Menachel led three thousand soldiers to the Beidelin region, near the northern border. The red-brown soil revealed scattered bones beneath withered blades of grass, casting a grim aura over the land.
This was the city of Bilu.
Once a proud border fortress, it now lay in eerie silence. The bloodstains on the walls and the decaying bodies strewn across the battlements turned it into a dead city. Without a proper cleanup, Bilu was uninhabitable.
In other words, Menachel would have to set up camp outside.
Yet the desolation of Bilu brought Menachel a strange sense of relief. The rebels' willingness to abandon a city that had cost them 10,000 lives showed their current weakness. It was the only explanation.
That night, Menachel summoned the leaders of several knightly orders. Alongside familiar faces like Kay and Gawain was a newcomer—Lancelot. Recently defected to Camelot, the young knight had been chosen by Kay as his deputy.
Menachel barely remembered this unfamiliar face, noting only the faint aura of spiritual energy that clung to him. He did, however, regret that Lanmaroc remained in Camelot to recover from his injuries. Agravain, too, was absent—struck down by illness following their last high-intensity battle.
Now, with both his left and right hands gone, Menachel had no choice but to rely on himself.
"I plan to set out at dawn and push at full speed toward the nearest city," Menachel said, addressing Kay. Though Menachel didn't care much for ceremony, he had to show basic deference. Artoria had named him commander-in-chief, with Kay as his deputy.
Kay frowned. "We can't win this with brute force alone." Despite falling behind Artoria and Menachel in combat over the years, Kay had earned his position in Camelot through more than just connections—his insight and leadership were sharp.
"Lihe City is one of the strongest rebel fortresses," he continued. "It has towering walls and the Tamar River acting as a natural barrier."
Menachel silently committed the name to memory.
"There's no need to storm the city," he replied. "The rebels are stretched thin, trying to defend too many strongholds. They may have thousands of troops, but they're scattered. Unless they foolishly station two thousand men at the gates, Lihe's defenses are bound to be light."
He paused, then added calmly, "We'll lure them out into a field battle."
The North was rich in cavalry, while Camelot's forces—including the commanders—fought on foot.
In field combat, cavalry ruled.
If the rebels became overconfident and took the bait, Menachel could crush them.
His experience at Bilu had taught him much about siege warfare. His strategy sounded sound, but Kay, ever perceptive, spotted a hole in his logic.
"Even with limited defenders, a city with walls and a river can hold off most attacks," Kay said dryly. The sarcasm in his voice was automatic, but he quickly remembered who he was speaking to. Still, too proud to retract the jab, he added, "Maybe we should think long-term, Menachel."
"What Camelot lacks now is time," Menachel replied.
With only a thousand soldiers left defending the capital, now was the ideal moment for the enemy to strike. That meant Menachel had to ensure their mission succeeded before they were spotted—or they'd lose all initiative.
His red eyes narrowed. A sharp, dangerous smile crossed his lips.
If opportunity wasn't enough—then he'd make one, even if it had to be bought with blood.
The thought came to him naturally… but he forced it away. Were he still a wandering knight, or if the person he sought to protect wasn't Artoria, he wouldn't have hesitated to make that sacrifice.
But responsibility weighs heavier from the seat of command.
"Then we draw them out," Menachel said at last, pressing his forehead as his eyes glowed red in the flickering firelight. "We feign defeat."
There would be casualties, of course—many—but far fewer than in a full-scale siege. A bitter price… but a necessary one.
The North — Lihe City, Border Fortress
This city, isolated and surrounded by water, had long stood as a barrier between Camelot and the northern territories. Compared to distant Bilu, Lihe was well-placed—protected by two rivers. If Agravain's flood strategy had been applied here, they wouldn't have needed bait or a second wave of charges.
In the decade since King Uther's death, the Stark region had clashed with Sir Ector many times, but every attack was stopped at Lihe. To the people of Stark, the city was seen as an indomitable fortress—the last, immovable wall between them and Camelot.
Now, thanks to misguided orders during the last campaign, the four northern nations—Stark included—had shifted from offense to defense. Lihe City, once more, stood on high alert.
On its walls, the garrison commander made his rounds with his personal guard. A torch was planted every few paces, illuminating even the darkest corners. In contrast, Izkaga—who had led the previous failed assault—was now nowhere to be seen.
"Stay sharp," the commander ordered. "You're guarding the pride of our nation."
"We must be vigilant. Camelot's remnants may attack while we're vulnerable."
"But don't get too worked up," he added with a grin. "Even if there were three Menachels from Camelot, they couldn't break this fortress!"
Laughter erupted among the guards.
No one truly found the joke funny. But in the heavy tension of war, even a bad joke was welcome—an excuse to breathe, to vent.
Menachel—the Ghost-Faced Death Knight of Camelot.
His name had become legend—no, nightmare—across all Seven Cities of Stark.
Survivors told stories of a knight whose demonic helmet struck terror into anyone who saw it. A monster who rose from the water unscathed, wielding death itself. Whether you were a seasoned knight or an ordinary soldier, no one survived two strikes.
His battles weren't battles—they were disasters. Natural calamities with swords and blood. Some whispered that the rainstorms were summoned by Menachel himself.
Whether truth or myth, the result was the same: the morale of Stark's people had never been lower.
Across the north, Menachel had become a living symbol of dread.
He wasn't just a knight.
He was the Scourge.
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