Chapter 141: The Great General – Tauron Valtheris

Alaric leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lazily against the armrest as he stared at his phone. The dorm room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. It was well past midnight, and any sane person would have been asleep by now.

But Alaric had never been the type to let something unfinished linger in his mind.

He picked up his phone and dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice.

Then a click.

A familiar, sharp voice came through. “Alaric. Why are you calling me at this hour?”

Alaric smirked. “Late-night strategy sessions are my specialty. Besides, I figured you’d want to know why your bait failed to catch anything.”

Zylle was silent for a moment. Then, a heavy sigh. “You’re saying my men wasted five days chasing ghosts?”

“Not quite. We learned something important.”

“Which is?”

He exhaled, his mind shifting gears into full strategy mode.

“The problem with our last attempt,” he began, “is that our enemy is smart. Smarter than we initially thought. They saw the pattern, suspected a trap, and decided to do nothing. That means they’re not impulsive, they’re calculative. They won’t act unless they’re sure the opportunity is real.”

Zylle hummed. “So what? We make it look even more real this time?”

“Exactly. But not just real—we make it irresistible. This time, we change the game. We don’t tell the high-ranking members about a new shipment. Instead… we let them find out on their own.”

Another pause. Zylle was intrigued now. “Go on.”

Alaric smirked. “The Phantom Assembly has its ways of getting information, right? Spies, informants, black market brokers. We leak intel through multiple, untraceable sources that another shipment is being arranged—but this time, it’s being kept hidden even from the Assembly.”

Zylle caught on immediately. “So it looks like a real secret? Something Steele wants to hide from us?”

“Exactly. That’s the first layer of the trap—psychology. If something is being hidden, it must be valuable. And our traitor? They won’t be able to resist confirming whether it’s true or not.”

Zylle muttered a curse under her breath. “Damn. That alone is clever. But how do we make sure the right person bites?”

Alaric’s grin sharpened. “That’s where the second layer comes in. We introduce contradictory information.”

Zylle frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. If you hear a big secret, but every source is saying something slightly different, what do you do?”

“You try to verify what’s true,” Zylle murmured, realization dawning on her.

“Exactly,” Alaric confirmed. “We ’accidentally’ leak different versions of the intel to different information circles. One source says the Steele Family is hiding Phones in an underground vault. Another claims they’re being smuggled through merchant convoys under false records. A third says they’re being handed over to a secret buyer. And a fourth? Says Steele is hoarding them for personal use.”

Zylle let out a low whistle. “So no matter what, our guy is going to get curious. They’ll start digging for confirmation.”

“Which brings us to the third layer,” Alaric said smoothly. “We let them find a clue—but only the kind that leads them deeper into the trap.”

There was a rustle on the other end of the call as Zylle sat up fully, likely wide awake now.

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” she murmured.

“Of course,” Alaric said, amusement in his tone. “Now, listen carefully. The real bait is going to be a ’hidden storage facility’ that we’ll plant false records for. A location that, on paper, doesn’t even exist—except for a few convenient leaks hinting that it does.”

Zylle grinned. “And let me guess… it just so happens that those records are accessible through certain underground brokers?”

“Right again,” Alaric said, pleased. “We’ll make sure that our guy eventually stumbles upon these ’secret records’ after enough digging. And what will they find? A detailed list of shipment manifests, timestamps, and security patrols—all pointing to a hidden warehouse stocked with the last remaining Steele Family Phones.”

Zylle leaned back, rubbing her temple. “And when they try to steal them?”

“Boom,” Alaric said casually. “They walk into an ambush. The ’warehouse’ will be heavily monitored, but in a way that looks natural—nothing that screams ’trap’. Just enough security to make it look possible to infiltrate, but not enough to scare them off. And when they do? We catch them red-handed.”

Zylle exhaled. “And if they’re still cautious? What if they send someone else to do the job?”

Alaric grinned. “Then we use that too. If they send an underling, we let that underling ’escape’ after a fake chase—just barely, just enough to report back. And when they do? We change the security pattern at the warehouse, making it seem like Steele panicked and tightened defenses. That will make the traitor desperate—because now it looks like their last chance before the Phones are permanently moved.”

