The Legendary Method Actor

Chapter 269: The King of the Hill

The heavy iron gates of the Central Keep had barely slammed shut when the sky above the Shattered Citadel shifted. The ever-present, gloomy gray clouds rolled back, revealing a pale, artificial sun.

Then, the bell tolled.

It wasn't a physical bell within the city, but a massive, resonant, magical chime that seemed to vibrate through the very cobblestones, echoing across every ruined street and shattered tower.

A booming, disembodied voice washed over the illusionary world, cold and absolute.

[COMMANDER RAY CROFT HAS TAKEN CONTROL OF THE CENTRAL KEEP. A TWENTY FOUR HOUR SIEGE PROTOCOL HAS BEEN INITIATED. IF THE OCCUPYING COMMANDER HOLD THE KEEP UNTIL THE SUN SETS DOWN THE NEXT DAY, THE EVENT WILL CONCLUDE]

Ray Croft stood in the center of the Keep’s massive courtyard, surrounded by his troops. He looked up at the artificial sun, his expression perfectly calm. The avalanche he had started had finally hit the bottom of the mountain. He was the king of the hill, and a massive, glowing target had just been painted on his back.

The clock was ticking.

Miles away, in the muddy, blood-slicked courtyard of a Small Stronghold, Luke Herrington looked up at the sky. The cold rain continued to drizzle over his battered armor, but as the magical bell tolled, a sudden, fierce light ignited in his eyes.

"Did you hear that, Commander?"

His lieutenant asked, leaning heavily on a spear. His armor was dented, and his breathing was ragged.

"I heard it."

Luke breathed, a wolfish, aggressive grin spreading across his face. He drew his broadsword, grabbing a whetstone from his belt and running it rhythmically down the steel.

Schwing. Schwing.

"Two days, he took the central keep in two days. It’s impossible to do that cleanly against a heavily fortified keep."

Luke said, his voice tightening with adrenaline.

"You think he's vulnerable?"

The lieutenant asked, straightening up.

"I think he's bleeding out, to breach walls that high, in that amount of time, he must have thrown every single man he drafted into the meat grinder. He might have the Keep, but his army is shattered. We don't rest. Rouse the men. We march now, while he is weak."

Luke said, his tactical mind running through the orthodox military math he had been drilled on for years.

On the western edge of the city, hidden deep within the shadowed nave of a ruined cathedral, Eliza Vance heard the same tolling bell and announcement.

She immediately knelt in the dust, unrolled a piece of parchment, and pulled a stick of charcoal from her pouch.

"Commander Vance?"

Her lead Shadow-Ranger asked, materializing from the gloom of the altar.

"The broadcast. Croft has triggered the endgame. Do we mobilize for a strike?"

"Are you mad?"

Eliza snapped, her charcoal flying across the parchment as she rapidly sketched the concentric rings of the Citadel. She aggressively circled the Central Keep in black dust.

"He took the Keep in two days, his forces must be decimated."

The ranger argued.

Eliza stopped sketching. She looked up at her scout, her brilliant eyes cold and calculating.

"You are thinking like a soldier. Think like an economist. Ray Croft didn't bleed for the outer rings. We know this. He bought them."

She stood up, brushing the stone dust from her knees.

"He didn't break himself against those walls. If he has the Keep, it means he found a way to subjugate that stronghold. He has the absolute high ground, and he is sitting behind it with a fresh army."

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"Then what do we do?" If we can't siege him, we lose."

The ranger asked, a note of despair creeping into his voice.

"We do what we have been doing."

Eliza said, her voice turning into a dangerous, competitive whisper. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a heavy satchel of Eldorian gold, tossing it to the ranger.

"We don't march. We spend. We negotiate. We recruit. We will use most of the time we have left to bolster our forces. When his men are exhausted from the tension of waiting. We only get one shot at the prize, and we are not taking it until we are fully ready!"

Back inside the walls of the Central Keep, Ray’s quartermasters were running frantically. A massive audit of the central keep was being done.

Ray sat in the command room, overlooking the courtyard from a high stone balcony. His lead quartermaster, one of the original troops he had drafted, hurried into the room, a heavy ledger clutched to his chest. He looked completely shell-shocked.

"Report."

Ray ordered.

"Commander... the numbers are staggering."

The quartermaster stammered, opening the ledger.

"With the integration of the Keep's surviving garrison, our total troop count is just over seventeen hundred men. Morale is absolute. But the vaults..."

