CHAPTER 57: THE PRACTICALITY OF EVIL

As the rest of the army marched eastward with Aszer at its helm, Aric stood silently, watching their departure, the wind biting at his exposed skin beneath the mask.

The cold seemed to intensify as the king and the bulk of the forces vanished into the horizon, leaving him with 150 soldiers upon the desolate, snow-covered plains.

The settlement remained in the distance, faintly visible beneath the dusky sky.

His soldiers, now under his sole command, began their preparations. Weapons were sharpened, armor adjusted, and whispered conversations spread through the camp.

Aric, quiet as always, observed them carefully.

These men did not know his name, calling him only "General." They did not understand he was their enemy, nor did they realise they marched not for the rise of Byzeth but for its fall.

It was always the same; even then, he was just like them—sent to fight and die for a cause they scarcely understood.

But how else could a man’s worth be decided?

By nightfall, the Kirik settlement was barely visible through the thickening snowfall. The world around them was swallowed in darkness, the wind howling like a wild beast—perfect cover for the attack.

Aric gave the signal, and his forces moved as one, like a shadow creeping across the frozen plains.

Their numbers, nearly double that of the garrison, gave them an overwhelming advantage, but Aric knew better than to be careless. Underestimating the Kirik soldiers was foolishness, and their familiarity with the terrain could turn against him.

As they neared the settlement, Aric raised his hand to halt the men.

He could feel it—the tension before the strike, the anticipation that burned through the air. His heart beat steadily, and a cold calm settled over him.

There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. This was what he was born from.

The attack began with a soft whistle—a signal—and the first volley of arrows streaked through the night sky, raining down on the Kirik soldiers standing watch. The cries of alarm followed instantly, but it was already too late. Aric’s forces were upon them.

"Push forward!" Aric’s voice cut through the chaos as he drew his sword, a sleek weapon gleaming under the faint moonlight.

The front line of Kirik soldiers met his men with resistance, but the sheer number and strength of Aric’s forces quickly overwhelmed them.

Clashes of steel rang out through the settlement as Byzeth soldiers, driven by the adrenaline of battle, stormed past the gates.

Aric moved like a shadow even without the shadow-step arts, each strike calculated and lethal.

His years of experience in a past life had made him a student of war, and it showed. His movements were fluid, precise, and devastating.

He needed no grand techniques—his Ki-enhanced strength and speed, which he had never possessed in his last life, combined with battle-hardened instincts, were enough. Each foe that crossed his path fell swiftly, reduced to nothing but bloodstains on the snow.

The small number of mages and Ki cultivators among his ranks unleashed their powers, flames erupting and bolts of energy crackling through the night, cutting swathes of Kirik soldiers down.

The battlefield was hell, forged of magic, steel, and blood—and Aric commanded this torment.

The Kirik soldiers, outnumbered and outmatched, tried to mount a defense, but they were cut down systematically.

Aric’s forces pressed relentlessly, giving no quarter. Snow was soon stained red, the bodies of the fallen scattered across the ground like broken dolls.

As the battle raged, Aric’s cold, calculating eyes swept the field. Every move was part of a larger design, every strike another step toward victory.

He maneuvered his soldiers with precision, directing them like pieces on a board, exploiting every weakness in the Kirik defenses.

It was not long before the tide turned fully in Aric’s favor. The Kirik, reduced to half their number, began to falter. Some fled, only to be struck down. Others, seeing the futility, cast down their weapons and surrendered.

The settlement was theirs—just like this night’s victory was theirs.

The air was heavy with the iron stench of blood and smoke as Aric’s soldiers rounded up the surviving Kirik defenders.

The remaining garrison, a few dozen men, were forced to their knees in the snow, hands bound and heads bowed. Their leader, a scarred veteran, stared defiantly at Aric as he was dragged forward, blood dripping from his brow.

The soldiers around them grinned wickedly, knives pressed to the throats of the captives. One of Aric’s captains approached, bowing slightly.

"General," he said eagerly. "Shall we slaughter them?"

Aric, still breathing evenly from battle, gazed down at the kneeling soldiers, their faces pale with fear and exhaustion. He studied them for a moment, then shook his head.

"No," he said coldly. "Not yet."

The Kirik garrison leader, struggling against his bindings, raised his head, voice hoarse but steady. "Spare them," he rasped. "Spare the people in this settlement—they are not soldiers. Leave them be."

A dark chuckle escaped Aric’s lips as he stepped forward, his shadow looming over the kneeling man. "You are right. I have no reason to kill them."

The garrison leader’s shoulders eased for a fleeting moment, but the gleam in Aric’s eyes turned that relief into dread.

"But a message must be sent... Go into the settlement," Aric commanded, turning to his soldiers. "Bring them out. Burn their homes."

The leader’s eyes widened in horror, and he screamed in protest, thrashing violently against his captors. "No! You can’t! They are innocent!"

Aric met his desperate gaze, his voice a cold whisper. "Innocence is irrelevant in war."

As the soldiers moved to obey, Aric turned away from the garrison leader’s pleading cries.

The flames that soon engulfed the settlement reflected across his armor as he strode forward, boots crunching over crimson snow.

’Empires are forged in blood and brutality. I am not evil... only practical,’ the prince thought.

How simple it was for a man to delude himself.