After observing the battle on the ramparts for a while, Arno felt a puzzlement. Why not place chevaux-de-frise on the walls? That would block cavalry from charging directly onto the battlements. The impact of cavalry scaling the wall far exceeded that of infantry—even if the knights died, the pressure of their warhorses leaping from the ramp the moment they burst out would scatter the defenders near the battlements again and again with its soaring momentum.

  So why not position anti-cavalry obstacles in front of the ramps? Facing chevaux-de-frise, knights couldn’t unleash the oppressive force of a charge, greatly reducing the defenders’ pressure and facilitating wall defense.

  He couldn’t help but voice this question. Blair, who had been guarding his side, was a systematically trained Sixth-Rank Knight and evidently highly competent in his role.

  "An interesting question, my lord," Blair said casually. As Arno’s retainer, their bond surpassed even familial ties in strength. "Chevaux-de-frise are too large; placing them on the walls would leave no room for soldiers to stand. Knights might struggle to exploit their advantages against them, but they could simply dismount. Besides, scaling towers can move horizontally—if we block one ramp’s connection, they’d just shift it a little to the side. If the walls were filled with such obstacles, we’d hardly be able to defend normally."

  In noble households, retainers ranked just below the first and second heirs in the clan leader’s trust and recognition, more reliable even than the clan leader’s wife.

  Arno nodded, committing this to memory.

  The knights’ charge hadn’t ended. Grappling hooks flew up from below the wall; some missed their hold and were yanked back, while others caught the right angles between battlements. Those below heaved on the ropes, as thick as a child’s wrist, which instantly tensed. Gazing down from the wall, Arno saw mercenaries with daggers in their mouths, climbing nimbly up the ropes—faster than professional soldiers.

  When the first mercenary reached the rampart and was stabbed into a bloody mess, the fiercest close-quarters combat on the wall erupted.

  Knights, infantry, and occasional volleys of arrows made these mercenaries far more formidable than expected. They possessed extensive and complex combat experience across all environments: cities, forests, rivers, lakes, mountains, deserts. They were adept at solo missions, small-team operations, and large-scale group battles; at storming castles and fortresses, conducting field defenses, and launching night raids or assassinations.

  These mercenaries were familiar with nearly every form of warfare, more agile, versatile, and crafty than regular soldiers.

  Chaos reigned on the ramparts as white smoke bombs exploded periodically. Mercenaries, faces veiled in white cloth, crouched low and thrust their weapons repeatedly. Occasionally, bursts of flame erupted, and two or three burning men fell to the ground, screaming. In a mercenary’s life, the only faith was gold, with everything else taking a backseat. Glory and rules always gave way to profit. To gain wealth, they resorted to any means, from throwing lime to using incendiary tubes—lowly tactics they mastered effortlessly.

  At the same time, mercenaries were continuously pierced by spears or wounded by swords. War was never a stage for individual heroism; there were no movie-like one-on-one duels with hundreds surrounding a single person. A single lapse in attention meant a weapon could stab from an angle one couldn’t perceive.

  The stalemate lasted forty to fifty minutes. Pramisburg committed over two thousand men before finally repelling the mercenaries’ assault.

  As the remaining mercenaries prepared to retreat, Arno suddenly patted Blair’s shoulder and nodded. "Go destroy their scaling towers."

  The reason he hadn’t ordered this earlier was the large number of mercenaries below—easy to descend, but hard to reascend. Now, with no more than a hundred mercenaries left below, Blair’s strength was more than sufficient to destroy the towers and return safely. Having watched for so long, Blair was already eager to act. He grinned, thumped his chest, and in several strides, leaped from the rampart. As he neared the ground, he grabbed a rope hanging from the wall to check his fall, then kicked hard against the wall, propelling himself horizontally.

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  In mid-air, he raised his sword, its edge dimly glowing red, and swung at the ramp. The sturdy wooden ramp split apart with a loud crack. After landing, he rolled forward and lunged, and seven or eight surrounding mercenaries were instantly cut in half by his sharp blade.

  Blair’s sudden sortie caused turmoil among the retreating mercenaries below. Montreal’s face darkened slightly in the distance—clearly, everyone knew his objective.

  "Stop him now!"

