The battle raged at the forward camp as the Second Battalion fiercely clashed with the enemy.

  Like their fellow conscripts, the Second Battalion was poorly equipped, but the enemy’s state was even worse.

  At the very least, each of their soldiers wore a breastplate. However, the same could not be said for the enemy, as many among the enemy lacked even that.

  Yet what the enemy lacked in equipment, they made up for in numbers—outnumbering the Second Battalion three to one. The uphill climb only worsened matters, draining the soldiers’ energy with every step.

  With those overwhelming advantages, the enemy very quickly turned the tide. Despite the Second Battalion’s fierce start, they were already being pushed back.

  Nevertheless, Müller, astride the nyxstrider, carved his way through the enemy ranks. His mount thundered up the slope, his blade cutting down anyone who barred his path with precise, measured strikes.

  A glance back confirmed his fears: most of the Second Battalion had been forced back to the trench. Their formation teetered on the brink of collapse, with some already forced to retreat to the other side.

  They won't last much longer, Müller thought, snapping the reins. The nyxstrider surged forward. With a swift slash, he cut down another soldier as he raced past.

  At this point, aside from Hymn and the few trailing her, he’d left the entire Second Battalion behind. Even Müller, with all his strength, had begun feeling the pressure. With every gallop, the incline steepened, and another soldier fell back, leaving him more isolated.

  Stopping meant certain death. He was so deep behind enemy lines that all it would take for him to be overwhelmed was a moment's hesitation.

  "Don't let him escape!"

  "They’re falling back! Drive them into the trench!"

  "No! Forget them—focus on the rider. He’s the real threat!"

  "You heard him—circle the rider!"

  Climbing was a struggle, but descending was arguably worse. One misstep could send them tumbling down the slope—shattered bones probable, death possible. Aware of the risk, the soldiers picked their way down, careful to avoid any misstep.

  Despite their fear, they closed in from all sides, trying to halt Müller’s advance.

  Müller, however, expertly used the steepness to his advantage, weaving between them and slipping past their strikes. With a final flurry of attacks, he cut through the last defensive line, clearing the path to the slope’s crest.

  However, one last man blocked his way. The young soldier paled as the monstrous beast thundered toward him. Though his hands trembled, he gritted his teeth and drove his spear—not at Müller, but at the steed’s side.

  Unfazed, Müller flicked his wrist, parrying the feeble thrust. As he raced past, he slammed his mount into the man, sending him sprawling down the slope.

  With a final burst of speed, Müller's steed cleared the slope, its hooves scarping over the plateau's edge.

  "Half-circle!"

  Five figures rushed forward, forming a crescent around him. Their poised stances and steely gazes told Müller these men were no novices.

  Müller smirked, fingers tightening on the hilt. His blade flashed, swinging diagonally at the nearest soldier, testing his skill.

  CLANK!

  The soldier expertly absorbed the blow, boots skidding back a step. His companions instantly shifted, closing ranks before the gap could widen.

  Müller quickly reassessed the squad. He hadn’t taken much note before, but these soldiers were well-equipped: full leather armor, sharp blades, and polished grips.

  Instantly recognizing the danger, Müller snapped the reins, urging his mount to break through.

  In response to his attempt, a spear lunged for the steed’s legs, forcing it back. Another soldier stepped in, shield raised, jabbing at Müller’s flank.

  Clicking his tongue, Müller jerked the reins.

  "Careful, we're almost at the top."

  "Watch your footing."

  Müller glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. Reinforcements were closing in fast. He didn't have long.

  Müller’s mind vigorously raced as the soldiers herded him backward. Clicking his tongue, he reared his nyxstrider, driving them back.

  Their goal was never to defeat me but to delay me long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Müller thought, dodging a spear thrust. What to do? The slope’s still clear. I could retreat... but that would mean abandoning my mission.

  A spear was thrust forward. Müller parried and kicked at the attacker’s shield, knocking him off balance.

  However, the soldiers once more closed ranks, sealing every escape route.

  There are ways I could end them, Müller considered, eyes growing cold. The thought flickered—then he shoved it aside, yanking the reins to evade a sword aimed at his mount’s legs.

  Suddenly, sparks of gold flickered in Müller's eyes, but they disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. There's only one option then—just a little longer.

  Müller's heart pounded against his ribs. He could hear boots thundering behind him, pebbles skittering with each tremor.

  He swallowed hard, waiting for a chance, waiting for the single moment he knew was coming.

  The moment came.

  CAW!

  From nowhere, a black blur dove from the sky. It swept past before the soldiers could react, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  For a heartbeat, all was silent...

  "AHHHHH!"

