Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

May 17th, early morning.

Before dawn, only a faint, pale light shone on the distant mountain ridges. Istvan was awakened by a series of rude shouts, the clanging of wood, and faint sobs.

Last night, he lay in the "comfortable single room" Peter had provided, which was actually just a storage room with some hay piled up and a sturdy oak door, with a guard outside to "protect" him. He didn't sleep well, only managing to drift off to sleep in the middle of the night, and was woken up shortly afterward, feeling irritable and grumpy.

"What the hell is going on? What are these peasants up to?" He got up warily and pushed open the wooden door.

By the light of a few torches outside, he saw a bustling scene: in the open space in the center of the camp, more than thirty "soldiers" wearing worn-out leather armor and chainmail covered in rust and holes were waving wooden sticks or whips, driving nearly a hundred ragged, emaciated men, women, and children to work. Some were chopping wood, their voices muffled; others were carrying stones, their steps faltering; several women were stirring something around a huge iron pot, the steam mingling with the morning chill, blurring their numb faces.

"Hurry! Get it done! The east side of the fence must be reinforced by daybreak! Anyone who slacks off won't get any food today!" A "leader" with a burly face and a large mouth shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice particularly jarring in the quiet of the pre-dawn silence.

Istvan glanced at the sky, then rubbed his eyes incredulously. It wasn't even dawn yet! Were these peasants made of iron and didn't need sleep?

Old monk Martin entered carrying a bowl of hot water, his face showing apologetic weariness. "Mr. Tors, did I wake you? I'm so sorry. Our camp's daily routine is quite early."

When dealing with a venomous snake like Istvan, ordinary people would inevitably reveal their weaknesses, while only someone like the old monk Martin could remain completely undetected.

"Daily routine? Brother Martin, what time is it? I think it's still a long time before dawn!" Istvan pointed to the eastern horizon.

Martin sighed, made the sign of the cross, and said softly, "We don't have a clock tower or an hourglass here. We usually wake people up with a rooster's crow. But... alas, food is scarce lately, and to get more work done, Lord Peter and the others... came up with a plan."

"What method?" Istvan asked curiously.

"They discovered that if someone were sent to crow loudly like a rooster in the middle of the night, the real roosters in the cage would also be roused to crow along. Most of the people working below... didn't understand; when they heard the roosters crowing, they thought it was almost dawn and they should get up." Martin's voice was filled with pity. "They could work much longer."

Istvan: "..."

A sense of absurdity and contempt instantly welled up in his heart. These country bumpkin leaders really knew how to outsmart the common people! Such despicable methods would be utterly beneath the notice of the truly noble families he had served, but in this remote and impoverished place, they could be considered a kind of "dark wisdom."

While he looked down on it, he secretly noted: the management was crude and the efficiency was probably low. The reliance on deception to maintain the workforce indicated that both resources and manpower were stretched thin.

As dawn broke, the sound of dinner service rang out, accompanied by the clanging of a broken piece of metal on the central square. A long queue formed in the open space. Istvan was led by Martin to the "Officers' Dining Area," which was really just a few wooden tables.

He saw that the so-called "soldiers" were given dark, rock-hard bread, while the civilians who worked behind them were given only a small spoonful of thin soup that was almost enough to reflect a person's image, and a pitiful few wild fruits or roots that they couldn't tell what they were.

"Mr. Tors, please have some."

Old Martin politely brought him a piece of black bread and a bowl of equally clear "soup," along with a pinch of salt. "The camp's food supplies are indeed running low, please excuse the poor state of affairs."

Istvan maintained a polite smile, but inwardly he was screaming: This is it? What about the treatment we receive as allies? What about the etiquette we are treated as nobles?

He picked up the dark bread; it was heavy and rough to the touch. He tried taking a bite…

"Crack!"

It wasn't the bread that was crunchy; his teeth nearly broke! He forced himself not to spit it out, feeling something in his mouth that definitely wasn't wheat—fine grit? And… sawdust? Good heavens, they'd mixed sand and wood chips into the bread! I, István Tos, a Hungarian court nobleman, counterfeiter, destroyer of Skaritz, close friend of Count von Polgao, and lackey of King Gigi, had never suffered like this!

"What's wrong, Mr. Tors? You don't like it? This kind of bread, which is very filling, doesn't taste quite right."

Old Martin kindly handed him a bowl of soup.

Istvan quickly rinsed his mouth with the soup. He cursed inwardly, "To increase weight and feel full? Are these people crazy?!" He felt like he wasn't eating food, but chewing on a new kind of torture device. And that bowl of "soup," aside from being salty and having a strange taste of wild vegetables, was practically just hot water.

He ate his breakfast with difficulty, taking small bites, his smile somewhat stiff. His assessment of Peter's camp's "weakness" dropped several notches: extreme food shortages, appalling soldiers, adulterated black bread, and civilians teetering on the brink of starvation. The so-called militarized management was more like a desperate form of exploitation.

After the meal, Peter personally saw him off, his face showing exhaustion as if he had stayed up all night, but also a forced sense of bravado.

