The reason for not acting earlier was the potential to reap greater profits and more far-reaching possibilities by waiting.Acting now was because further delay would lead to losses in interests and an increase in risks.

  Nobles would not readily engage in war without necessity; behind every war was a river of expenditure. Smaller noble houses often went bankrupt after a single war. Without absolute interest as a lure, war remained nothing more than empty talk on paper. Moreover, there was no conflict between Leos and Pramisburg—the latter had even promised Leos a share of the profits from the monopoly rights. There was no need for war, especially since the Bolton family was clearly in a weakened state.

  Having lost these shield guards and knights, Westflow City had fewer than three thousand capable fighters left. Gathering the forces of the four great families could form an absolute superiority, and capturing Westflow City would not be difficult. Rather than fighting these fearless commoners and consuming large numbers of viable forces, it was better to swallow Westflow City whole.

  Montreal clutched the sword that had pierced his body and turned to look at his adjutant, whose mouth was covered and who was convulsing in the arms of the knight behind him. Large patches of blood stained his clothes, dripping to the ground and soaking the earth. Several knights responsible for guarding him had also fallen to the ground. Montreal punched the uncle in the face, causing a bloom of blood, then turned his horse, pressing his heels down hard. The inch-long spurs pierced the horse’s ribs without resistance, and the horse reared up in pain, neighing, before bolting at a full run.

  The uncle covered his sunken nasal bone, with blood seeping out drop by drop from between his fingers. His resentful gaze was filled with unresolvable hatred. He bent down, picked up the hand crossbow hanging from the saddle, blinked away tears, aimed at the increasingly distant Montreal, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  With a thud, Montreal, who still had a short sword stuck in his back, lurched backward noticeably, and the crossbow bolt shot straight into his right chest. Losing blood continuously and suffering severe bodily harm, Montreal could no longer maintain his balance and began to sway unsteadily on the frenzied horse, soon falling from the horse’s back. The uncle flicked the reins, and his horse trotted closer to Montreal with elegant and brisk steps.

  Sitting on the horse and looking down at Montreal, who was barely breathing on the ground, the uncle took out a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from his face, and pressed it tightly against his nostrils. His crooked nose throbbed with piercing pain, making his eyes redden. He grabbed the handle of the hand crossbow, stepped on the string-pulling mechanism, and pushed hard. The crossbow bolts in the magazine were pushed by the mechanism and firmly locked into the arrow groove.

  Montreal’s eyes had begun to glaze over, and he struggled with all his might to get up, only to fall heavily to the ground several times. Facing the blurred scene before him, he gave a bitter smile, with blood welling out from his open mouth. He pointed at the blurred shadow in front of him; he knew who this person was.

  The uncle looked coldly at him, raised the hand crossbow contemptuously, and pulled the trigger.

  With a thud, the crossbow bolt pierced Montreal’s throat, nailing him tightly to the ground. Montreal’s hands instinctively grabbed the crossbow bolt stuck in his neck, and during the struggle, the short sword was pushed aside with a slide, exposing his entire chest and emitting a thick, stinking odor.

  After twitching twice, this young general known as the "Glitter of Westflow City" died at the hands of the allied army—a great irony.

  Long horn sounds blew from the rear, one after another, and the situation on the battlefield underwent an astonishing transformation in an instant. The allied soldiers beside the shield guards all turned their weapons around and stabbed them into the bodies of their former comrades. In this unguarded situation, nearly a thousand shield guards and over four hundred knights were destroyed in an instant. The people on the walls of Pramisburg all widened their eyes, unable to believe this suddenly changing reality.

  Were they fighting among themselves?

  Marvin looked thoughtfully at Arno, who finally breathed a sigh of relief and showed a somewhat grim smile.

  The soldiers below the city regrouped and retreated to a distance, while two knights from afar approached the city gates. One of them held a family banner: white with a red border, a blue rose twining around a knight’s longsword—the banner of House Leos. The other rider was a man dressed very elegantly, not wearing armor. He was now holding a reddened handkerchief to his mouth and nose, with an unpleasant expression on his face.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Arno patted Blair, who raised his arm to casually wipe the blood from his face, then rode his horse with Arno and slowly walked out from the city gates.

  "Dear Lord Arno," the uncle said, bowing from his horseback, his voice muffled due to the handkerchief. "I represent House Leos in extending our most sincere greetings to you."

  Arno glanced at his crooked nose and nodded slightly. "I accept your greetings." After a pause, he added, "Why did you act so late? This caused me to lose more subjects. My plan with Earl Bowen was not like this!"

