The mention of a "secret strategy" made the Supreme Commander, Marquis Ragusa, narrow his eyes with interest.
“A secret strategy, you say? Speak freely. As long as it’s not complete nonsense, I won’t hold it against you.”
Usually, when high-ranking individuals say something like that, it’s little more than empty words. You can think of it as akin to the top student claiming they’ve been playing games all through exam week, or a senior at work telling you, “Don’t worry, we’ll work overtime while you leave on time.”
Baron Ducat, who had survived countless trials to earn the two stars on his shoulders, felt the tension tighten further.
Under normal circumstances, it’s only fair to forgive the first suggestion unless it’s utterly ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but feel a little resentful.
Still, it was far too late to turn back now.
“Rothschild’s plan will definitely work.”
Baron Ducat confidently laid out the strategy.
“How about staging a direct battle, feigning defeat, and then ambushing the enemy when they mistakenly think they’ve won?”
Marquis Ragusa thought the idea wasn’t half bad.
Though it wasn’t a frequently used tactic, it was human nature to let one’s guard down when convinced of victory.
Striking during that moment of complacency could lead to an easier victory.
Better yet, if fortune favored them, the enemy, drunk on their supposed success, might break formation and charge headlong into a pursuit...
“It’s a bit risky, but if it succeeds, it could be quite effective.”
Having been born into a marquisate and subjected to grueling training rivaling that of a grand northern duchy in fantasy empires, Marquis Ragusa had amassed considerable frontline experience before inheriting his title.
Even with his practical understanding of warfare, the plan seemed solid enough to merit a passing grade.
“It’s not a bad idea. But isn’t it a bit of a gamble? The enemy officers and commanders aren’t idiots—they might see through the ruse.”
Feigning defeat was undoubtedly a dangerous tactic. If the retreat looked too orderly, the enemy might counter the ambush with devastating results.
“I don’t think it matters much if they see through it.”
Marquis Ragusa, the Supreme Commander, was stunned at those words.
If the enemy discerned the ruse, their counterattack could almost certainly spell defeat. What kind of reasoning could justify saying it wouldn’t matter?
For a moment, he wondered if Baron Ducat was ill or otherwise unfit for duty.
“Even if their commanders realize it’s a ruse, I believe their soldiers won’t obey orders, rendering their efforts futile.”
“Are you saying that even if the officers figure it out, their soldiers won’t follow commands? That sounds utterly absurd. What makes you think so?”
Baron Ducat knew very well that once you’re at the point of no return, pressing forward is often the best option.
“Admitting doubt now would only result in humiliation.”
“Before I answer, may I explain the specifics of the strategy?”
“Go ahead.”
“First, I propose leaking information about our superior supply situation. The enemy is currently subsisting on salted herring and hardtack because of their extended supply lines. Hearing that our soldiers are eating delicious meals would inevitably sap their morale.”
Poverty doesn’t crush a person merely because they’re hungry or live in a shabby home.
It’s the stark comparison to others that makes them feel so wretched.
In the extreme circumstances of war, such comparisons naturally drag morale down to rock bottom.
“Thanks to Baron Rothschild’s implementation of the cook system, even our soldiers’ meals are somewhat decent now.”
For a marquis—second only to a duke—to acknowledge this much improvement was proof of the significant strides made.
“The enemy soldiers will naturally begin to think this: ‘If we win this war and plunder the imperial forces, we’ll make a hefty fortune.’”
“Lowly soldiers might think so, even if their officers don’t. Looting, pillaging, human trafficking—aren’t those always part of war?”
Though Marquis Ragusa himself had never stooped to selling people, he had witnessed countless instances of victorious soldiers pillaging villages, raping, and looting civilians during wars.
The gruesome scenes had numbed him over time.
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“These soldiers, already dissatisfied with their poor rations, would find it impossible to resist the temptation of massacring and looting a ‘wealthy enemy.’”
Even Marquis Ragusa couldn’t deny that the soldiers would likely give in to such temptations.
Unlike the honorable nobles, soldiers were of lower birth and prone to being swayed by immediate, tangible gains.
