, the Aragonese forces began their charge.

The Battle of Tiko Plain had begun.