  ... then one among them collapsed, screaming and rolling on the ground, hands pressed over his eyes.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  In that instant, while the soldier's companions stared down in shock, Müller kicked his steed forward, bursting through the gap created by the fallen man.

  He rode into the camp, but instead of charging straight toward the cliff overlooking the battlefield, he pressed his leg against his mount’s side and tilted his head. Sensing the cues, the nyxstrider veered sharply right, weaving deeper into the camp.

  As reinforcements arrived, shouts echoed behind him. Some soldiers paused to aid the screaming man, but most gave chase.

  Müller raced between the tents, avoiding the main paths and skirting the camp’s outer edges. Though the sounds of pursuit soon faded, he kept his senses sharp, riding until he neared the opposite end where the soldiers’ tents stood.

  He slowed down, his gaze sweeping the area—then finally stopped, his eyes settling on what he sought.

  Müller quickly dismounted and strode toward an extinguished campfire. He reached into the simmering embers and, after a moment's thought, withdrew the last lit piece of wood.

  He raised it to eye level, tilted it upward, and blew gently. Splinters along the charred tip caught, and a flickering flame ignited back to life.

  "Tsk... search that tent!"

  "He's not here."

  "Damn? Let's move on."

  Müller turned; the searchers were closing in.

  He waited for the flame to steady, then pressed the makeshift torch against a nearby tent. Smoke curled upward, and within moments, the canvas was ablaze, fire licking toward the sky.

  He moved swiftly, setting several surrounding tents ablaze. Satisfied, Müller returned to his steed and mounted in one fluid motion. His eyes briefly glowed golden—then the light vanished.

  “Ugh,” Müller groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, then kicked his mount’s sides, breaking into a brisk gallop as the smoke billowed in a gray backdrop behind him.

  Shouts rang out as the searchers rushed toward the burning tents, abandoning their previous posts, as he intended.

  The fire will draw most of them away, Müller thought, weaving between the tents, his torch trailing a line of flame. I don’t have long. I need to get to the supply tent.

  His gaze lifted skyward, eyes scanning until they fixed on a black blur circling above.

  "Tentsui," Müller whispered, urging his steed toward the bird.

  Encountering no resistance, he soon reached the camp’s center, where the tents stood larger and more imposing than those on the camp's outer reaches.

  As Müller dismounted, the bird swooped down, settling comfortably atop a tent. Prominent even among its neighbors, the structure showed signs of heavy use—trampled ground and a well-worn entrance. Moments ago, guards may have stood watch. Were it not for the fire, he’d likely be crossing blades with them.

  Müller walked briskly to the tent and pushed aside the flap, marching in.

  Immediately, he pinched his nose. A sharp, acrid odor—oily and faintly metallic—filled the space.

  He raised the torch, casting flickering light around the tent. Dozens of wooden barrels lined the space.

  Müller approached one and, after punching the torch into the ground, pried off the lid with his sword. Leaning in, he took a long whiff.

  A satisfied smirk spread across his face. Weapon oil, he thought, replacing the lid with a soft thud.

  Useful. Reliable. Versatile. Müller paused, a chilling grin widening. Flammable.

  With that, he hefted the barrel and carried it outside.

  Glancing right, he noted the smoke had thinned. Its faintly dark hue was the only sign of the earlier blaze. For a moment, it could’ve passed for a campfire.

  Chatter and shouts echoed as his pursuers resumed their search. But Müller remained calm, methodically dousing the surroundings in the viscous liquid.

  Finally, he glanced around, satisfaction settling on his face.

  Reentering the tent, Müller’s gaze swept from end to end. More than half the barrels still crowded the storage, the few he’d taken barely making a dent.

  His eyes shifted to the torch. The flame still burned lazily, though it neared the ground.

  He hefted one last barrel and carried it out. Oil-slicked ground squelched beneath his boots as he trudged toward his steed. With a grunt, he dropped the barrel, reached into the saddle, and withdrew the horn he’d been given. After sliding it beneath his breastplate, he pulled out a bundle of rope.

  He heaved the barrel onto his steed. Once it settled under the weight, he adjusted the barrel’s position and secured it with the rope.

  Grabbing the reins, Müller led the nyxstrider to the tent. He ducked inside, returning moments later with the torch.

  A fond smile tugged at his lips as he patted the beast’s head. Then, drawing his sword, he drove it into the barrel. Oil spurted out in thick streams as he withdrew the blade. With a final glance, Müller slapped the animal’s rump, sending it into motion with a sharp cry.

  It cantered off, a glistening, multi-colored trail streaming behind it.

  “What was that? Men, to me!”

  “Wait... is that—?”

  “It is! Alert the men—we’ve found the whoreson!”

