Albert didn't sleep that night.
He sat beneath the ancient pine, his back pressed against the rough bark. Around him, the remnants of his force slept the sleep of utter exhaustion—heavy breathing, snores, the occasional moan from the wounded. The small campfire had dimmed to embers, enough for warmth, not enough to draw attention.
In his hand, the feltwort cigar had turned to ash. He lit a second.
Smoke curled upward, spiraling into the star-scattered sky. The air was biting cold, but Albert didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything.
His mind was empty. Or at least, he was trying to empty it.
Twelve men had died today. Twelve names. Twelve faces. Lars—the young man who'd brought him porridge that first night—was among them. A spear had taken him through the throat when he was too slow pulling back. Blood sprayed, he crumpled, dead in seconds.
Albert had watched it happen. He'd been ten meters from Lars at that moment, locked in combat with two enemy soldiers. He couldn't have helped.
Tonight, when he closed his eyes, Lars's face would appear. The others too.
They'd ask, "Why didn't you save me?" The answer was always the same. "I couldn't."
But that answer was never enough.
Albert drew deeply on his cigar. Smoke filled his lungs—warm, soothing. But not enough.
He needed something more.
***
An hour before dawn, Albert summoned everyone capable of fighting.
They gathered in the clearing among the trees. Ninety-six men—what remained after the dead and the badly wounded. Men-at-arms with bandaged arms and heads. Levy with pale faces and red-rimmed eyes from sleeplessness and fear.
Luise stood at Albert's side. Sir Varin lay in his tent, burning with fever, but Gerit said he'd survive if he made it through the night. For now, command fell entirely to Albert.
"They'll attack at dawn," Albert said, his voice flat. "We know this. We watched their movements last night. They'll come from the east, following the river, trying to encircle us again."
The soldiers were silent. Waiting.
"But this time, we won't just hold." Albert lifted his head, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "We're going to counterattack."
Several of them gasped. A man-at-arms—Kurt, a thirtysomething veteran with a scarred chin—shook his head. "My Lord, our numbers are slim. They've still got maybe two hundred—double our strength. Counterattacking at those odds—"
"It's not suicide," Albert cut him off. "It's not a frontal assault. We'll use the forest." He pointed east, toward where the pine woods narrowed against the river. "They have to pass through a bottleneck between the cliff and the river to reach our position. There, they can't form ranks. There, their numbers mean nothing."
"An ambush?" Luise asked.
"An ambush. But not the usual kind." Albert paused for a moment. His eyes—green, empty—gazed into the distance. "We'll let part of their force through. Then we cut their column from behind, crush the vanguard, and before they can react, we've melted back into the trees."
"Pick them off one piece at a time," Kurt murmured, and for the first time, a flicker of hope showed in his eyes. "That... could work."
"But we have to move fast," Albert said. "No mercy. No prisoners. No time to think. When we strike, we kill. When we withdraw, we run. Even a moment's hesitation could see us all dead."
He looked at them again.
"If you can't do this, say so now. I won't be angry. But if you're coming, you need to be ready to do whatever I command. No questions, no hesitation. Just movement."
They fell silent.
One by one, the soldiers nodded. No one stepped back.
Albert nodded back. "Good. Now listen to the plan."
He laid it out for thirty minutes. Each person's position. Signals. Withdrawal routes. Rally points if they got separated. Every small detail that could mean the difference between life and death.
When he finished, the eastern sky had begun to lighten—dawn was approaching.
"Drink that potion again," Albert ordered. "Those who still have some."
The remaining jars were distributed. They had barely a mouthful each—they hadn't used it all yesterday.
Albert took the last jar and opened it. The scent of honey, wine, and feltwort. He drained it, feeling warmth spread from his stomach through his entire body. The effect wasn't euphoria, wasn't false courage. Just... readiness.
He sat on the ground, thinking of Varin, wounded because of his own carelessness in the thick of battle. Then he closed his eyes.
***
Erase it all. Erase every emotion, every feeling that gets in the way.
Albert started with his breath. In. Hold. Out. Slowly, rhythmically, like waves.
Erase the fear.
He thought of Lars, dead with his throat torn open. The pain surfaced—but he didn't fight it. He let it pass, like water flowing over stone.
Erase the anger.
He thought of the enemy. The faces of Leandrian soldiers he'd killed. Maybe they had families too, children, reasons to fight. That didn't matter now.