Zylle let out a slow, impressed chuckle. “Steele… this is diabolical.”

Alaric smirked. “Why, thank you.”

Zylle couldn’t help but be deeply impressed. This plan wasn’t just about baiting someone—it was about manipulating their entire thought process. It was psychological warfare at its finest.

Zylle’s grip tightened on the phone.

’This guy… is dangerous.’

If the previous plan had impressed her, then this one…

This one terrified her.

If Alaric had been the Phantom Assembly’s enemy, they would have already lost without even realizing how.

Zylle exhaled deeply, shaking her head. “I’ll set everything up on my end. But damn, Steele. This… this is next-level strategy. You’re using their own greed, their own paranoia, their own logic against them.”

Alaric’s eyes gleamed. “That’s how you catch a true traitor. Not by offering bait, but by making them think they found it themselves.”

Zylle was silent for a moment.

Then, she laughed softly.

“Alright, you crazy bastard. Let’s see how this plays out.”

~~

At the eastern borders of the Eloriath Kingdom, the battlefield was nothing short of chaos—a controlled, one-sided chaos.

Eskil stood atop a high vantage point, his sharp gaze sweeping over the field. Even through the thick smoke of burning siege weapons and the cries of retreating enemy soldiers, he could tell. This was over before it had even begun.

His forces had utterly crushed the enemy’s battle formations, not because they had more numbers or greater power—but because they had something the Kingdom of Jorailia did not.

Phones.

With instant, seamless communication between commanders, flanks were reinforced in moments, counterattacks were launched before the enemy could adjust, and ambushes were executed with ridiculous precision. The Kingdom of Jorailia’s generals, despite their strategic expertise, were still relying on messengers. Messengers who, more often than not, arrived too late or were intercepted.

Eskil’s smirk deepened as he raised his own phone to his ear.

“Hold the right flank, then let them push forward five steps before countering. Make them think they’re making progress before we gut them.”

“Understood, Lord Eskil,” came the immediate reply from a field commander.

Eskil lowered the phone and turned to his closest lieutenant, a grizzled veteran who had fought in countless battles before this. The older man shook his head in disbelief.

“I still can’t get used to this, Lord Eskil. Wars used to last for months, years even… Now?” He gestured toward the battlefield, where Jorailia’s forces were scattering in complete disarray. “This isn’t even a fight—it’s a slaughter.”

Eskil chuckled. “That’s the power of knowledge, my friend. And these fools still don’t even know why they’re losing.”

It had been this way for the past few weeks. Battle after battle, the Eloriath Kingdom’s forces—led by Eskil and his most trusted commanders—had completely dominated the Jorailia forces. And now? The Jorailia generals had had enough.

The Kingdom of Jorailia wasn’t foolish enough to wage full-scale war against the Eloriath Kingdom, but neither could they afford to lose face like this. If they continued being pushed back, their own territories would soon be threatened. That was unacceptable.

And so, they sent him.

The Great General of Jorailia.

The man who had never once lost a war.

Tauron Valtheris.

The Kingdom of Jorailia was a land ruled by mages. Its entire military hierarchy was built upon magic guilds, elemental academies, and arcane institutions. Generals were mages. Advisors were mages. The very foundation of Jorailia’s strength was built upon magic supremacy.

And yet…

A martialist—a mere warrior, born from commoner blood—stood at the very pinnacle of their military might.

Tauron Valtheris.

A man whose existence alone had shattered the long-held belief that martialists were nothing more than brutes.

Even before his martial strength reached its peak, his mind had already begun carving a path of unmatched dominance.

At fifteen, he had joined the army as nothing more than a foot soldier. He should have been fodder. Disposable. And yet, within months, his name had spread through the ranks.

Because unlike others, he didn’t just follow orders.

He studied them.

He analyzed every command his superiors gave, every tactic they employed. And when the opportunity came, he didn’t hesitate—he struck.

At seventeen, he had personally slain an enemy battalion commander in a chaotic battle, turning the tide of what should have been a devastating defeat into an overwhelming victory.

At nineteen, he orchestrated the assassination of three rival kingdom commanders during a siege—not through brute force, but through manipulated intelligence leaks that had their own soldiers unknowingly deliver them to their deaths.