  Alerted by the commotion, soldiers swarmed in from every corner, surrounding Müller within moments.

  Torch burning in hand, he slowly turned, observing the ring of rageful yet wary eyes.

  They edged closer, gait hesitant and defensive, haunted by firsthand knowledge of what he could do.

  Müller closed his eyes for a moment before unexpectedly speaking. “Where is your commanding officer—the one responsible for this hill?”

  The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. After a tense silence, one stepped forward, fingers tightening around his spear. “What’s it to you?”

  Müller shrugged. “Nothing. I already have a good idea—I’d just like clarification.” His gaze shifted north. “At the cliff, I assume?”

  Noting their stiffened expressions, a smirk appeared on his face. “Thought so.”

  He slowly sheathed his sword, the metal shrieking against the scabbard. “Convenient,” he murmured, “but I can’t help being a little peeved he didn’t deem me threatening enough to come himself.”

  Müller sighed. “Oh, well. He’ll probably live to regret that choice.”

  By now, scores of soldiers had gathered—the nearest mere steps away.

  Müller glanced skyward, squinting at the sun, now a quarter through its climb. "Although... I can't guarantee you all that privilege. My only advice... run."

  "FALL BACK! FALL BACK!"

  A man appeared in the distance, his cries sweeping across the field, his desperation cutting through the soldiers’ confusion.

  Müller's fingers slackened. The torch slipped from his grasp.

  The man’s eyes widened as he saw it fall. He whirled around, boots pounding the earth as he fled. His final shout echoed behind him, a warning received far too late.

  "THAT SMELL... IT'S OIL!"

  As if drawn by a beacon, every eye followed its descent, the weight of realization slow to dawn.

  The torch struck the ground with a soft thud—a sound far too gentle for the chaos it wrought.

  Instantly, flames leaped forth, devouring the oil-slicked earth.

  The fire raced toward the supply tent, engulfing it in moments. It surged along the glistening trail left by Müller's fleeing steed, spreading beneath tents.

  And the soldiers...?

  Those closest were instantly claimed, their clothes igniting in an inexorable blaze. Screams tore through the air as men flailed and stumbled—some desperately rolling to smother the flames. Yet Müller’s meticulous preparations ensured that even that proved futile; oil-cloaked ground clung to them, turning hope into despair.

  Those outside the trap’s radius fled the initial horror—but safety was no guarantee.

  Across the camp, thanks to Müller’s fleeing steed, cries echoed as the burning trail set fire to everything in its path. The flames propagated without aid, the blaze feeding itself. Tents ignited one after another, sparks leaping from canvas to canvas, creating a chain reaction.

  Panic reigned. Soldiers dashed from end to end, faces twisted in fear, desperate for shelter from the ravenous inferno.

  And the architect of it all?

  Müller had long left the plateau and climbed the right wall of peaks. Now he sat atop a smooth rock, back against the stone. The fires below flickered in his gaze, the chaos mirrored in his eyes. His face was an emotionless mask, devoid of sympathy, as men fell by the hundreds, all according to his design.

  His gaze shifted to the cliff. Though they were still outside the fire’s reach, unease spread among the archers as the flames crept closer.

  The commanders tried to maintain control, but it was a losing battle.

  The first man ran—that was all it took. The rest broke, fleeing in all directions.

  Where would they go? Müller couldn’t say. A cliff lay to their front and left, an unscalable wall to their right, and a raging fire at their back. Even if they escaped the flames, their only path led down the slope—straight into the Second Battalion. With the panic and desperation on display, Müller wouldn't dare wager a coin on their chances of victory.

  As Müller observed, he reached into his breastplate and withdrew the horn. Raising it to his lips, he blew. Despite the fire’s crackle and the battlefield’s mayhem, the horn’s call rang, loud and sharp.

  He didn’t wait to confirm the army’s retreat. Returning the horn, he stood.

  "The rest depends on those squires," Müller muttered, turning from the plateau. "I’ve done my part."

  "And what a part that was."

  Müller’s eyes shot to the left, his sword already half-drawn.

  A woman stood there, a slight smirk curling her lips as she gazed below.

  Her hair was a fiery red. It caught the flames’ glow, casting her in a brilliant, burning hue. Brown, slanted eyes flicked toward him—calm and amused.

  Müller stepped toward her, his guard raised. "Who are you? Friend or foe?"

  She turned to him, eyes locking with his. "Friend, I hope," she said, a smirk playing on her lips.

  Like him, she moved closer. "Though... that depends on you." Her gaze gleamed. Spontaneously, her brown eyes shifted, glowing with a luminescent gold. "But oh, I would so love to be friends."