Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king Chapter 418: Sea Lion(6)

Discipline is the steel spine of any great army. It is what turns re n into an unyielding wall, what keeps swords steady when chaos reigns, and what forces warriors to stand firm before horrors that would send lesser n fleeing.

Beyond its practical edge in battle, discipline possesses a beauty of its own—the way it suppresses fear, how it molds instinct into obedience, and how it allows soldiers to march into death as if it were rely another step forward.

For a commander, nothing is more frustrating than an enemy that refuses to break. Battles are not won by strength alone, but are instead always won by the collapse of an enemy's will. Many wars have been decided not by sheer bloodshed but by the simple act of forcing the other side to run. Quick, devastating strikes—sudden ambushes, relentless charges, and overwhelming force—these have been the weapons of tacticians for thousands of years, used to shatter morale and send n scattering before a fight can even begin.

Few understood this better than Alpheo.

Ti and again, he bent the tide of battle to his favor, exploiting the fragile resolve of enemy armies. Against the rebel lord Ormund, he struck fast and hard, driving into the enemy's center with ruthless precision with an ambush. Within monts, their lines buckled, and their left flank—made up of trembling levies—crumbled after barely ten minutes of fighting.

Against the Herculeians, Alpheo did not et them head-on imdiately . Instead, he shattered their cohesion with well-placed catapult fire, breaking apart their advance before his troops surged forward and drove them back. They might have routed entirely had their reinforcents not arrived in ti to steady their ranks, opening the field for Egil to save the day with his triumphant cavalry charge.

But Alpheo's true genius lay not just in strategy, but in understanding the mind of the common soldier. He knew what made n stand and what made them run. He knew the weight of fear, the strength of hope, and the thin line between courage and despair. He used this knowledge to manipulate battles as a sculptor shapes clay, twisting the minds of his enemies to his liking.

Yet even a master of fear and morale has limits. No amount of cunning could shatter a force that did not feel fear—a force bound by iron discipline. When faced with warriors who had stripped themselves of hesitation and emotion, who held their ranks no matter the slaughter around them, even Alpheo's tactics faltered. There is no breaking an enemy that refuses to bend, no terror that seeps into the mind of a soldier who has buried his fear beneath sheer will.

Against such n, there could be no easy victory. Against such n, there was only slaughter, until one side stood alone on the blood-soaked field.

Still,even the most disciplined n were not immune to fear. No matter how much training, how many battles fought, or how unbreakable their formation seed—fear was always lurking, waiting for the right mont to sink its claws into their minds.

It was not always a scream or a desperate flight that gave it away.

Sotis, fear was as subtle as a single, hesitant step backward.

Blake saw it happen the mont his axe split another Rolian soldier apart. The edge bit through chain and flesh, carving deep into the man's side before ripping free in a spray of crimson. The body crumpled, lifeless, joining the growing heap of corpses at his feet. His arm barely felt the weight of the strike, as if his axe had passed through nothing more than air.

And then, for the briefest mont, hesitation flickered through the Rolian ranks. It was barely noticeable—a shift in their stance, a tightening of their grips—but Blake caught it. The slightest backward shuffle, a reflex so deeply ingrained in survival that even disciplined n could not fully suppress it.

They had seen too many die.

They had seen the way he fought—relentless, brutal, a force of nature hacking through them like wheat before the scythe. And in that instant of doubt, in that breath where their resolve wavered, the crew took their chance.

With renewed fury, they surged forward, shields locking, weapons striking. The space granted by that single step allowed them to stabilize, to catch their breath, to reset their footing. A mont ago, they had been barely holding on—now, they stood firm.

Blake let out a sharp, barking laugh. He raised his bloodied axe and pointed it at the enemy, his lips curling into a sneer.

He felt better than he had ever been, with a strength he had never felt running in his blood.

He felt as powerful as a god,or better yet if he was strenghtened by on.

"Go on, then!" he roared, his voice carrying above the chaos. "Run, if your legs still work! Or step forward and die like the rest!"