"Istvan, my brother," Peter grasped his hand and shook it firmly, his eyes filled with anticipation for his "ally" and a hidden anxiety, "when you return, be sure to convey my respect and determination to form an alliance to Captain Jessica. Also..."

He leaned closer, somewhat embarrassed, and said, "As you can see, we're really facing difficulties here. Ten sets of armor—no, five complete sets of chainmail or leather armor would be fine! And if we could bring in a cartload of wheat, that would be a huge help! You certainly have the ability to 'obtain' support for us, don't you?"

Istvan, seeing the stubbornness and expectation in Peter's eyes—a stubbornness that seemed to defy all odds—was secretly delighted. What a blustering fool! He's barely managing to save himself and still wants to test the sincerity and strength of his allies? Fine, this is a perfect opportunity to send in the elite troops!

He immediately adopted an expression of empathy and righteous indignation: "Lord Peter, rest assured! I completely understand! Five suits of armor? No, I'll give you ten! A cartload of grain, no, two cartloads! I'll manage to get them in under the guise of 'Captain Jessica supporting allies.' This will not only help alleviate your immediate crisis but also make that foolish young master believe the 'intelligence' I bring—look, the Red Griffin is indeed so poor that he needs aid!"

"Very good!"

Peter patted him heavily on the shoulder, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Be careful! My friend, I'm waiting for your good news!"

The two gazed at each other "affectionately" once more, each giving themselves a perfect score for their performance and scheming.

Istvan left the refugee camp, which he saw as chaotic, poorly equipped, and morale questionable, barely holding on thanks to its strategic location and his leader's shrewdness. He couldn't wait to present this invaluable enemy intelligence analysis and brilliant plan to his arrogant young master.

Half a day later, around noon.

In the main hall of Trossky Castle, the young master Jan von Polgár, dressed in brand-new silver-plated armor, sat reclining in the main seat, listening to the discussion of two knights, five village sheriffs, and three mercenary leaders below, his face filled with impatience. Standing beside him was the castle steward, Ulrich, with a gloomy expression.

When the guard announced that "Monsieur István Toth has returned and requests an audience," the young master raised his chin and said, "Let him in. Let's see what useful things my father's 'clever man' has managed to get his hands on."

István walked into the hall, looking travel-worn but in high spirits. He bowed to the young master and greeted the others, his demeanor respectful but not servile.

"Toth, I heard you went deep into that thief's den alone? How was it, scared out of your wits?"

The young master asked rudely.

Istvan smiled slightly, neither humble nor arrogant: "To serve the young master, even if it's a dragon's den or a tiger's lair, I must venture into it. Besides, that wasn't a dragon's den or a tiger's lair, but rather a hornet's nest that was all show and no substance."

"Oh?"

The young master became interested and sat up straight. "Tell me in detail."

Istvan cleared his throat and began to recount his experiences in a confident, slightly exaggerated tone, as if telling an interesting adventure story:

"Your Excellency, gentlemen, please allow me to describe this so-called 'Red Griffin Camp.' Their leader is that young man named Peter."

He mimicked Peter's feigned composure, "He's got a bit of cleverness, but mostly it's arrogant recklessness. When I told him that the young master would be gathering five hundred soldiers to surround him, his fingers were trembling." Istvan elegantly demonstrated the trembling, then laughed, "But he insisted on putting on an air of complete control, utterly ridiculous."

The mercenary leader from out of town burst into laughter. Sir Semi and Sir Nebakov wore expressions of relief. The sheriffs of the five villages, especially the one who had seen Peter, looked on with suspicion.

"Secondly, it wasn't a military camp at all, but a chaotic refugee camp! Before dawn, before the roosters crowed, they used such despicable methods as 'crowing the roosters in the middle of the night' to drive the civilians out to work!" Istvan vividly described the "slave-like" management, which amazed Sir Semi and Sir Nebakov, who were both contemptuous and found it somewhat "creative."

"Where are their soldiers?"

The young master asked the crucial question.

Istvan's expression turned to one of utter dismay. "The soldiers' armor was tattered and rusted. And their food was even worse! I was 'lucky' enough to taste their officers' rations—a piece of black bread that could break a tooth, mixed with sand and sawdust! A bowl of 'soup' that was practically water! And that's what the ordinary civilians got to drink? The old monk himself complained to me that their food supplies were almost gone."

The hall was filled with a cheerful atmosphere. They imagined the food and the scene, feeling both disgusted and incredibly superior.

"So," Istvan concluded, his tone resolute, "Peter's camp is all bark and no bite, all bluster. In my opinion, its fighting strength is not even comparable to a hundred well-equipped conscripts. Their only advantage is that the forest and the camp's terrain are indeed treacherous, easy to defend and difficult to attack. If we launch a direct assault, they will retreat behind their fortifications and hurl stones and arrows, and we will indeed suffer unnecessary casualties."

The crowd's eyes lit up; this was exactly what they wanted to hear—the enemy was weak, the terrain was difficult, but they could win with minimal losses through "outsmarting" them.

"So, what is your suggestion?" the young master asked in a deep voice.

Istvan raised his voice to make sure everyone could hear: "Red Peter wants to wear us down with the treacherous terrain, but we'll do the opposite. My suggestion is—break through from the inside!"