“If we feign retreat, they’ll undoubtedly chase us down in a frenzy. That’s when we can hit them with concentrated musket fire, followed by an assault from spearmen, cavalry, and knights to wipe them out.”
A smile spread across the marquis’ face.
No matter how many times he thought it over, the image was clear: the enemy, despairing over their meager rations yet blinded by hope of a fortune, would charge like maddened bulls toward the false light of hope.
“It’s all thanks to Rothschild’s schemes that this plan is even possible.”
“It’s an excellent strategy. Still, I’d like to hear other opinions.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
Though he claimed to want other opinions, the fact that the Supreme Commander had already declared the strategy “excellent” meant he was essentially committed to it.
After a little over an hour of discussion, Marquis Ragusa officially adopted the plan.
“We’ll proceed with the strategy proposed by the 1st Division Commander, Baron Ducat.”
Baron Ducat felt this marked another step closer to promotion.
Yet, deep down, he harbored a sense of guilt toward Baron Rothschild.
“This plan was his idea to begin with.”
But since Rothschild himself had explicitly asked not to be credited, Ducat resolved to keep silent and claim all the accolades for himself.
He vowed to repay the favor someday—perhaps after his promotion, when he could offer Rothschild even greater support.
A few days later, rumors about the Tuscany Imperial Army began circulating within the Grand Duchy of Milania’s forces.
Lucio, an ordinary corporal in the Grand Duchy’s army, sat with his squad, trying to distract himself from the looming battle. Soon, they would face the enemy, shooting and killing—or being killed.
“You guys heard the story?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“What story?”
Lucio lightly smacked the head of the private who dared to ask.
The private wanted to protest—how was he supposed to know what story Lucio meant?—but in this army, which lacked any concept of a “modern barracks” or reforms against abuse, a senior soldier was as good as a god.
So the private swallowed his frustration and responded in a way he thought would please Lucio.
“No idea, Corporal. Tell us.”
Puffing out his chest with pride, Lucio declared, “This is something I heard from Sergeant Matteo in the next platoon. The Tuscany bastards? Even their lowest grunts are eating like kings.”
“That’s gotta be a lie. Their army can’t be all that different from ours,” the private replied skeptically.
Before Fabio’s intervention, there had indeed been little difference between the meals of the Tuscany Imperial Army and the Grand Duchy’s forces.
Lucio didn’t fault the private for his reasonable skepticism.
“I thought it was bullshit too. But the scouts came back saying they’re eating meals you’d have to pay for at an inn—three times a day!”
“Unbelievable...”
The Grand Duchy’s command wasn’t entirely incompetent.
They scraped together what little remained of the supply budget to distribute fresh meat and beer, but the amounts were laughably inadequate.
It had been over a week since the troops had last seen beer, which was usually provided daily in peacetime.
“As for meat, I can’t even remember the last time I had any.”
The soldiers were losing their minds, subsisting on salted herring, hardtack, beans, and flour.
Even their quartermasters had started grumbling about the situation, claiming it was untenable.
The soldiers tried to downplay their despair with grumbles and jokes, but their morale was rotting from the inside out.
If they were at least fed decently, it might feel like they were heading into a fight they could win.
But with rations like this? Logic or no logic, it just felt like they were going to lose.
“Damn it...”
Lucio tried to shake off the negativity.
Being conscripted was bad enough. Dying here, without even having slept with the childhood sweetheart he’d promised to marry, felt utterly unfair.
Forcing a laugh, he said, “Hey, if we win this war, we can loot a few enemy muskets and buy a cow. Steal a knight’s armor, and we’ll hit the jackpot! If they’re so rich, that just means there’s more for us to take, right?”
Deep down, Lucio wasn’t all that confident in victory.
Still, he prayed.
“God, let me get rich and go home to marry Maria. I swear I’ll donate to the church regularly.”
Time passed quickly, and soon the Tuscany Imperial Army and the Grand Duchy of Milania’s forces were face-to-face in battle formation.
As the division’s quartermaster, Fabio remained stationed in the rear, observing the unfolding events.