Real Mount and Blade Game

Before long, five swift horses emerged from the ground as if from nowhere, treading on the soft sand, and skillfully bypassed the sentry posts and traps set up on the perimeter, arriving silently at the tightly closed east gate.

The leader of the bandits dismounted, clutching a palm-sized object wrapped in oilcloth.

A rope was lowered from the city wall, and he skillfully climbed up, his movements as agile as a monkey.

"My lord, Lord Bestur!" The leader of the steppe bandits knelt on one knee, holding the oilcloth bundle above his head, his voice trembling with barely perceptible tension: "This thing was buried in a soft sand pit fifty paces west of the city gate. We confirmed it was buried by the envoy, and we watched it bury itself until it completely disappeared before we dug it up. As Lord Bestur instructed, we used a long-handled leather bag as a glove to hook it up from a distance, but..." He paused, seemingly hesitant, "...when we retrieved it, there was a strong smell of blood in the sand nearby, and a strange odor like burnt bones."

Shen Mu reached out and took the oilcloth bag.

It feels slightly heavy in the hand, and is cold and hard.

He unwrapped the oilcloth, revealing a roll of dark-colored, dry parchment.

Upon opening, a stench of old dust, faint sulfur, and some indescribable, decaying smell, like mold from the deepest depths, instantly filled the air.

This scent was completely different from the human aura that the messenger was disguised as; it carried a chilling and blasphemous feeling that pierced the depths of the soul.

Unfold the parchment; what is drawn on it is not a traditional map.

The ink is not pure black, but a deep, dark color like congealed blood. The lines are twisted and intertwined, outlining patterns that are not fixed landforms, but more like some kind of energy convergence points.

The symbols seemed to writhe faintly, and looking at them for too long made one dizzy. The writing was even more bizarre, like the twisted scratches left by some kind of reptile, filled with the chaos and malice unique to the abyss of hell.

Shen Mu's fingertips traced the edge of the scroll. Amidst the icy, bone-chilling touch, a barely perceptible burning sensation traveled up his fingertips—as if the parchment itself was resisting, or even attempting to contaminate, any living thing that came into contact with it.

Shen Mu's gaze was as deep as an abyss, sharply analyzing every crazy line and every strange symbol containing deadly poison on the parchment scroll.

However, a lot of things were written in the Blue Star script in the middle.

Shen Mu could understand it.

It is indeed information about the bone armor cavalry of the Second Dynasty of the Darklight and the skeletal archers of the Seventh Dynasty of the Black Arrow Tower.

"It seems that the 'Crimson Claws' hellish scrolls are much more 'sincere' than their human skin masks." Shen Mu's voice was as cold as the clash of iron, carrying a hint of insightful mockery: "Bestur."

“Yes, sir!” Bestur immediately stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Withdraw your men and arrange for them to rest and recuperate." Shen Mu's gaze remained fixed on the parchment scroll, as if he were extracting real information from those wildly distorted symbols.

"Yes!" Bestur accepted the order with a clenched fist on his chest, his eyes flashing with a fierce light. He glanced at the parchment scroll that exuded an ominous aura, then strode away to carry out the command.

The cold touch of the parchment and the blasphemous aura lingered on Shen Mu's fingertips. He closed the scroll and placed it on the cold stone crenellations.

He raised his head, his gaze falling on the darkness outside the city that had swallowed the messenger.

The desert under the cover of night is so silent it's suffocating.

……

Another four or five days passed.

The shadow cast by the walls of New Rivadin grew long and heavy in the gradually setting sun.

The air was filled with the scorching smell of sand and dust, the faint stench of blood and rust, and a lingering sense of decay from the depths of the spirit world that could never be dispelled, all of which combined to create the unique atmosphere of this forward fortress.

Several days have passed since that bizarre encounter with the devil's messenger, and the chill and ominous warning brought by the blasphemous parchment scroll have transformed into a deeper resolve between every reinforcing stone on the city wall.

Shen Mu's orders silently seeped into every corner of the fortress.

The Kujit steppe bandits under Bestur's command were like the most agile flock of eagles, scattered back into the wilderness.

They no longer acted in large groups, but instead broke into smaller, more delicate combat units of two or three people, like dandelion seeds, scattering lightly and cautiously across the vast "suburbs" east of New Rivadin that had been completely transformed into a desolate desert.

