Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 550: End in sight

The sun hung high in the sky—a merciless, gilded disk that bathed the world in a clarity so sharp it bordered on cruelty. This was not the gentle light of dawn, nor the forgiving glow of dusk, but the pitiless glare of noon, exposing every scar and seam of the land below as if the earth itself had been laid bare for judgment. The heavens offered no reprieve—no clouds, no haze—just an endless expanse of blue, stretched taut like the skin of a drum awaiting the first thunderous beat of war.

The Royal Host crested the ridge like a slow-rising tide of steel, their advance measured, inexorable. They moved with the quiet confidence of wolves who had long since grown accustomed to victory.

Sunlight danced along polished helms, transforming each into a fleeting crown. Spears stood rigid against the sky, a forest of defiance aimed at the gods themselves, as if daring them to intervene.

And then, the battlefield.

It sprawled before them, untouched by the chaos yet inviting it forward like a woman with open legs in a bed.

The hills ahead were no longer mere rises ; they had been reshaped into a killing ground , every slope studded with palisades, every approach choked with ditches and sharpened stakes. It was a beast of wood and earth, crouched and waiting, its maw gaping wide to swallow the unwary whole.

Yet the Royal Host did not balk.

Why would they? Their banners had never known the kiss of defeat. Their steps had never faltered. Their prince had never led them astray.

The line halted. The world held its breath.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence—a silence so thick it seemed to press against the ears. No shouts, no drums, no blaring horns. Just the creak of leather, the restless stamp of hooves, the quiet rasp of gauntleted fingers tightening around sword hilts.

And at the heart of it all, beneath the snapping standard that roared like a challenge in the wind, stood the Prince.

He was motionless, a statue carved from the same unyielding resolve that had carried his army this far. The wind plucked at his cloak, as if even the elements sought to pull him back—to whisper caution into his ear. But his gaze remained fixed upon the rebel-held heights, where sunlight glinted off a thousand points of steel.

His eyes traced the defenses , the ditches, some shallow enough to stumble over, others deep enough to bury a man alive. The palisades, their stakes blackened by fire to make it easier to work or still oozing sap like fresh wounds. Every detail screamed the same warning, a chorus of instinct and experience rising in his mind: freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Do not come here.

Not here. Not like this. Danger waits. Death waits.

And Alpheo agreed wholeheartedly, heeding his mind..

He had no taste for throwing men into the jaws of such a slaughter. Let the glory-hungry lords send their levies charging uphill if they wished—let them drown the ditches with their peasants’ blood. But his White Army? No. They were not fodder for some vain charge. Courage was one thing. Folly was another.

Still, the field before him was more than a slab of dirt. It was a chessboard. And while the rebels had seized the high ground—giving themselves the defender’s privilege of choosing the terrain and twisting it into a nightmare for any oncoming force—the attackers had their own kind of power.

Initiative.

The sweetest morsel that an attacker could make use of .

The one on the offensive moved first. They set the tone, dictated the rhythm. A good attacker, a clever one, could make the defenders dance to his tune without them realizing their feet were already moving.

But that was theory. This... was a hill and it was not the one he would die on .

In the real world, attackers had to march. And marching meant friction. On uneven terrain, over craggy slopes or through muddied ditches, formations broke like waves—lines surged ahead, others lagged behind. A clean advance turned into a staggered mess before the first spear was even thrown. All it took was one break in the rhythm, one stagger in the line, and the defenders would pounce, break the line and route them.

Because when defenders saw an army climb uphill, sweating and panting, its neat ranks turned to a drunkard’s procession, they didn’t see valor. They saw lunch.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, his jaw tight, his eyes still on the gleaming hills.

Both sides held cards.

The rebels held the high ground. Alpheo’s advantages were different, but no less potent: the relentless energy of an army in motion, the precision of careful planning, the ability to strike where and when he chose. What he needed now wasn’t brute force, but cunning—a way to turn the enemy’s unshakable position into a trap of their own making.

He would not feed his men to the earth. Not today. Not ever.

Yet hesitation was its own kind of defeat. Not for the body, but for the spirit of an army. A prince could bleed. A prince could fall. But a prince could never let uncertainty touch his voice or shadow his eyes.

Doubt was a sickness, and it spread faster than any plague. One faltering glance from a commander, and suddenly spears grew heavy in trembling hands, shields drooped like weary shoulders, and the whispers slithered through the ranks: Does he truly have a plan?

So when the silence behind him stretched a heartbeat too long, Alpheo shattered it.

"Jarza."

The grizzled captain stepped forward like a shadow given form—a man who spoke only when spoken to, and even then, only in the blunt syllables of war.

