The maid squad is too strong, what use is there for me, the Demon King?

The autumn mist, like the sigh of a defeated man, permeates the low hills of Fengyuling.

Cyril Shadowsong reined in his jet-black warhorse, straightened his back, and arrogantly raised his chin.

His sharp eyes, now filled with disdain, pierced through the thin mist and locked onto the gray-blue silhouette of Fengyu City.

Above the city walls, the Star Banner, symbolizing the Kingdom of Westphalia, hung limply. In his eyes, the dim star was practically bowing down to him—the future true king!

The atmosphere behind him was completely different.

The soldiers' palms were sweaty as they gripped their weapons tightly, their knuckles turning white from the effort. Their eyes, like those of startled birds, warily scanned the desolate fields, the empty woods, and every shadowy corner where an ambush might be hidden.

Along the way, the anticipated arrows, ambushes, and scout battles... were nowhere to be seen. This unusual silence, like a cold, venomous snake, coiled around the heart of every soldier. Even the warhorses pawed restlessly at the damp earth, snorting uneasily. A oppressive, almost suffocating sense of unease permeated the ranks.

However, Cyril's smile grew even more blatant.

"Ha!" He let out a short, loud laugh, the sound sharp and piercing, clearly drowning out the soldiers' suppressed breathing.

"Do you see that? Even the stars that symbolize royal power have dimmed! Those scoundrels of Windwhisper have lost even the courage to pick up a weapon! They are only fit to grovel beneath the banner of Shadowsong and beg for my mercy!"

His arrogant words, like a boulder thrown into stagnant water, stirred ripples in the hearts of the uneasy soldiers.

Some veterans exchanged worried glances, their brows furrowed, finding the success all too unsettling. But the commander's resolute, victorious declaration began to seep into the soldiers' chilled hearts like a warm current.

Cyril thought all of this was perfectly normal.

After all, news of an explosion had just arrived from the capital: General Ravende Black had rebelled and killed King Edmund Celestio.

The garrison in Windwhisper Territory was in complete disarray. They encountered no resistance because the original garrison, seeing that Edmund Celestio was dead and would have difficulty getting support, simply abandoned the city and fled.

The royal army had all fled, leaving only a small force from the Windwhisper Territory, which offered no resistance.

If you don't want to die, of course it's more appropriate to show sincerity, open the city gates wide, and offer up the Wind Whisper Pass with both hands.

The person who made this judgment can be considered a "wise man who knows when to yield." (Wei Junjie, Xixi)

Whether the general sent by the royal army went to find a place to establish himself or to seek refuge with others, it didn't matter to Cyril.

Why not take over such a large territory as Fengyu Territory without bloodshed or loss of troops?

Cyril firmly believed in his speculation and had no reason to doubt it.

Even if the garrison was lying in ambush in the city waiting for him to walk into their trap, the difference in troop strength, coupled with the fact that Wind Whisper Territory had no high-level professionals who could match him, meant that no amount of trickery would work in the face of absolute overwhelming power.

Cyril was too lazy to observe the details any further. He gently spurred his horse, and the warhorse strode forward, the crisp sound of its iron hooves breaking through the thin frost sounding to him like the booming of triumphant cannons. He held his head high and led the way.

The soldiers instinctively followed, and the sound of metal scraping against metal resumed, but the initial tension seemed to be somewhat diluted by the commander's confidence.

As Windwhisper City came into view, revealing the empty crenellations, the intact defensive equipment, the wide-open, heavy oak gate with its hinges gleaming suspiciously, and the steadily lowered drawbridge, a slight, uneasy commotion once again arose in the ranks.

"It's too quiet..."

"Not a soul in sight?"

"This city gate... it opened way too quickly..."

Whispers circulated among the soldiers like gnats. Cyril paid no heed; his eyes were fixed only on the symbol of the "grand surrender ceremony"! He spurred his horse onto the drawbridge, the thick wooden planks echoing hollowly and loudly.

“Stars? Hmph!” Cyril gazed at the listless banner atop the city wall and proclaimed in a booming voice, making sure every soldier could hear, “From this day forward, a new sun will rise over this land! Windwhisper Territory has surrendered without a fight before my might! Behold this city gate, the key they offered!”

"Marching forward! To claim the city that belongs to Shadowsong! Your glory is within reach!"

These highly inflammatory words acted like a shot of adrenaline in the soldiers' hearts. The commander's absolute confidence and the prospect of the city being within their grasp began to overwhelm their underlying unease.

Some soldiers straightened their backs, their grip on their weapons no longer driven by fear, but by a stirred desire for readily available spoils and honor.

Doubts were gradually replaced by a blind confidence that "the commander-in-chief is brilliant and invincible, and the enemy is utterly defeated." Indeed, if the enemy hadn't been terrified, why would they have opened the door to such a blatant attack? The commander-in-chief's judgment must be correct!

"May Lord Shadowsong be victorious!" Someone shouted first, with a mix of doubt and excitement at being encouraged.

"May Lord Shadowsong be victorious!" Immediately afterwards, more voices joined in, initially hesitant, but then coalescing into a sound wave that, while not deafening, was enough to dispel the silence.

The soldiers' steps quickened, though their shields remained instinctively raised in front of them and their eyes still scanned the surroundings warily. But the deep-seated fear had been replaced by a slightly unrealistic confidence ignited by their commander's victory declaration. They began to believe that this truly was a glorious victory achieved without a fight!

A torrent of metal, carrying renewed, deliberately invigorating shouts, surged into the deep city gate passageway. The soldiers strained to hold their heads high, attempting to mimic their commander's arrogant demeanor.

As the warhorses crossed the dividing line between light and shadow in the archway, a cold wind, carrying the scent of dust and decay, swirled out, whipping up withered leaves that lashed against the soldiers' armor and faces. Many instinctively shrank back, but when they saw Cyril Shadowsong's unwavering profile at the front, even bearing a cheerful smile, they naturally straightened their backs.

Cyril gazed at the city streets, deserted and ghostly, doors and windows tightly shut. "Hide, you lowly people!" he thought, a profound sense of control filling him. The star-studded banner still stubbornly fluttering in the mist atop the city walls was no longer an ominous sign in his and his incited soldiers' eyes, but rather the last remnants of an old era about to be trampled underfoot.

The soldiers, chanting slogans, surged into the deathly silent streets with resolute steps. Their confidence, fueled by Cyril's arrogance, inflated like a balloon to its limit, completely obscuring the enormous trap woven by the open city gates, the deserted walls, the eerie silence, and the chilling wind. Immersed in the false victory of "bloodless conquest," they followed their blindly confident commander step by step into an unknown abyss…