Their mission was clear.

It's surveillance!

Monitor the ridgeline of every sand dune, monitor the massive subway station entrance beside the ruins of Sujia Village that gapes open like a wound in the earth, monitor any ominous smoke or unusual shadows on the horizon.

The horses' hooves made almost no sound on the soft sand, but the Kujit's sharp eyes pierced through the sweltering air, like invisible threads weaving an invisible warning net across the desolate desert.

Meanwhile, the defensive fortifications outside the city are being advanced at an unprecedented pace.

Under the steady and powerful supervision of Rezarit, a low but sturdy stone and earthen wall rose up around the main city wall of New Zivadin, like stubbornly growing bone spurs.

This low wall is not designed for height; its purpose is to slow down and disrupt.

The wall was only up to the belly of a horse, but it was unusually thick, and the top was deliberately cut into sharp edges, enough to make charging cavalrymen who tried to cross it fall over.

Beyond the low wall, in more distant areas, hundreds of horse traps were dug out.

These elaborate traps are covered with a thin layer of camouflage turf or sand, beneath which lie thick, poisoned barbed wooden stakes.

They covered the area from the subway station ruins to the remains of Sujia Village, and then to several relatively flat, strategically important passages leading to the distant desert, suitable for cavalry assaults.

Any enemy attempting to traverse this area at high speed will face broken bones and rivers of blood.

This low wall and the deadly horse traps, like a cold iron plow, clearly separate New Zivadin from the outer wilderness.

Alarmingly, this growing defensive force does not appear to have faced a severe test in recent days.

As night fell, the undead monsters roaming the desolate desert did not disappear, but the devastating attacks of dozens or even hundreds of skeleton legions, or those accompanied by five bone-armored cavalrymen and their infantry retinues, temporarily vanished. The nighttime disturbances were replaced by a few scattered low-ranking skeleton infantrymen wandering aimlessly, or a few broken skeletal warriors that crept out of the shadows of the subway entrance, attempting to approach the low wall only to be mercilessly swallowed by the horse traps.

In the darkness, the bandits of Betusir patrolled, stood guard, and dispersed these small groups of enemies like ghosts. Although there was no fierce fighting, they maintained a tense and efficient state of alert, like a constantly honed blade.

However, this apparent calm did not ease the tension on the city walls in the slightest.

Shen Mu stood in front of the lookout point on the main city tower, unconsciously toying with a pebble that looked like a chess piece in his hand.

His gaze fell on the closed parchment scroll on the table.

Although it hasn't been opened since that night, the chilling aura emanating from that gift from hell, like a tangible cold current, still lingers around.

The generals privately referred to it as "the devil's whisper."

Rezarit strode up the city wall, travel-worn, his armor still covered in fresh dirt.

"Sir, the fourth section of the low wall and the horse trapping pits in the northeast corner have been completed and inspected. The traces of sand backfilling will be smoothed out by the wind within a few days, completely blending into the terrain." He paused, then said in a deep voice, "But are we being too cautious with this 'map'? Time is also a resource; if it can point out a weakness of the enemy..."

"Caution?" Bestur's voice broke in, his face still bearing the heat of the desert and his usual fierceness. "That thing reeks of human skin and sulfur! Rezarit, are you trying to get us to listen to those monsters in human skin and charge into battle? The arrows might be pointing right at the sand valley where hellish ambush troops are hiding!"

“Yes, we can’t trust the devil. In our continent of Calradia, doesn’t the devil also represent lies?” Eleanor’s sharp gaze swept over the parchment scroll on the table, then looked out the window at the desert that shimmered with a cruel golden hue under the setting sun. “They’ve been silent for too long. This doesn’t fit the greedy nature of the undead, nor does it seem like the devil’s style. This calm seems more like they’re accumulating something… or waiting for some opportunity.”

He pointed to the huge shadow at the subway station entrance in the distance. "The battle between Black Arrow Tower and Hell underground is much quieter than it was a few days ago. Are they reaching some kind of agreement? Or... are they shifting their focus?"

Shen Mu did not respond immediately.

The sand and gravel between their fingers were crushed into powder and fell down in a soft rustling sound.