  Unfortunately, these mercenaries, mostly second- and third-rank professionals, couldn’t block a Sixth-Rank titled knight. After slaying over twenty men, Blair wiped the blood from his face, charged straight to the scaling tower, and drove his sword into the core mechanism at its base, twisting it violently. The raised ramp thundered down. The scaling tower’s core, located in its base, was constructed with precision components by master alchemists, each fitting together seamlessly like a delicate artwork.

  Once the gears and levers were damaged, they could no longer support the ramp. Broken parts flew off under the ramp’s weight, emitting harsh grinding sounds from the base, and even the solidified magic arrays cracked, emitting curls of smoke.

  After disabling the second scaling tower the same way, Blair sneered at the mercenaries who dared not approach, spat on the ground, and ran back to the wall, grabbing the rope to climb straight up.

  Gazing at the two damaged scaling towers, Montreal’s face turned iron-gray with frustration. He never expected the enemy to dare sortie in such a situation.

  How careless!

  Looking at the motionless figure on the wall, Montreal felt a surge of gravity. He’d met many nobles, but few in the entire Orlando Empire were as daring as Arno to face war directly. There was no time to dwell on the destroyed towers. He glanced at the captains beside him and waved his hand. "Launch the attack!"

  Dull horns blared again, and the exhausted defenders of Pramisburg froze, the excitement on their faces fading as five enemy phalanxes began moving in the distance.

  Marvin walked to Arno’s side, panting heavily. Having not fought on the front lines for years, he no longer possessed the valiance of his youth. Time had granted him wisdom but stolen his prime. He pushed up his visor, gasping for breath. "Lord, the men are exhausted; they can’t handle the upcoming battle. I suggest abandoning the walls and fighting street by street. We know every intersection and every window in this city—they’ll never win in street fighting."

  Arno shook his head. Before Marvin could argue, he said, "If they’re out of strength, bring in those who still have it. I don’t need you to defeat them; just make them feel that Pramisburg isn’t easily conquered. I’ve prepared a contingency—rest assured."

  Marvin hesitated, realizing Arno had already decided. He could drop his sword and leave, but the young lives might be lost in the upcoming battle. He stamped his foot, his armor clattering noisily. "Fine, I’ll trust you this once. I hope you won’t disappoint us."

  News from the ramparts spread through the city, and everyone put down their work to follow the battle closely. When they heard the first attack had been repelled, cheers erupted across the city. When they heard the enemy was attacking again, silence fell.

  And when they heard Arno needed more people—

  Young sons stood tall before their parents, took up sickles in their resolute hands, and marched toward the walls despite their parents’ tearful gazes.

  Husbands who had been comforting their wives and families suddenly released their broad arms, stared silently at their loved ones, and walked out the door without looking back.

  Gray-haired middle-aged men silently approached the window, glanced back at their aging wives, and smiled as they tightened their belts, trying to look more imposing.

  One by one, ten by ten, a hundred by a hundred!

  More and more people from every corner of the city converged into a torrent. They didn’t converse or shout rallying cries. Their eyes held profound reluctance, thick and unyielding, but they knew that at some point, certain people must step forward to fulfill a mission.

  The ever-growing crowd marching to the walls exuded an overwhelming momentum, stunning everyone on the ramparts for a moment. What followed was inspiration, excitement, and a sense of glory!

  We are not trash or scum. We are ordinary Pramisburgers who yearn for a happy life, peace, and tranquility. But we also know that nothing is gained without sacrifice. The heavens are fair: to obtain, one must first give.

  We build a bright future with our blood and unyielding souls, creating a normal environment for our families and children.

  For this, there is nothing we cannot sacrifice!

  Even our lives!

  On the ramparts, Arno grew three times more solemn, his trembling fist betraying the storm within. He had thought himself composed enough to remain unflinching even in the face of collapse, but the power of this collective resolve made him realize his own arrogance and the might of such unity.

  He suppressed the roar in his heart, solemnly saluting each Pramisburger who voluntarily climbed the wall with his gaze. He lowered his stance, shaking every hand, filled with nothing but reverence.

  This moment would be deeply etched into Arno’s soul, unforgettable until the day he died.

  This was a spirit meant to endure—immortal.