The grain shipment should have arrived five days ago, but there's still no sign of it.
When Prince Terrence received this news, his good mood vanished. Even if Eastlyn’s Ninth Royal Uncle died right in front of him now, he couldn’t feel happy.
Ninth Royal Uncle’s life or death mattered, but it didn’t decide his own fate. That missing grain shipment, though—it meant everything.
Prince Terrence forced down his unease and asked calmly, “How long can our stores last?”
“Your Highness, we only have enough grain for three more days. If no supplies arrive soon, the men will go hungry.” In this Miasma Forest, every day brings unknown dangers. If they can’t eat, they’ll die here even without Southlyn or Eastlyn attacking.
The reporting officer saw Prince Terrence sitting motionless in his chair and added, “Your Highness, you must decide quickly.”
Three hundred thousand lives are in your hands. One wrong decision, and every brother here could die.
“Understood. You may go.” Prince Terrence waved his hand weakly.
Any joy from the news of Ninth Royal Uncle’s death was crushed by this crisis. So what if he died? Terrence hadn’t gained anything from it.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The officer looked at Prince Terrence, hesitated, then left.
Only His Highness still believes in His Majesty. As his trusted aides, we've advised him countless times to make plans early, but he always said we worried too much.
Now look what’s happened.
We told him—the Emperor isn’t worth trusting. If His Majesty truly cared about His Highness, he wouldn’t have pushed him to this point.
It was the Emperor who ordered the attack on Liancastle, but as soon as something went wrong, he pinned all the blame on His Highness and made him take the fall.
It’s not fair.
No grain... I can’t trust Father. Ha—do you think I want to? But I have no other path.
Of course, I know my father can’t be trusted when things get critical. But I have no choice—I have to feed these 300,000 men, and right now, I can only rely on Lyndaria.
While Father still remembers me and feels some guilt, I have to ask Lyndaria for more. Soon, I’ll be on my own.
He just never thought his father would forget him so quickly.
Tears slid from the corners of Terrence’s eyes as he covered his face, unwilling to let anyone see him so weak.
Tears leaked through his fingers as Terrence cried silently, a heavy sadness filling the tent. In that moment, he seemed like an abandoned child.
As Lyndaria’s only heir, Terrence never had any real rivals; everything he had came too easily.
Years of smooth sailing nearly made him forget his childhood in the palace—how he was bullied by the servants and longed so desperately to see his father.
Even after his plan against the Nine Cities failed and he was deposed, he still saw himself as Lyndaria’s true heir.
Because aside from him, Lyndaria had no suitable heir. If not for that, his father would never have let him rebel with 300,000 men or secretly supported him.
He always thought Lyndaria and his father needed him and would support him from behind the scenes, but now, at this moment, he finally understood…
All along, it was he who needed Lyndaria and his father. Without their support, he could do nothing. Without him, Lyndaria was still Lyndaria, and his father was still the Emperor.
“Nolan Dongling, never thought I’d be the first to join you down there.” Terrence averted his gaze, staring blankly at the letter reporting Ninth Royal Uncle’s death.
“I always saw you as my greatest enemy, but neither of us died by the other’s hand.” Terrence’s fingertip pressed on the words “Ninth Royal Uncle,” then tore through them, and in a fit of madness swept everything from the table to the floor.
The crash echoed through the tent, but not a single person dared to come in.
After venting, Terrence seemed to lose all strength, collapsing limply into his chair. Half his face hidden in shadow, his handsome features twisted with bitterness.
Time slipped by. When Terrence finally gathered himself, night had fallen. Ignoring the weather outside, he called out loudly, “Summon Warren Bailey.”
Warren Bailey was the fierce general Terrence rescued from Northlyn—a battle-hardened commander who knew the Miasma Forest well.
“At your service, Your Highness.” Warren Bailey quickly entered and knelt, giving Terrence the full monarch’s salute.
“Rise.” Terrence valued Warren highly; even in his foul mood, he stepped forward and helped Warren to his feet.
As expected, Terrence saw the emotion flash in Warren’s eyes—the loyalty he needed most.
Terrence didn’t hide the crisis from Warren, telling him about the missing grain. Warren was stunned and stammered, “No grain left?”
You can’t fight a war without grain. With 300,000 men trapped here, no food meant only one outcome—death.
Terrence nodded heavily. “The Lyndarian batch never arrived.”
Right now, Terrence couldn’t afford pride. Warren was the expert in military logistics and terrain, and Terrence had to rely on him.
Was it that Lyndaria never sent the grain, or was it stolen?" Warren Bailey asked, his voice free of personal emotion.
Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do next—we only have three days of grain left.' In truth, Terrence already had a plan, or rather, no choice.
He asked now only to keep the men from knowing—he wasn’t the one making this decision, wasn’t the one risking their lives.
No, it’s important. If the grain was stolen, we could get it back, or have Lyndaria send more. Three days’ worth—we could stretch it, maybe steal a little from Eastlyn or Southlyn, last ten days or half a month." Warren analyzed calmly.
But he knew well—after a month stuck in the Miasma Forest, their troops were no match for Eastlyn and Southlyn. If it came to a real fight, death was the only outcome.
Terrence shook his head. “It’s useless. Even if the grain was stolen, Lyndaria won’t send another batch. They still have a million troops to feed. This was the last shipment.”
That’s why he was so furious. With this grain gone, their only option was to fight—they could only rely on themselves now. His father had completely abandoned him.
So, we have to fight?” Warren’s voice was heavy with sorrow—the sadness of a hero’s last stand.
Three hundred thousand against Eastlyn and Southlyn’s half a million—did they have any chance?
Terrence nodded gravely. “Let the men eat their fill tonight. Turn the rest into rations and distribute it to everyone.”
A back-to-the-river battle—maybe they’d find a way out.
Warren’s eyes flashed. He saluted Terrence. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. I won’t let you down.”
To fight for survival could unleash limitless potential. Maybe this battle…
…would bring a miracle.