By twenty-three, his mind had already outgrown the battlefield.

He became an Advisor—the youngest in Jorailia’s history.

And it was then that his true genius was revealed.

Tauron didn’t just win battles. He eradicated enemies before they even realized they had lost.

He executed misinformation campaigns so intricate that opposing armies found themselves attacking their own allies before ever reaching his forces.

He designed fortifications that turned seemingly weak positions into death traps.

He manipulated enemy supply lines, ensuring they starved before they could even reach the battlefield.

By the time he was twenty-eight, he had ascended to the rank of General.

Not because he wanted it.

But because no one else could do what he did.

And now, at thirty-nine, he stood as Great General—the single most lethal commander in Jorailia’s history.

The young King of Jorailia himself had recognized Tauron’s brilliance early on. Unlike the older nobility who scoffed at the idea of a common-born martialist rising to power, the King had embraced it.

With the full backing of the throne, Tauron had reshaped entire military doctrines.

Mages, who once viewed martialists as nothing more than disposable foot soldiers, now sought them out for partnerships.

Even the noble mage families, who had once looked down on Tauron, had sent their daughters to him as concubines—hoping that their bloodlines mixed with his would produce monstrous offspring.

Tauron had accepted them, but not for pleasure.

For legacy.

If a warrior of his caliber could produce children who also wielded magic, then the battlefield itself would be forever changed.

And now?

He had arrived at the Eastern Borders.

Not to wage war—Jorailia could not afford that.

But to reclaim what had been lost.

To teach these Eloriath commanders the true meaning of strategy.

Tauron Valtheris stood atop the highest hill, gazing down at the carnage below. The battlefield was still smoldering from the latest loss his forces had suffered.

It didn’t matter.

Because that loss was the last one they would suffer.

His cold, calculating eyes flicked to his own phone—one of the stolen artifacts that had allowed Eskil and his forces to dominate the field.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

For all their intelligence, the Eloriath forces had failed to account for one thing.

A true strategist does not fight wars he does not understand.

Tauron had spent his entire life mastering the battlefield.

And he had already figured out exactly how to break their advantage.

A slow smile spread across his face as he turned to his second-in-command.

“Prepare the first phase,” he ordered.

The man hesitated. “Great General… should we not wait for further reconnaissance?”

Tauron chuckled. “No need. I already know how this battle will end.”

He raised the Phone to his ear.

“Let’s see how your little devices fare when the battlefield itself turns against you.”

The true war for Eskil was going to start.

~~

The war tent was filled with the low murmurs of strategists, commanders, and officers gathered around a massive wooden table. Maps were spread across it, covered in markings, figurines, and hastily scribbled reports detailing the latest engagements. The smell of ink, parchment, and a faint trace of blood lingered in the air.

Great General Tauron sat at the head of the table, his presence alone enough to silence the room. His dark eyes flicked over the reports handed to him, taking in the enemy’s movements, their strengths, their weaknesses. Every breath he took seemed measured, calculated, as if even the act of breathing was a strategic choice.

He placed the reports down and leaned back in his chair, one hand tapping against the armrest. “Tell me,” he said, his voice steady, calm, but carrying an undeniable weight of authority. “Which of their field commanders move the quickest?”

A seasoned officer, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. “General, from what we’ve observed, there are five enemy field commanders whose forces have been displaying unnatural speed in coordination. Their responses are immediate, their counter-movements almost instant. It’s as if they know exactly when and where to move before our own forces can even react.”

Tauron exhaled through his nose, his fingers pausing their rhythmic tapping. “And their morale?”

Another officer, a younger strategist, adjusted his spectacles before responding. “It’s rising dramatically, General. These commanders—most of them young prodigious martialists—are treating these victories as proof of their superiority. Their men follow them with almost fanatical trust, confident in their ability to strike fast and retreat even faster.”

Tauron let out a small chuckle, low and amused. “Young and full of fire,” he murmured. “That makes them predictable.”

The room remained silent, waiting for him to speak further. He picked up a figurine representing one of the enemy’s commanders and turned it between his fingers.