He turned around, shifting his gaze from the arguing generals' faces to a more distant view—the desolate heart of the desert, bathed in the eerie golden-red hue of the setting sun, a desolate expanse pervading with death.

“The devil’s gift is always bait with a barb.” He finally spoke, his voice low and deep like the grinding of a rock: “Its ‘value’ at this moment lies in proving the part of it that the other party wants us to believe. But the markings on this map are hard to distinguish as genuine or fake, and their purpose is unclear. If we act rashly, whether we try to verify it or ignore it, we may step into the pre-set rhythm.”

He paused, his gaze growing increasingly profound: "As for this apparent calm... what Bestur's bandits see is not tranquility, but something amiss. The legions of the undead will never disappear, nor will the whispers of the devil cease. They are adjusting, adapting, or waiting for some weakness we have not yet detected."

Shen Mu pointed to the low wall and the trap area: "Use this energy to strengthen the defenses, train the soldiers, and cultivate patience. Treat every mark on the map, whether real or fake, as a tactical possibility and incorporate it into our defense simulations. Let them accumulate and be used for planning."

His voice carried a chilling decisiveness: "Our time, too, becomes the thickness of the city walls, the penetrating power of arrows, the potential energy for the Holy Tree Knights' next charge. When they finally can't hold back any longer and crash into this barrier forged with vigilance and steel..."

He didn't finish speaking, but the biting evening wind on the city wall seemed to have swept away his unfinished words, leaving only a silent, more oppressive conclusion—it would be a more brutal and better-prepared clash.

The real storm doesn't disappear; it just hovers high up, unseen by the naked eye, brewing for an even more violent plunge.

Night fell in an increasingly heavy silence.

The lights of New Rivadin outlined the grim silhouettes of spear-wielding soldiers on the city walls, the low walls lurking in the darkness, the horse traps opening their invisible maws, and in the depths of the distant desert, the massive subway station entrance still resembled the throat of a silent behemoth leading to an unknown abyss.

Night, like a huge velvet cloth soaked in ink, heavily covered the desert east of New Rivadin.

The biting wind whipped up fine sand, howling and whistling as it passed through the low dunes.

Several miles away, in a sheltered hollow off the main patrol route, flickering orange-red flames barely dispelled a small patch of darkness.

Five bandits from the grasslands, who belonged to Bestur's command, were sitting around a small campfire.

The air was filled with the smoky aroma of roasted meat and the distinctive tartness of coarse black bread.

Several desert hares, hunted with nomadic bows, were skewered on sticks and roasted, sizzling as the fat dripped into the fire, occasionally sending up a few sparks.

"Thanks to you, sir, we can even have a treat while on patrol." A younger bandit grinned as he tore a large piece of meat from the hind leg of a roasted rabbit, which was charred on the outside and tender on the inside, making him breathe out hot air.

His name was Batu, and he had the deep-set eyes and hooked nose typical of the Kujit people.

“Save your salt, Batu.” A weathered veteran named Gegen chewed on bread and took a swig of murky water from his sack. “Who knows how long this war will last? Salt is like a dinar in a critical moment, it’s very useful.”

He was older and was the temporary leader of the squad.

The other three also took their food, quietly enjoying the rare moment of warmth and tranquility.

The warhorse was tethered not far away, snorting quietly and occasionally lowering its head to chew on the coarse salt hanging beside its saddlebag.

Batu felt a little thirsty after eating, so he picked up his water pouch and tilted his head back to gulp down a few mouthfuls.

The water, still containing sand, had just slid down his throat when he suddenly froze in his swallowing motion.

He tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowed, his greasy fingers resting near his ear.

"Uncle Gegen..." Batu's voice carried a hint of uncertainty: "Did you... hear anything?"

Gegen and the other three stopped chewing, and the crackling sound of the campfire became particularly clear.

They listened intently, their relaxed expressions quickly fading, replaced by hunter-like alertness.

“…It seems so.” A bandit named Suhe hesitated, his fingers unconsciously reaching for the hilt of the curved sword at his waist.

"Like...bones hitting each other?" another squinted.

"It doesn't sound like... a fight? And... the 'whoosh' sound of arrows cutting through the wind?" Gegen added in a low voice, his experienced ears picking up the unusual sound in the wind more clearly than Batu's. (End of Chapter)