The Rolians did not flee—not yet. But that creeping fear had begun to take root, and Blake had no intention of letting it fade.

Blake swung his axe. The blade tore through a Rolian shield like it was parchnt. The soldier behind it staggered. Blake didn't stop. He ripped the axe free and brought it down again. This ti, it split a helt—and the skull beneath.

Another Rolian lunged. A spear jabbed at Blake's side. He caught the shaft mid-thrust. With a twist and by letting his weight fall onto his knees , he fell on it snapping it like a twig . The soldier froze, eyes wide. Blake's fist crashed into his face.

Blake moved forward, letting one of his n slay the soldier on the ground.

His axe rose and fell. Each swing was a killing blow. Shields splintered. Swords shattered. n died.

The Rolians felt it. They saw it. And they began to falter.

Around him, the crew of the Roaring Axe fought like demons. They fed off Blake's fury. A sailor drove a dagger into a Rolian's throat. Another swung a mace, crushing armor and bone. The deck was slick with blood. The air reeked of iron and sweat.

"Push them back!" Blake barked. His voice was a thunderclap. The crew obeyed. They surged forward, shields locked, weapons flashing. The Rolians stumbled. Their discipline cracked. Fear crept into their eyes.

Blake didn't let up. He grabbed a Rolian by the collar and smashed him to the ground , before letting his axe fall.

Another soldier swung at him. Blake caught the blade mid-air with his shield, the rest was easy to expect.

The Rolians were breaking.

Step by step, they retreated. Their formation wavered. Their courage faltered and the strenght and resolve in their arms sapped. Blake's crew pressed harder. Axes rose. Hamrs fell. The tide was turning.

Blake stood at the center of it all, a force of destruction. His axe dripped red. His chest heaved. His eyes burned with a fire that wasn't human. The Rolians saw it. And they knew—they were not fighting a man.

They were fighting a monster.

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Caius watched, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, as the assault on the enemy flagship crumbled before his eyes. What was supposed to be a decisive strike had turned into a disaster.

One of their ships was engulfed in flas, its crew leaping overboard to escape the inferno. Another had been ramd by an enemy vessel, its hull torn open, warriors spilling onto its deck in a brutal lee. The third—their best chance at overwhelming the flagship—had failed to dislodge the defenders. The enemy still stood, unbroken, hacking down every soldier who tried to board.

Then ca another blow.

"Red flag! Red flag on the western approach!" The voice rang out from the mast, sharp and urgent. "Another fleet incoming!"

Caius felt his breath hitch. No. It couldn't be. Not now.

He turned sharply, eyes darting to the horizon. His heart pounded against his ribs as he scanned the waters, but he couldn't see how many ships were coming—only the telltale red banner fluttering in the wind.

"Orders, sir?" a crewman asked, voice tight with tension.

Caius didn't answer imdiately. His fingers curled into a fist. He wanted to demand a number—how many?—but the lookout had only seen the signal. It could be five ships. It could be fifteen.

What he did know was that the battle was already tilting against them. The assault had stalled, their forces were entangled in brutal fighting, and now, with more ships approaching their flanks, the situation darkened further.

Should we send ships to intercept them?But how many?5-10?Do I even have more?

They were running out of ti. And options.

"Orders, sir?" The question ca again, this ti more urgent.

Caius turned to the crewman who had spoken. The man's face was tight with tension, his knuckles white where they gripped the rail. Around them, the officers and sailors looked to their commander, waiting, expecting.

But Caius had no answer.

His mind raced, running through possibilities. There were few—far too few—and yet, the weight of choosing between them felt heavier than any decision he had ever made.

Keep fighting?

The assault on the enemy flagship was failing. Their ships were battered, their soldiers locked in desperate combat. If the reinforcents were few, perhaps they could hold, regroup, and continue the battle. But if the approaching fleet was larger…

Retreat?

It would an abandoning any chance for a coback

His jaw tightened. He had commanded thousands in battle, had given orders without hesitation. And yet, now, in the face of these two grim choices, he hesitated.

Was he to retreat or not?