He paused, basking in the attention of everyone present: "Peter tried to play the victim with me, hoping that I, his 'ally,' would transport a shipment of armor and food to prove the sincerity and strength of our alliance. We can turn the tables on him! Under the guise of transporting these supplies, we'll organize a 'civilian transport team.' But we'll infiltrate it with twenty of our carefully selected elite warriors! They'll be dressed in tattered clothes, disguised as coerced laborers or vagrants seeking refuge."

His eyes gleamed with "wisdom": "Once this force enters Peter's camp, given Peter's current state of shortage of manpower and supplies, and his eagerness for aid, he might not carefully inspect their supplies, or he might be too embarrassed to rigorously check the 'gifts' from his allies. Once they're inside, they can lie in wait. Then, we can agree on a signal, or I can provide internal support. With this coordinated attack, we can open the camp gates, or create chaos, allowing your main force to launch a fierce assault... that so-called strategically important camp will surely fall in one fell swoop!"

The hall was quiet for a moment, then a chorus of approval rang out.

"Brilliant!"

"Let those peasants taste what it's like to be stabbed in the back by their own people!"

"Mr. Toth truly lives up to his reputation; he is indeed worthy of His Majesty's high regard!"

Even Ulrich, whose face was grim, nodded slightly, feeling that the plan was manageable in terms of risk and potentially very profitable. It could reduce the losses from a direct assault and quickly resolve the trouble, meeting the Count's expectation of quelling the unrest within the territory as soon as possible.

István was pleased with himself for being able to manipulate everyone with his "wisdom" once again, and for being about to achieve a great feat, which would solidify his value in the eyes of the Hungarian court and the Borga family.

"absurd!"

Young Master Jan von Polgar's angry shout startled everyone from their joy, and they all stared in surprise at the silver-armored youth leaning back in his seat.

Jan von Porgor, pleased with the stares of the crowd, lashed out at Istvan below, "God gave you a brilliant mind, and you've made it think like a pig!"

Istvan was stunned by the scolding, and almost lost his elegant aristocratic posture.

The young master continued, "Since you say Peter's camp is so incompetent, why can't we just launch a direct assault and take it? Do you think the five hundred civilians and one hundred mercenaries I recruited are all useless?"

"But the terrain of Devil's Canyon..."

Istvan wanted to argue, but was interrupted by the young master.

"Terrain that is difficult for others to breach, I can do with just a wave of my hand."

No one believed Borgo's boastful words, yet no one dared to contradict him, because the young master, authorized by the count, was as if the count himself were present, and even Istvan could not defy his authority.

Everyone was simply unable to understand why their young master would reject such a good plan.

Everyone wanted to win with minimal losses, but that was precisely what the young master of Borgo cared about least—I went to great lengths to obtain my father's authorization, recruit five hundred militiamen, and hire one hundred German soldiers just for a "strategic victory" that could be accomplished by a small group? What does it matter if a few more people die!

Surrounded by a large army, fawned over by everyone, and with thousands of people exclaiming in awe as he walked, that was the "prestige" he desired!

A swift and decisive attack, conquering cities and seizing territories, and utterly crushing everything in his path—that is the "victory" he desires!

A simple "outsmarting" game is completely out of character for the young master of Borgo!

Young Master Borgo glanced around, and everyone bowed their heads. He then said smugly, "Sir Tors, although your suggestion was foolish, the intelligence you gathered is very important. Please go and rest well. I will write to my father to report your merits."

Yes~

Istvan bowed with a frustrated hand on his chest, but he was burning with anger inside; this was not the credit he wanted!

"Everyone, go and prepare. In five days, I will march on Devil's Canyon and completely annihilate Red-Haired Peter's bandit gang!"

Under the young master's firm decision, everyone bowed and withdrew.

"Sir Nebakov, please stay behind."

The young master called out to the old knight who was retreating from the crowd.

Sir Nebakov, with a long, thin face and a thick beard, appeared to be in his sixties. He had no interest in outside conflicts and devoted himself to building his own Nebakov Castle. This was his proudest achievement. Nebakov Castle was built on the edge of a cliff, making it easy to defend and difficult to attack. It was also five times larger than Sir Semih's Semih Castle.

"What can I do for you?"

Nebakov asked in a simple and honest manner.

The young master said in a low voice, "I think the strategy of pretending to deliver supplies to Peter while secretly harboring elite troops is quite good."

"But didn't you already reject it?"

"Yes, that's because I don't want such credit to go to a Hungarian. It should be given to a loyal knight of my territory. Isn't that mercenary, Jessica, serving under you? You'll be in charge of this matter. I'll provide the supplies, you provide the manpower. When I lead my army to attack the canyon, your people will help me capture it, but don't let too many people know."

The young master offered a cunning suggestion.

"This is not in accordance with the honor of a knight, but if it is the young master's order, I can give it a try."

Nebakov hesitated for a moment before nodding in agreement.

"Very good. After it's done, I will return the taxes you paid and support you with 100 Grossens to build a castle."

"I am fully at your service, young master!"