“We have no way of intercepting their communication,” he continued. “This device—this so-called ’Phone’—is beyond our current understanding. We cannot listen to their conversations, nor can we feed them false information. But,” he paused, eyes scanning the room, “we don’t need to. Their reliance on it is already their greatest weakness.”

One of the younger commanders furrowed his brows. “Sir, how so? The ability to communicate instantly gives them an overwhelming advantage in maneuvering their forces.”

Tauron smiled, setting the figurine down with a soft click against the wooden table. “Exactly. They can move quickly. Too quickly. And that, gentlemen, is something we can use against them.”

The room was deathly quiet as they waited for him to elaborate. Tauron rose from his seat and walked around the table, his fingers trailing over the edges of the map.

“Tell me,” he said casually, “what happens when you teach a hunting dog that the fastest prey is the most rewarding?”

The scarred officer squinted. “It chases after the fastest one without hesitation.”

Tauron nodded approvingly. “And what happens when that ’fastest prey’ leads the dog straight into a pit?”

The realization dawned on the room like a creeping dawn. The younger officers’ eyes widened, the more experienced ones grinned knowingly.

“We feed them bait,” Tauron continued, his voice smooth and certain. “We let them think they are striking us down, maneuvering with brilliance, making us retreat again and again. And just when their confidence reaches its peak, when they are convinced that their strategy is foolproof—”

His fingers curled into a fist.

“—we slam the trap shut.”

A strategist, his voice laced with intrigue, asked, “How do we ensure they take the bait?”

Tauron turned to him with a knowing smirk. “By giving them exactly what they want. A series of weak points in our lines. Vulnerabilities so perfectly placed that they won’t be able to resist striking them. And, of course, making sure that the commanders using those Phones receive word of these ’weak points’ at just the right time.”

The young strategist straightened. “But wouldn’t they suspect a trap?”

Tauron let out a chuckle. “Perhaps, if they were cautious. But these commanders are young, eager for glory. They’ve been winning easily, haven’t they? Confidence breeds recklessness. And that recklessness is what I will exploit.”

He walked back to the table and placed his hand over a section of the map. “We will pull back forces here, here, and here. Make it look like we’re struggling to hold the line. Spread rumors through our captured prisoners—ones we allow to escape, of course—that morale is breaking. We’ll even let them have a few small victories, just to fatten their arrogance.”

Another officer, an older one, rubbed his chin. “And when they charge in, thinking they’ve got us cornered?”

Tauron grinned, a sharp, wolfish expression. “We close in from all sides. Cut off their retreat. And then, gentlemen, we show them why war is hell.”

The air in the tent seemed to thicken with anticipation.

A younger officer clenched his fist. “So we let them believe they’re winning, make them grow bold enough to push deeper… and then isolate them from reinforcements?”

“Precisely,” Tauron confirmed. “We let them rely on their Phones. Let them coordinate their forces swiftly. And when the moment is right, when they’re spread too thin and too far ahead… we render their advantage useless.”

The scarred officer laughed gruffly. “And how do we do that?”

Tauron’s grin widened. “We cut off their ability to communicate.”

Gasps filled the room. The strategists and commanders exchanged looks, processing the sheer audacity of the plan.

One officer hesitated. “But, General… we don’t know how the Phones work. How can we disable them?”

Tauron’s gaze gleamed with confidence. “We don’t need to disable them. We only need to make their users incapable of using them.”

The realization sent shivers down the spines of those in the tent. Tauron wasn’t planning to destroy the Phones—he was planning to sever the enemy commanders from their forces entirely.

The young strategist leaned forward. “You mean… capture them?”

Tauron shook his head. “No. Not at first. We isolate them. Confuse them. Make their men panic when they cannot receive orders. And then, we let their own forces crumble around them.”

The air in the war tent grew thick with an almost tangible excitement.

Tauron turned to his officers, his expression sharp and commanding. “This war is about to change. They think they’ve mastered battle with a piece of enchanted metal. But they’ve forgotten one thing—”

He slammed his fist onto the table.

“—War is not fought with tools. War is fought with minds.”

A resounding cheer erupted from the gathered officers.

The Eloriath commanders thought their Phones made them untouchable.

Tauron was about to remind them why they were wrong.