  The uncle showed no shame or fear in the face of Arno’s questioning. He tried to make himself look less disheveled. "Please forgive us, my lord. As you know, the situation on the battlefield changes rapidly. I had to consider the interests of the house’s warriors and make choices for the house’s interests. Regardless of the process, the outcome is no different, is it?" He raised his head, glanced at the Pramisburg people sticking their heads out from the city wall, and sneered, "They’re just a bunch of commoners!"

  Arno suddenly laughed out loud, as if he highly agreed with the uncle’s words. "Yes, just a bunch of commoners." However, in the depths of his eyes, a sharp glint flashed by.

  "Lord Arno, when do you plan to send troops to participate in the plan to attack Westflow City? The clan leader is eagerly awaiting your appearance," said the uncle. When he spoke these words, he felt a surge of comfort. Although his nose had been beaten crooked, he believed that Bowen would not only not criticize him for this but would instead give him great rewards. In the original plan, they should have launched the defection early to ensure the combat effectiveness of Arno’s side, then gather the forces of the five houses to crush Westflow City’s defensive strength and divide the spoils.

  He had delayed the timing of the defection, causing Pramisburg to suffer greater war losses, which meant Arno would not be able to send more soldiers. And as he had anticipated, Arno gave up the opportunity to participate in this battle. It should be known that nobles are not elegant moral models; if you want to get more, you must put in more effort. In the noble circle, it is simply impossible to want to eat your fill without contributing.

  Arno shook his head slightly. "I’m sorry, but I need more time to reorganize, so I will give up participating in this campaign for Westflow City. Please convey to Earl Bowen that I am relinquishing all claims to the spoils of Westflow City."

  The uncle was a qualified noble who made the most appropriate choices at the most opportune times. Whether he truly wanted to capture Pramisburg or ultimately let Pramisburg and the Bohr family fight each other to exhaustion, causing Arno to lose the opportunity to divide the war spoils, he had mastered the timing perfectly. He showed no eagerness and was not overly aloof, and by matching this with a lack of scruples, he had played the game of power to its peak in just a few hours.

  "What a pity!" The uncle appropriately displayed regret, which was the modesty and grace that nobles should have. "Westflow City’s location is extremely important, with unique advantages in transportation. I hope that in the near future, Leos and Pramisburg can become the closest partners and develop together. This is also the clan leader’s wish."

  Arno nodded, not wanting to waste more words with this scoundrel. He pulled the reins, and the horse’s head turned to one side. This animal, which only knows how to move forward, took small steps and slowly turned under the guidance of the reins.

  On the surface, the uncle maintained a respectful demeanor, but the superiority and arrogance in his bones could not be hidden. He knew that he had formed a grudge with Arno, but who cared? The reason for his grudge with Arno was not for his own self-interest but for the entire House Leos. Even if Arno was dissatisfied, Bowen would not make things difficult for him; instead, he would reward him. Infighting within noble families was also extremely brutal: useful people were promoted to high positions and enjoyed glory and wealth, while useless people were no different from servants in the family, or even worse than some servants who pleased the family head!

  This scoundrel, I will kill him sooner or later.

  Arno said this to Blair. This several-hour battle had cost Pramisburg nearly three thousand lives. Perhaps in the eyes of others, it was a remarkable thing that three thousand commoners had resisted the coalition’s attack, but Arno did not think so. The pursuit of dominance always relies on population.

  Truth is truth no matter where it is. If you want to develop, grow, and have more say, you must have more people. Why could the Golden Lions become the emperors of the empire? Because they had enough people, strong enough people.

  The coalition forces in the distance finally dispersed, leaving a field of corpses. The Pramisburg people, who had won the war, did not cheer. This battle had given them too much shock and too much sadness. Three thousand families had lost their sons, husbands, and fathers, leaving the living with endless pain. Arno regarded Pramisburg as his own territory and its residents as his own subjects; he had the obligation to soothe all the consequences brought by the war.

  Amid the sorrow, there was also a ray of light.

  The Pramisburg people, with their fearless lives and unyielding souls, had not only won the victory of the war for this city and their families but also won a bright future.

  As soon as the news of Arno’s victory over the Bohr family spread, his popularity soared. In just three days, merchants from all over Bell Province converged here. Since the momentum of Pramisburg’s development in Bell Province could no longer be suppressed, although placing bets at this time was a bit late, it was not too late. With all industries waiting to be revived, there were always opportunities.

  At the same time, another event drew the attention of the entire Bell Province: the four great families were launching a campaign against Westflow City, preparing to swallow this city that had not changed its ruler for nearly five hundred years and drive out its original masters.

  To this end, the four families mobilized an army of ten thousand men and completely blockaded Westflow City.