"The tyrant's hoard?"

Ray asked, leaning forward.

"Overflowing, sir."

The quartermaster said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Even after paying the mutineers the double-wages you promised from the trebuchet drop, the inner vaults are packed. The former Grand General was hoarding a king's ransom. We have enough grain, salted meats, and steel arrows to withstand a siege for a year. And the gold... There are chests of heavy Eldorian Imperators down there. Pure, military-grade bullion."

Ray leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the stone armrest. He looked out over his massive, disciplined army in the courtyard. He had a fortress. He had an army. He had unlimited resources.

But Ray was a student of history, and he knew that sitting passively behind high walls and waiting to be attacked was how kings were dethroned. A cornered rat, even one outside a fortress, was unpredictable. He needed a failsafe.

He closed his eyes, his consciousness slipping smoothly into his mind, his Ambient Presence.

We have the high ground and the capital,but Vance and Herrington are still on the board. If we just sit here, we surrender the initiative.

Ray mentally projected his question to his archetypes.

The Grizzled Commander stepped forward, his phantom cigar glowing in the dim mental space.

Commander: "A fortress is just a fancy tomb if the enemy controls the perimeter. We have walls, but we have no eyes or blades beyond bowshot. We need a buffer out there to disrupt their approach."

From the shadows, the Scheming Courtier let out a soft, venomous chuckle.

Courtier: "And you have a mountain of gold doing absolutely nothing in a dark vault. Wealth is only power when it is moving, Ray. Why wait for them to knock on our iron doors when you can afford to buy the entire lawn?"

The Charismatic Conman flipped a coin across his knuckles, a slick grin on his face.

Conman: "The golden rule of the grift, kid: never show the mark your whole hand. If Vance and Herrington look at the Keep and think they see our entire force, they will calculate their attack based on those numbers. You need an ace they can't see."

Ray opened his eyes. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face.

A buffer. Moving wealth. An unseen ace.

Ray thought, as an unorthodox, deeply cunning idea also bubbled up in his mind.

"Bring me all our quartermasters, no mercenaries. Just our original men,"

Ray commanded quietly.

"And have the captains assemble ten squads of our most elite, reliable infantry.”

Minutes later, all of Ray’s original quartermasters stood before him, flanked by heavily armed veteran guards. Ray personally loaded several plain leather satchels with heavy, clinking handfuls of Eldorian Imperators from the tyrant's vault. He handed a staggering fortune to each quartermaster.

"Listen to me carefully."

Ray whispered, leaning in close so his voice wouldn't carry past the command room.

Ray laid out his instructions in a hushed, rapid cadence. As he spoke, the quartermasters' eyes widened in absolute shock. They looked from the heavy bags of bullion in their hands to their young commander, struggling to process the sheer audacity of the command.

"Sir... are you certain of this?"

The lead quartermaster stammered, swallowing hard.

"Exactly, slip out through the eastern and western postern gates under the cover of the escort squads. Do exactly as I instructed."

Ray said, a cold, calculating curve to his lips.

The quartermasters saluted numbly, turning to disappear into the shadows of the fortress with their escorts.

Ray turned back to the balcony, looking out over the walls of his Keep. Let his enemies think this stone fortress was his only asset. They had no idea they were about to walk into a massive, invisible net.

As the afternoon sun began to sink toward the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the Shattered Citadel, Luke Herrington stood before his meager army.

He had scraped the bottom of the barrel, managing to recruit a paltry one hundred and seventy troops. They were a mix of exhausted academy elites and battered, routed mercenaries. It was a pathetic force, but Luke’s martial pride burned hotter than ever.

"Form the columns! We march on the Central Keep!"

Luke barked, strapping his heavy iron helm into place.

"Commander!"

Luke turned. His deep-cover scout came sprinting into the courtyard, sliding to a halt in the mud, completely out of breath.

"Report."

Luke said impatiently.

"Is Croft's army as broken as I predicted?"

The scout leaned over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.

"He... he didn't siege it, sir."

Luke froze.

"What?"

"Croft didn't siege the Keep."

The scout repeated, looking up with eyes full of absolute terror.

"He used trebuchets to fire gold over the walls. The defenders mutinied. He bought the fortress mid-battle. Commander... he didn't lose a single man. Croft is sitting behind forty-foot walls with an estimated two thousand troop count."