"Have the troops make camp," Alpheo ordered, his voice calm. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Jarza didn’t nod. Didn’t question. He simply turned and unleashed his voice like a storm breaking over the ranks. Orders ripped through the air, sharp and clear. The army stirred to life—axes were hefted, horses led to pickets, the first stakes driven into the unyielding ground.

Alpheo didn’t turn to watch. His gaze remained locked on those damned hills, their slopes now bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. They seemed to mock him, growing taller with every passing moment, as if the rebels were piling the very earth higher just to spite him.

At his side stood Asag.

The man was a specter of what he’d once been—his armor still gleamed, but it hung on a frame that had been whittled down by loss. Of the two hundred hardened warriors who had once followed him without question, only half remained. A hundred blades, still loyal, still lethal—but their edges had been dulled by grief.

Alpheo flicked a glance at him.

Asag said nothing. He didn’t need to.

He had forged his army to be unstoppable, a force that shattered anything in its path. But even the mightiest hammer could only strike so many times before the wood splintered.

The prince dragged his attention back to the hills. The palisades stood like a wall of broken bones. The ditches gaped, hungry. Sunlight glinted off rebel steel—a thousand watching eyes, laughing at him.

For a fleeting, bitter moment, he considered hurling Asag’s hundred at them.

The thought tasted like ash on his tongue.

"You got a plan?"

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his brow furrowed beneath his circlet of bronze. He shook his head slowly, almost reluctantly.

"Not really," he muttered. "Nothing solid. Nothing I’d carve into stone, at least." He rubbed the side of his face, the skin dusty with the march. "For now... we make camp. Let the men rest. There’s no use dying with empty stomachs and stiff legs."

Asag gave a small grunt, half-agreement, half-doubt. He knew too well what it meant when Alpheo didn’t have a plan—because that meant the cogs in the prince’s mind were turning faster than usual.

"But..." Alpheo continued, a spark finally dancing behind his tired eyes. "There’s half an idea forming.I am trying to grasp at its legs and pull it to the open"

He paused, his gaze locking on the far hills. He looked at the slope not as a warrior now, but as a butcher sizing up the neck of a bull.

"The way they’ve positioned themselves—dug in like ticks on that ridge—it’s good ground, sure. But they’ve gone all in on it. Too in. Which means... they’ve only got one way in. And one way out."

Asag turned to follow the line of Alpheo’s eyes. He saw it too—the single road that coiled behind the hill like a snake tailing its den.

"What if we cut them off?" Alpheo said. "Choke their lifeline. Let them stew in their hilltop fortress. Siege them—not with towers or rams, but by bleeding their wagons dry."

Asag raised a thick brow. "Siege them into coming out?"

Alpheo nodded. "They’ve got to eat. They’ve got to drink. A strong stomach won’t help if you can’t fill it. If we divide the army—just enough—we could place men along three sides of that hill, surround it. Leave only the side we came from open. They won’t break through that. But we’ll keep our supply lines safe through it."

"And starve them out," Asag muttered, scratching at his small beard.

"Exactly," Alpheo said, his voice tightening with the first hints of conviction. "They either rot up there until they can’t stand, or they come charging down in chaos.Both cases are good for us.Of course that will require dividing our forces to cut them from retreating into the night.....’’

Asag’s gaze remained fixed on the distant hilltop defenses, his eyes sharp and skeptical. "Dividing the army, huh?" he muttered, his tone cool and firm. "That’s a gamble. Too much can go wrong when your strength is split."

Alpheo didn’t argue. Instead, a faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Believe me, I’m not rushing to chisel this into stone just yet. It’s only a rough shape—half a plan and a whisper of sense. I’ll bring it to the others, see if this madness has legs before we start marching in circles."

After that he turned, his cloak catching the breeze as his gaze swept down the slopes toward the sprawling mass of his army. Already, the camp was coming to life—tents rising like canvas mushrooms, soldiers unpacking gear, driving stakes into the earth, and barking orders in the afternoon light.

Beside him, Asag followed his eyes, arms crossed loosely over his battered breastplate. "You must be proud of what you’ve gathered," he said, a faint note of amusement cutting through his gravelly voice.

Alpheo didn’t look away. He smirked, brow arched. "Is it that obvious?"

Asag gave a one-shoulder shrug. "You’re practically beaming. I thought I saw your chest puffing."

Alpheo gave a short laugh, low and sharp like a blade being drawn. "In truth... this war is exactly what I needed. Painful as it’s been, once it’s done—when it’s done—my authority will be something close to untouchable. Who’s going to argue with a man who ended a rebellion, crushed a foreign prince, all in one war?"

He paused, the wind picking up his hair as he glanced sideways at Asag, his words now poised to those that offered him that opportunity.

"But don’t think I’ll start treating them like I owe them for it, those fuckers caused me quite the trouble....."