92 A March to Ruin
For the first ti, Bernhardt avoided the prince's gaze.
And in that mont, the First Prince realized—there was no plan.
With his last hope dashed, the First Prince's expression contorted in frustration.
His voice was strained as he turned to the only man who had foreseen this disaster.
"Lord William. Do you have a solution?"
The question was laced with bitterness.
The prince's pride trembled at the re act of asking.
Only hours ago, he had mocked William.
And now, he was forced to seek his wisdom.
William regarded him calmly.
Then, after a brief pause, he nodded.
"There is one solution."
The First Prince shot up from his seat.
"There is?! Then say it! If it works, I will grant you anything you desire!"
William's reply ca swiftly.
"Withdraw. Return to the Empire and reorganize. The enemy has discarded the Grand Accord, so we must adjust accordingly. Gather the appropriate forces and plan for a campaign that reflects the new reality."
The First Prince's expression froze.
Then, his face contorted in rage.
"Are you joking?! You want to retreat without even fighting?!"
William remained impassive.
"It is the least costly option. Far better to leave now than to retreat after suffering a true defeat."
"We haven't even lost yet! Don't speak of defeat so easily!"
"Not yet, perhaps. But we are now forced into a battle on their terms. Without preparation, we will remain at a constant disadvantage."
William's voice was unwavering.
"A wise leader does not charge into a battle already set against him. He adjusts, prepares, and strikes when the advantage is his."
The First Prince clenched his fists.
He trembled—not from fear, but from humiliation.
This was not how he had envisioned his glorious campaign.
He had wanted a swift victory, not a humiliating retreat.
His voice was strained as he hissed:
"Are you telling this is my fault?"
William t his gaze without hesitation.
"The coalition was ill-prepared. And now, we will pay for that mistake."
Bernhardt, for the first ti, found himself in reluctant agreent.
William's words were correct.
Retreat was shaful.
But continuing forward would be worse.
Better to lose a finger now than an arm later.
He opened his mouth, about to speak—
"No!"
The First Prince's furious roar silenced the tent.
His face was a mask of anger and wounded pride.
"I refuse! We will not flee like cowards! We will claim a victory before we return!"
William sighed.
"If that is Your Highness's will, then I shall remain in the rear."
The prince scoffed.
"What, are you afraid?"
"I simply follow orders," William replied smoothly. "You are the supre commander. I will not disobey."
His words were polite.
But his eyes held sothing else—sothing sharp and knowing.
A glimr of anticipation.
As the First Prince stord out, the remaining nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
This was not how things were supposed to go.
Then, slowly, every gaze turned to Bernhardt.
For the first ti, the weight of his earlier choices settled upon him.
William's forces would remain intact.
But the vanguard—the front lines—would belong to Bernhardt alone.
If things went badly, there would be no buffer.
No one to split the casualties.
Just his forces, standing alone against an enemy that played by no rules.
A cold sweat ford on Bernhardt's brow.
He swallowed hard.
"This… is bad! very, very bad."
William didn't stop there. His gaze swept over the surrounding lords as he added,
"The sa goes for all of you. While your counsel may have been given with the best of intentions, the fact remains that you've displeased the Supre Commander, His Highness the First Prince. And with that, you must also bear the consequences. There is no need to defend ."
The lords hesitated.
"N-no, but—"
"This is too much, even so…"
"I'll say it once more—I understand and accept this decision. So let's not have any unnecessary discussion."
With that firm declaration, William strode out of the tent, leaving the gathered lords looking pale.
He had spoken diplomatically, but his ssage had been clear. If they dared to push him to the front lines again, there would be no rcy.
With such a threat looming over them, any thought of persuading the First Prince in the na of the Hern family's interests was now out of the question.
Damn it. What are we supposed to do now?
What else? We leave it to the Eight Gods above and pray for fate to be kind.
Maybe I should just anger His Highness myself and get out of this ss…
Do you have a death wish? You want your entire house to be branded as traitors? Keep your mouth shut and stay put.
As whispers spread among them, the marquis staggered to his feet, his face pale and haggard.
How had things ended up like this?
At the start, all he had wanted was to wrap up the war quickly, minimize costs, and return ho victorious.
Yet now, the thought of costs and logistics had faded, replaced by a grim realization—he had to worry about his elite forces being senselessly wasted in a war that was spiraling out of control.
If only I hadn't been so obstinate at the start.
Had he acknowledged William's concerns, had he humored him with a few well-placed words of agreent, they could have found a way to retreat with dignity.
But he had openly opposed William in front of everyone, leaving himself no way out.
Now, regardless of how events unfolded, his only path forward was to follow that fool of a First Prince.
...Co to think of it, wasn't there a saying? A ruler should neither be too wise nor too foolish, lest his vassals suffer.
The marquis recalled the words his late father had once taught him.
A wise ruler controlled his retainers with an iron grip. A foolish one dragged them into the pit with him.
His father's lessons had always been invaluable, yet this particular phrase had never made sense to him.
If the ruler is a fool, isn't that all the better? That way, I can steer him however I please.
Now, as he looked at the abyss yawning beneath his feet, he finally understood.
The First Prince had been so easy to manipulate at first, but now, that very foolishness had bound him in chains, dragging him toward disaster.
A bitter chuckle escaped him.
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