At first, it was overconfidence.
With his core province secured, Adrian set his sights westward—toward Marentha, the wealthy province under the control of Eisenreich.
There was a clear reason for his decision. Marentha's prosperity stemmed from its ports, the lifeblood of its immense revenue. More importantly, Adrian had reached a bottleneck in his expansion. His economy was already stretched thin. If he expanded his army further, he would plunge into a crippling deficit. The alternative was to focus on economic development, but infrastructure projects required three to four turns to complete.
And that was a hassle.
So, he did what every foolish monarch did when faced with stagnation.
He waged war.
With a single command, Adrian declared war on Eisenreich.
The first step was building a second army—a force of pure cannon fodder.
Three hundred swordsmen.
Maintaining a full-stack army had already put a -750 coin strain on his treasury, and with the addition of these fresh troops, he was barely breaking even each turn.
But Marentha would solve that problem.
With that thought driving him forward, Adrian spent three turns assembling his second army. But now, with an additional 300-strong force, his economy had plunged into deficit. Every turn, his treasury bled resources at an alarming rate.
He had no idea what consequences that would bring.
But it no longer mattered. He had already committed. There was no going back.
Leaving the reserve army behind to garrison his holdings, Adrian led his main army across the border into Marentha. His target was clear.
The first stronghold of the province—Marendor.
And so, the invasion began.
The war had erupted with little warning, a sudden declaration followed by an immediate invasion. The armies of Eisenreich, caught off guard, were slow to mobilize. By the time they mustered their forces, it was already too late.
With a swift march and the overwhelming might of Kael leading the charge, Marendor fell without resistance. The province, though small, was rich, protected only by two strongholds. Adrian had expected Eisenreich to retaliate, believing that his lightning-fast assault would provoke them into action. But instead of marching to reclaim their lost territory, the cowards barricaded themselves within their capital.
It was a frustrating sight, but also an opportunity. If they refused to engage, then he would bring the war to them. Without hesitation, Adrian set his forces on the move, pushing toward the enemy's stronghold. Two turns—two decisive advances—and he would reach their gates.
But the moment he moved, the moment he ended his turn, the world shifted against him.
Eisenreich, silent until now, declared its allegiance to the Steelclad Order. And before the ink on that declaration had even dried, the Steelclad Order announced its own war against the Empire, condemning the "unfounded aggression" against a Council member.
A chill ran down Adrian's spine. This was no longer a calculated strike—it was a trap.
And he had walked straight into it.
From the north, the Steelclad Order launched their offensive, their legions pouring into the Empire's lands. The battlefield had changed, and Adrian could see the noose tightening around his forces. What had begun as a bold conquest was rapidly turning into a desperate struggle for survival.
He had made a grave mistake.
Adrian hesitated.
He was caught between a rock and a hard place, torn between pressing forward or retreating to his domain. For the first time, he truly understood how the monarchs of old must have felt—cornered, desperate, and forced to make decisions that offered no victory, only survival.
And it felt terrible.
But there was no choice. If he lingered any longer, the Steelclad Order would obliterate everything he had built. Gritting his teeth, he ordered a tactical retreat. Two turns—just two turns—and he would be out of Marentha's borders, back to safety.
Then, at the last moment, the screen flashed.
[You have been ambushed by the Gore King Karthalax!]
Adrian nearly threw the controller.
A full-stack army. A thousand strong. Twisted beastmen with grotesque forms, their snarls and howls echoing through the battlefield. They blocked Kael's retreat, cutting off any hope of escape.
His face darkened as he clicked 'Start Battle.'
For the first time, Kael had met his match.
The Gore King loomed at the center of the horde, a towering monstrosity of blood and muscle. Hovering the cursor over its form revealed its true size—a full five meters of brute strength and rage. Its fur, a twisted shade of orange, rippled as it moved, and atop its head, horns like a grotesque crown jutted into the sky.
Then it swung.
The massive warhammer cleaved through the frontlines, sending Kael's swordsmen tumbling, their bodies torn apart in a gruesome mix of blood and flesh.
Adrian clenched his jaw.
This oversized cow was here to make sure he failed.
At first, Adrian's failures were relentless. Every load brought another crushing defeat, another painful reminder of just how brutal these so-called "furry" creatures truly were.
They fought with raw, unrelenting brutality.
No tactics. No formations. Just pure, unyielding force.
The beastmen lacked ranged attacks, but their charges were devastating, like living battering rams that shattered formations and sent warriors flying. Every attempt to hold the line ended the same way—his troops trampled, his formations broken, his screen flashing defeat.
But after enough failures—after enough trial and error—Adrian found the answer.
Ranged supremacy.
If he had artillery, this battle would've been over before it even started. A few well-placed barrages would have turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. But 'if' was still an 'if.' He didn't even know if this game had artillery units.
So he worked with what he had.
Normally, throwing ranged units to the front was a death sentence. Against disciplined human armies, it would've been as foolish as trying to overpower the Gore King with nothing but swordsmen. But against these mindless brutes? It was the perfect trap.
The first volleys rained down—not just arrows, but bullets.
Lead and steel tore through the charging horde, bodies crumpling under the relentless barrage. The weaker beastmen fell like flies, torn apart by the hailstorm of fire. But the Gore King? He didn't even flinch. He took every bullet, every arrow to the chest, pushing forward like a walking slab of muscle and rage, his massive warhammer poised to destroy everything in his path.
That was fine.
Kael engaged, and just as Adrian had hoped, the beastmen's raw aggression took over. They surged toward him, snarling, roaring, driven by nothing but bloodlust. And in that moment, Adrian's trap was set.
With the Gore King occupied, his ranged units had free rein. Bullets and arrows continued to pour into the horde, thinning their numbers. And when the survivors finally reached his line, Adrian let loose his swordsmen to meet them head-on.
The impact was brutal. Adrian winced as the health bars of his frontliners dropped like a stone. But after the first devastating clash, the line held. The momentum of the beastmen had been broken.
Again and again, he reloaded. Again and again, he refined his tactics.
And finally, after countless retries, the battlefield was silent.
The thousand-strong horde of beastmen lay dead.
But it had come at a cost. Nearly 350 of his own soldiers were gone, victims of the opening charge and the berserk rampage of the Gore King.
Adrian gripped his controller tighter, his knuckles turning white.
How the hell am I supposed to fight the Steelclad Order and Eisenreich… with an army that's already in shambles?