Erase the doubt.
He thought about what would happen if they lost. His force annihilated. Sir Varin dead. Luise... no. He couldn't think about that.
Erase the humanity. This was the hardest part.
Albert imagined himself as a weapon. A blade. No desires, no fear, no compassion. Only function. Only motion. Only results.
I am Wurzel. Wurzel knows no fear. Wurzel knows no doubt. Wurzel only cuts.
He repeated it in his mind, like a mantra. Over and over. Until the words lost meaning and became mere vibrations in his chest.
I am Wurzel. I am Wurzel. I am Wurzel.
Around him, the world began to move. Soldiers rose, took their positions. Luise approached, said something—but her voice seemed distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well.
Albert didn't open his eyes.
Erase it all. Empty.
The clink of weapons from afar. Empty.
Footsteps on the earth. Empty.
Ringing in his ears. Empty.
And when he opened his eyes, the world had changed.
Colors seemed sharper. Contrasts more vivid. Small movements—leaves stirring, birds taking flight, dew falling—were captured by his gaze like a lens focusing.
But there was no feeling. No fear. No anger. No sadness. Nothing at all. Only data.
Enemy: 223, plus or minus 10. Position: east, formation strung out along the path. Speed: slow, cautious. Possibility: suspicious of ambush.
This was only a rough estimate.
Own forces: 96, dispersed in three groups. Group one (40 men, under my command) on the left flank near the cliff. Group two (34 men, under Luise) on the right flank near the river. Group three (22 men, under Kurt) in the rear as reserve.
Plan: Let them advance. When the vanguard reaches point A, groups one and two strike from the flanks. Cut the column at three points. Destroy those trapped. Withdraw before the rearguard can react. Repeat.
Risk: High. If the enemy reacts too quickly, we're surrounded. If we withdraw too slowly, we die.
But that didn't matter. What mattered was the next move.
Albert stood.
Luise stared at him. And for the first time, the young woman stepped back half a pace.
Not from fear. Because she saw something in Albert's eyes that she'd never seen before. Something empty. Something... inhuman.
"My Lord?" she whispered.
Albert turned. His eyes—green, usually warm despite their frequent coldness—were now like a frozen lake in deep winter. No ripples, no movement. Only a mirror reflecting what lay before it without processing.
"Go to your position," he said. His voice was flat. Just like his eyes. "Wait for the signal."
Luise opened her mouth, wanting to ask. But the words wouldn't come. She only nodded, then turned and ran to her position.
Behind her, he stood still, gazing east toward the approaching enemy.
I am Wurzel. Wurzel feels nothing. Wurzel only cuts.
***
The enemy appeared just as the sun touched the treetops.
Over two hundred of them, as predicted. They moved in an extended column along the narrow path—cliff wall on the left, rushing river on the right. A perfect position for an ambush.
They walked cautiously, spears leveled, shields raised. Their eyes swept the forest on both sides, searching for signs of danger.
Albert watched it all from behind a bush, fifty meters ahead of the enemy vanguard. He knelt, his body frozen motionless. His breathing was slow, controlled—each exhale measured, nothing wasted. In his right hand, a longsword. In his left, a dagger.
Behind him, forty men waited. They looked at Albert. They saw his unmoving back, his relaxed shoulders, his slightly bowed neck. And they felt... strange.
One levy behind Albert—a youth maybe nineteen years old, Lucas—began to shake. His hand trembled on his spear shaft. His teeth chattered. His knees knocked.
He'd never truly fought before. Yesterday, he'd only thrown rocks from behind, watching his friends die up ahead. Today, he'd have to stab someone.
His trembling intensified. The spear wobbled. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Albert turned his head slowly. Only his neck moved; his body remained still. His eyes—green, empty—found the youth's. No anger there. No encouragement. No "be brave" or "don't be afraid" or any other words of motivation.
Only an empty stare. Like a starless night sky. Like the eyes of a stone statue in an old temple whose gods had long been abandoned.
The youth stopped shaking. Not because he'd become brave. But because beneath that gaze, his fear felt... irrelevant. Like screaming into a hurricane—but the hurricane didn't care. The hurricane would just keep blowing, and you could either blow with it or be trampled underfoot.
The youth gripped his spear tighter. His body was still tense, but the trembling had stopped.
Albert turned back to the front, toward the enemies he would have to eliminate.