Chapter 439: Chapter 439: Pincer Attack
The war hall was on the verge of erupting into a frenzy of mobilization, with captains already turning to bark orders to their runners, when a single, casual voice brought the entire room to a sudden halt.
"Hold on," Sol said, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade. "No need to rush just yet."
Every head in the room snapped toward him. The sudden interruption choked the rising war cries right in the throats of the vanguard captains.
Thauren, the Golden Lion Commander, paused mid-stride, his massive frame turning back toward the obsidian slab as his yellow pupil eyes narrowed with confusion and a hint of impatience.
Warchief Veylara kept her heavy bone-spear planted against the floor, her eyes drilling straight into Sol.
"What is the meaning of this, kid?" Thauren rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, impatient tone. "You gave us a brilliant strategy, the Warchief approved it, and the warriors are ready to bleed. Why are we stalling? Every second we sit here is a second the enemy uses to dig their roots deeper into our soil."
Sol didn’t flinch because of his tone. "Because if you march a thousand warriors into the open hunting grounds right now, you’re handing the enemy the entire war on a plate," he said, leaning his hands casually against the polished table. He didn’t look at the confused elders; his focus was entirely on the charcoal lines mapping out the valley.
"The Coalition has four to five thousand men. They aren’t stupid. If they see a unified Veynar army marching out in full battle lines, their scouts will spot the dust and report it miles before we even reach the perimeter. They can just stay holed into their fortified camps.
They’ll see our numbers are low, realize we’re aiming for the high ground, and change their approach. If they decide not to commit their main force to the valley, our entire inverted wedge plan completely flops. And we would be throwing away our only real advantage.... surprise."
Sol tapped a thick finger directly on the central valley marker. "Right now, the initiative is completely in the enemy’s hands.
They chose when to launch the infiltration, they’re choosing when to mass their troops, and they’re setting up their pieces while we sit here reacting to their moves.
If they decide to delay their grand assault or just test our defenses with small skirmishes for another two weeks, we can’t force them into the pass or worse even if we somehow got them later, our whole army would be tired and our whole plan will be exposed.
So, we need to take the initiative away from them. If we want this trap to work perfectly, we have to force them to play on our terms. We don’t march the army yet. We will start with small, hyper-aggressive skirmishes to enrage them, bait them, and drag their entire four-thousand-man mass right into the valley where the pincer will take place.
We need to force their hand and drag them to the slaughterhouse on our terms."
Hearing this, the old commander who had previously suggested breaking the army into smaller cells...his eyes lighting up as he nodded toward the table and instantly puffed out his chest. He gestured wildly, looking around the room for validation.
"Yes! That’s exactly what I was trying to tell these old fools!" the elder echoed loudly, his voice cracking with sudden excitement. "Small units are the only way to move through the jungle without being spotted! We don’t throw our main force into a meat grinder when we are outnumbered four to one!"
Veylara didn’t look at the bragging elder. Her gaze remained locked on Sol, a deep, heavy frown carving into her scarred forehead as she calculated the tactical reality of his suggestion.
Sol cast a cold glance at the commander, his voice flat. "Similar, but your plan was to use hit-and-run tactics to bleed their supply lines over a long period. That’s a slow death sentence.
A hundred small units will just get surrounded and chewed to pieces one by one by their massive numbers once they realize what’s happening.
My plan isn’t a prolonged campaign. It’s an intentional, vicious provocation."
Sol dragged a charcoal piece across the map, marking the outer boundaries of the enemy’s encampments. "We don’t send the army, and we don’t send regular hunting parties.
We can build small, elite strike teams made exclusively of warriors with speed-oriented spirits.
Warriors who can move through the canopy faster than the Zerith lanky monsters can track them.
Their only job is to slip into the outer camps, slaughter their peripheral lookouts, burn their supply tents, humiliate them, and then vanish back into the jungle before the main horde can mobilize."
Veylara frowned, the dried green grime on her cheeks catching the torchlight as she stared at the new markings. "A direct attack on their fortified positions... wouldn’t it be highly risky?
If the Coalition traps even one of those strike teams, we lose veterans we cannot afford to replace before the main battle even begins."
"It’s definitely a gamble," Sol replied, his silver-crimson eyes gleaming with a calculating light. "But we will not send random squads. We can minimize the danger by strictly picking warriors with speed-oriented or concealment traits.
Warriors with agility spirits, or scouts who can outrun anything in the jungle.
These teams aren’t going out there to hold territory, capture supplies, or fight to the death. Their only job is to cause maximum chaos, create unrest and confusion within the enemy ranks, and then run away."
Sol leaned forward over the obsidian table, a cold smirk pulling at his mouth. "And think about how the Coalition views our tribe right now. They are incredibly arrogant, they are the ones who always launch the sneak attacks, while the Veynar are forced to cower behind wooden walls and play defense.
Right now, they expect us to be paralyzed by the Zharun betrayal and the loss of our peripheral scouts and think we’re currently cowering behind our wooden walls, terrified and broken. If we suddenly hit them with brutal, high-speed raids right on their doorsteps, it will completely shatter their expectations and cloud their judgment."
