Houdel originally wanted to tell Claude and little Majiya, but in the end, he swallowed back the words. It wasn't that he didn't trust them, he just felt it wouldn't help. Rather than making them worry with him, it was better not to say anything at all.
So he forced a smile, waved his hand, "It's nothing."
"The porridge is almost ready."
"I'm not hungry," Houdel dashed into the tent, collapsing heavily onto the blanket.
In the small camp, everyone was going about as usual, fetching water, preparing breakfast, airing out blankets, grilling boots, everything was peaceful.
But Houdel's heart couldn't calm down; the bad news brought by fellow townsfolk was like a heavy stone—no, two heavy stones pressing on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe and leaving him no mind for other things.
Although Houdel mostly didn't believe his fellow townsfolk's words, he inevitably felt affected.
Listening to the sounds of others busy outside the tent, Houdel even envied his uninformed comrades.
He couldn't help but wonder: If it were His Excellency, what would his reaction be?
Probably, he'd eat, drink, talk, and laugh as usual.
But Houdel just couldn't do it.
In his anger, he sat up and gave himself two hard slaps on the face, cursing himself internally, "Houdel, why the hell can't you keep things to yourself?"
Hearing the crisp sound coming from the tent, Claude lifted the tent flap and rushed in, "What's going on?"
Houdel's cheeks were swollen, "It's nothing."
"Slapping yourself for nothing?" Claude gave a thumbs-up, "You really are something!"
Little Majiya also slipped into the tent, carrying a ladle in his hand, cautiously saying, "If there's anything, just tell us, won't you? Even if we can't think of a solution, it's better than you bottling it up alone."
Houdel's heart was full of worries, but they turned into a sigh in the end.
Suddenly, an idea struck him—unverified rumors shouldn't be casually told to comrades, but reporting to superiors should be fine, right?
Houdel suddenly felt energized and asked eagerly, "Where's the Pretty Face?"
"Pretty Face" was the respectful nickname Houdel had for his most admired instructor, Kadar Lagray.
"Gone to a meeting, just left," Claude looked increasingly curious, "What on earth is going on?"
Houdel opened and closed his mouth several times before ultimately collapsing onto the blanket, "I can't say."
"If you can't say, then don't," Claude pushed little Majiya out of the tent, "Who's even eager to hear it anyway?"
But before leaving, he considerately pulled the tent flap closed.
Houdel lay in the dim tent for a while, unable to find peace. After tossing and turning, he let out a low growl and slapped himself twice again before rushing out of the tent, running to the earthworks, standing guard at the gate, eagerly waiting for the Pretty Face.
He waited the entire morning.
Until the sun was beating down on his head, Houdel finally saw the distant figure of Pretty Face returning on horseback.
Houdel hurriedly ran down the wall and out the gate.
But when the Pretty Face was right in front of him, he noticed that the usually smiling, cheeky, and impeccably courteous Pretty Face had an extremely serious expression at that moment, a furrow had unwittingly formed between his brows.
Houdel vaguely felt that perhaps Pretty Face didn't need him to report.
"Something the matter?" Kadar Lagray reined in his warhorse, sternly asking Houdel outside the fortress gate.
"No... nothing," Houdel shook his head.
"Do you have a pass to leave the camp?" Kadar pointed with his riding whip at Houdel's feet.
"No... I don't."
"One point off."
The atmosphere was obviously off, so Houdel didn't retort this time, "Yes, sir!"
"Open the gate," Kadar Lagray ordered expressionlessly, "Assemble, no bell ringing."
"Yes, sir!"
Soon, all the officer cadets in the camp were lined up, counted, and organized.
Kadar took out a folded paper from his chest, unfolded it, and read it to all.
It was a public letter, the wording straightforward and concise, immediately recognizable as someone's handiwork.
The letter mentioned only two things:
First, an enemy force of approximately five thousand had landed behind the troops besieging the city;
Second, Brigadier General Gessa Adonis had returned to Maplestone City to take charge, and the siege forces at Kingsfort were now under the full command of Major Winters Montagne.
...
[Eight hours earlier]
[Siege Camp]
At four in the morning, the headquarters was as bright as daylight.
The central army tent was crowded, half of the tent converted into a communication room, with junior officers and couriers going in and out, signing, unsealing, summarizing, and submitting letters from all directions to the officers meeting in the other half of the tent.
The number of delivered letters was overwhelming—just the quantity conveyed the panic at the rear.
Everyone had become as skittish as a startled bird, eager to report even the slightest rustle or whisper.
Many reports from towns, garrisons, and posts were useless information, and the small portion of useful information left often contradicted each other.
"[Expletive]! What is this [expletive] nonsense?" Gessa, furious, slammed the table, cursing loudly, "According to their reported numbers, has the entire United Province army come with their families? For what? To eat us out of house and home?!"
His anger grew as he continued, "Do carrier horses cost nothing? At this rate of reporting, will there be any horses left in three days?"
The other officers by the command table silently endured Gessa's tirade; they all knew the Brigadier General could do no more than vent his frustrations.