Alamar stepped out of the communications chamber. Behind him, the complex array of communication apparatus dimmed with his departure, finally settling into silence, leaving only a barely audible hum of lingering magical aftertaste.

He did not think much of the proposal heatedly debated at the council just now—namely, to incorporate the “Puji-handler” system into the army’s establishment.

Unlike certain colleagues, he did not fret over the so-called risks of “parasitism.” His considerations were purely pragmatic.

In his view, although the number of Pujis a Puji-handler could command was indeed immense, their individual strength was generally low—at best filling the army’s bottommost gaps in combat power.

True, effectively supplementing the lower ranks was not a bad thing. But the problem was that beyond being weak, these Pujis came with many vexing limitations.

The most fatal one was the Mycelium.

Once outside the range of the Mycelium, these seemingly convenient monsters would quickly die from mana depletion.

This meant that in essence they could only serve as defensive forces in fixed regions, and were almost useless for any form of proactive strike or long-range deployment.

And as everyone knew, the core of the Puji Mycelium—“Mordu”—lay at the far south of the kingdom, while the “Highcastle Fortress” he garrisoned guarded the throat of the northernmost frontier.

The two were separated by a vast distance, with the kingdom’s heartlands and the Empire’s armies—ready to cut in at any moment—between them. There was nothing reliable to be hoped for there.

For this reason, throughout the entire lengthy session of the council, he remained somewhat uninterested, unable to muster any real enthusiasm.

Duke Alamar paced up onto the thick battlements of Highcastle Fortress.

His gaze traversed the war-scarred wasteland and finally locked firmly upon the horizon—on that hideous, dark-red edifice, the Crimson Spire.

It was like a sword hanging over the kingdom’s head, forcing Alamar to remain stationed here year-round.

“Any developments?” Alamar asked.

“My lord!” The adjutant hurried forward to salute, his voice a little muffled in the gale. “Still only some routine small-scale skirmishes. Our scouts and the observation crystals have detected no signs of any large-scale mobilization by the Imperial army.”

Alamar’s brow furrowed even tighter.

No movement was not good news at all—it defied common sense.

He knew that the Empire’s vampire duchess, Eleanor, had also been sent to the front to assist Sigismund. Their main force was camped not far to the west of the Spire—judging by the extent of the sky-canopy the Spire emitted to block the sunlight.

With their strength reinforced, by Sigismund’s temperament, he ought to be launching a fierce offensive while the momentum lasted.

For that, Alamar had prepared thoroughly!

The seven towering mage-towers outside the fortress walls had their power cores charged to the brim; the granaries, arrow stores, and alchemical potions stockpiled in the warehouses were sufficient to sustain a months-long siege; he had even, despite pressure on the northern front, transferred in a batch of fresh troops, ready at any moment for a bloody defense.

And the result?

The opposite side was as quiet as a graveyard.

Such abnormal calm made Alamar more uneasy than the beating of war drums.

He knew Sigismund too well—just as Sigismund knew him.

That enemy was vile, insidious, cunning, and cruel—stopping at nothing to achieve his ends—but in the dictionary crammed with his schemes, one would absolutely not find the words “passive” or “timid.”

The more the Imperial army held its position, the more Alamar sensed the surging undercurrents beneath the placid surface.

Sigismund must be planning something. A deadly, unseen storm was surely gathering power in the shadow of the Crimson Spire.

“Pass the order,” Alamar instructed the adjutant behind him. “All posts elevate alert status to the highest level. Tell the mages not to be stingy with mana—scan continuously over every inch around the fortress, especially underground! And have the knights make ready!”

The adjutant looked up in shock, incredulous as he confirmed: “My lord, do you mean… to take the offensive?”

“I’m going to probe the measure of that newly arrived vampire duchess!” Alamar’s tone brooked no doubt.

“My lord, that is very likely a trap!” the adjutant urged anxiously.

“Better than sitting trapped within the walls with no idea of the enemy’s intent.” Alamar gave him no chance to persuade further, turned decisively, and strode down from the battlements.

At midnight, the bloodkin were at their strongest—but also at their most lax.

Alamar personally led his elite Hemlock Knights, launching a surprise assault on Eleanor’s encampment under the cover of a large-scale spell.

And then…

A great victory!

Eleanor’s forces seemed wholly unprepared for a surprise attack from the offensive side themselves!

Alamar and the Hemlock Knights tore through the outer defense—composed of slaves and a handful of half-vampires—with ease, then drove straight in.

They rampaged back and forth through the camp twice. Though they deliberately avoided the central main camp where the strongest forces lay, they still plunged half the encampment into turmoil, slaying countless demons.

In the end, after a brief and fierce clash with the belatedly arriving Blood Knights from the direction of the Crimson Spire, Alamar led his troops in an orderly withdrawal back to the fortress.

Watching the victorious, high-spirited knights return, the adjutant clicked his tongue, feeling a bit awkward.

Alamar’s face, however, showed no trace of joy.

The Hemlock Knights were limited in number. Though this strike had succeeded, it was far from enough to inflict a crippling blow.

More crucially, after this probe, his doubts weighed even heavier.

As for the newly arrived Eleanor—her personal strength was unknown, but in military command she was clearly a rookie. This much he had basically ascertained.

Future operations could focus primarily on her. She could serve as Sigismund’s support—and equally, as his weakness.

What truly puzzled Alamar… was his old foe Sigismund.

Why was the response so slow?

By Alamar’s initial estimation, when he led his troops into the encampment, the Blood Knights from the Spire should have sallied forth at once to cut him off, leaving him a very narrow window for retreat.

That was not what happened.

Moreover, in that brief clash with the Blood Knights, he felt they lacked a central will—their actions were slightly delayed, as if Sigismund himself were not commanding within the army.

But given Sigismund’s history of disguising himself as an ordinary knight to launch sneak attacks, Alamar did not linger, for safety’s sake.

Even so, the doubts in his heart only snowballed.

Though it might well play into some trap, after careful thought he decided that next he would gradually raise the intensity of engagements—to force the other side to reveal their hand.

…

“Sigismund!” Within the Crimson Spire, the pervading reek of blood was nearly shattered by a shrill roar.

Duchess Eleanor, seething with fury, sought out Sigismund—who had not left the Crimson Spire from beginning to end.