He was just a half-grown boy; no matter how careful his thoughts, he could not compare to those seasoned veterans. The aftereffects of his head injury meant that every time he fell into deep thought, he would become utterly exhausted in both body and spirit. Thus, without realizing it, all his energy was drained away. He slipped into a half-dream, half-awake state, his thoughts losing all logic and coherence.

In a daze, he seemed to see himself sitting in a beautiful garden. Many attractive women circled around him endlessly. Yet he disliked them all, for every one of their smiles was unbearably fake—so fake it was almost clumsy, making it obvious at a glance that each wore a mask.

Suddenly, the mask of one beautiful woman fell to the ground, revealing a face full of bristling whiskers. It was Walter King. Upon realizing his true identity had been exposed, he quickly drew a dagger from his waist and lunged at Little Ben. The young Little Ben tried to dodge, only to find his body tightly bound by layers of silk sashes wielded by the other women. No matter how he struggled, he could not move an inch. He tried to call for Second Uncle Scott to save him, but saw that at the head of the garden, countless Khitan people had appeared.

“Woooo—” The Khitan blew their horns, sending the women fleeing in terror. Walter King's figure vanished in an instant, replaced by a Khitan general with a face full of flesh, who raised an iron mace high above him...

“Ah—!” Little Ben instinctively raised his hands to block, but caught only empty air. His body tumbled to the ground, landing flat on his back.

The sharp pain from his spine and backside jolted him awake. It was already broad daylight. Outside the tent, underlings were running about in panic. Someone shouted as he ran, “Get up, get up and form ranks! Form ranks to meet the enemy! John Baker, John Baker's troops have reached the foot of the mountain!”

“The chief has ordered: everyone, out of the camp and form up!”

“General King has ordered: everyone out of the camp. Anyone who deliberately delays will be dealt with by military law!”

Two loud voices, one after the other, brought an end to the chaos outside. The personal guards of Commander Walter King and the main leader of Wagang Camp, Thomas Brooks, came to deliver orders, holding aloft crimson command flags.

To see the flag was to see the commander. The chief Thomas Brooks had a military background, so the rules he set for Wagang Fort were almost the same as those of the army. Upon hearing the familiar military orders, the underlings instantly regained order, quickly packed up, and ran out of the camp gate at a brisk pace.

“Eric Scott, the chief wants you to see him immediately!” Thomas Brooks's personal guard Mark Brooks finished delivering the order, but did not immediately ride away. Instead, he rushed to the center of the camp, bent down, and shouted loudly.

“Here, here!” Little Ben was stunned for a moment, clutching his dizzy, swollen head, then ran forward to receive the order.

Personal guard Mark Brooks was long used to this silly look, smiled, and continued, “Hurry up, the enemy will be at the gate any moment. Get yourself ready, or when the fighting starts, no one will have time to look after you!”

“Alright, alright!” Little Ben replied, turning and running back to his sleeping tent. He threw on a cowhide armor that Second Uncle Scott had specially bartered for him, then carefully tucked three hand axes into his belt at the back. Next, he frantically fished out the wooden-shafted spear issued to him from under the bed...

Panting, he arrived at the designated spot to find that the troops from each camp had already begun to form ranks halfway up Wuzhang Ridge. Colorful banners were spread everywhere, and several ballistae of indeterminate age were set up at the very front of the formation, pulled by several warhorses, creaking under the load.

“You just stay in the central army later, don’t go anywhere! Just take care of yourself, you’re not needed in the fight!” The chief Thomas Brooks sat astride a sturdy iron horse seized from the Khitan, his voice as cold as a mountain wind at midnight.

Behind him followed more than thirty personal guards, each riding a tall steed, their sabers gleaming coldly. These were the elite of Wagang Fort, all brought out at once without reservation. The other camp commanders did much the same, gathering all their best men near the central command banner. The infantry left on the flanks outnumbered the cavalry ten to one, but in terms of spirit, weapons, and armor, they were far inferior.

“Second Uncle told me I must stick with Arthur King, and said that no matter how vicious Walter King is, he wouldn’t harm his own son!” Eric Scott's gaze quickly swept over the elite of each camp, then found his target at the rear of the central army.

However, the instructions from Second Master Scott last night differed slightly from those given by Head Master Brooks today. He would have to use some thought and time to get close to Eldest Young Master King without arousing the latter’s suspicion. Just then, the voice of Commander Walter King suddenly rang in his ears, “Why are you dressed so shabbily? What if you get hurt by a stray arrow? Someone, Simon King, take off your bright iron armor and give it to him. You’re about the same size. You don’t need to fight later, just stay here and guard the command banner!”

“This—yes, sir!” The named officer was stunned for a moment, then reluctantly jumped off his horse and began untying the armor’s silk cords.

“Why is he taking such care of me?” Even more surprised than Simon King, who was taking off his armor, Eric Scott stared wide-eyed, at a loss for what to do.