Chapter 6 - 5
There were 300 soldiers gathered in the camp—317 to be exact.
They were led by six people: four Decurions, Uncle Drake, and one Centurion—the highest-ranking among them—equivalent to a Knight Apprentice, who commanded them all.
Their camp was nestled behind a mountain, surrounded by tall trees. Due to severely limited resources, it barely qualified as a camp. No fortifications, no defenses—just desperate soldiers who had to rely on themselves.
A scout stepped forward and saluted the Centurion.
"Sir, Sengolio troops are heading this way. Their numbers are estimated to exceed a thousand."
Some soldiers’ faces paled. Despair crept into a few eyes, while others hardened with grim resolve.
But the Centurion and Decurions remained calm, almost as if they had expected this. After all, they’d stolen from Sengolio’s supply convoys. They knew retaliation was inevitable. They’d simply hoped it would come later—not now.
Miraculously, the enemy hadn’t attacked for months. But now, their luck had run dry. Reinforcements? A comforting delusion. No help would come. But clinging to that delusion was sometimes the only way to survive.
The Centurion stepped forward and spoke in a firm, resolute voice:
"Soldiers. The enemy approaches, and we—Pentaline warriors—will meet them with all we have. I cannot promise survival or victory, but remember: we are the soldiers of the Pentaline Empire. Our stand will be remembered."
"GLORY TO THE PENTALINE EMPIRE!"