Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 372: No Longer The Backwater Town

Meanwhile, Balder Vidal—once the iron-fisted deputy of the General Odin, now bearing the full weight of command—stood fuming under the scorching sun. Dust clung to his boots, and his patience, already thin from days of pursuit, finally snapped. The fugitives had vanished, and the trail had gone cold.

He whirled around and struck his own deputy with a brutal kick to the side, sending the man stumbling.

"Idiots!" Vidal roared, his voice echoing through the ranks. "There are less than fifty of them! Fifty! And you command a hundred! How could you possibly let them escape?"

The deputy general swallowed hard, pain etched across his face, but he said nothing. He simply looked down, his fists clenched in silent frustration. These weren’t mere criminals they had lost—they were Northem’s finest warriors. Legends in their own right. How could they not fail?

He raised his eyes to meet Vidal’s cold stare.

"General," he said finally, voice tight but steady, "there’s only one place they could have gone—Calma. It’s Prince Alaric’s fief."

Vidal’s brow twitched. "Calma..."

Without a word, he turned and barked an order. "Mobilize! We head to Calma immediately. Send word to the second battalion—they’re to converge there as well."

By the time the soldiers crossed the river and cleared the jagged slopes of Mount Ourea, the morning sun bathed the landscape in a golden sheen. That’s when Balder Vidal saw them—and froze.

In the distance, two towering structures pierced the horizon like iron spears.

"What... in the gods’ names... is that?" he muttered, eyes narrowed.

He turned to his deputy, still staring at the sky-bound silhouettes. "You were in Calma two years ago, weren’t you? With the Crown Prince? Those towers—did they exist then?"

The deputy was speechless for a moment, eyes wide with awe. "No, General. They didn’t. Back then, Calma barely had stone roads. Now—now it looks like a fortress."

Unable to contain his curiosity, the deputy climbed a tree for a better vantage. When he descended, he was pale and breathless.

"They’ve built walls—ten feet high, steel-rimmed. Those towers flank a massive iron gate. Calma... it’s not a town anymore. It’s a stronghold."

Vidal’s face hardened. He snapped his reins and shouted, "Double the pace! I want us there in two hours!"

They arrived to a sight that defied reason. The towers—sleek, smooth, and formidable—cast shadows across the surrounding landscape. Massive walls rose around Calma like a crown of stone.

"Impossible..." Vidal whispered, stunned. "This was a banished prince in charge of a backwater town. Where did he get the silver? The gold? Why didn’t Lord Malik report this?"

Spurred by disbelief and growing anger, Vidal pressed forward. But just as they approached a boundary stone near the road, an arrow landed into the ground inches from his horse’s hoof.

The general reared his horse back, his fury boiling over, its powerful muscles taut and ready, as his fury surged like a tempest. He lifted his seal high above his head, the polished silver catching the sun’s rays and casting brilliant glimmers like scattered stars on the battlefield. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

"Do you know who I am?" he shouted toward the walls. "I am General Balder Vidal of the Capital! Open these gates, or stand accused of treason against His Highness!"

From atop the wall near the tower marked Argus, a soldier leaned forward, his laughter ringing out—a chilling mix of amusement and disdain that echoed into the shadows below. The sun was high in the sky, casting a dark shadow on his face as he reveled in the dark humor of their grim surroundings.

"This isn’t the capital, General," the man shouted over his shoulder, his voice carrying an air of defiance. "This is Calma," he continued, his eyes blazing with intensity, "and here, your laws hold no weight at all." The air was thick with the scent of spices and the sound of distant laughter, a stark contrast to the rigid group of men in front of the gate.

Vidal’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson, as if the very blood had rushed to his cheeks in protest. "Preposterous!" he roared, his voice echoing through the air like thunder, as he urged his steed into a swift gallop, the powerful muscles of the horse rippling beneath him.

But before he could reach the gates, a volley of arrows whistled through the air—half a dozen shafts landing around him in a deadly warning.

He recoiled, rage pulsating through him like a storm about to unleash its fury. "By the gods," he exclaimed, disbelief etched across his face, "they truly mean it."

"General, please," his deputy urged, his voice low and calming. "The soldier is only following orders. Perhaps... we say we’re here under the king’s command to speak with Prince Alaric?"

Vidal turned on him with a snarl. "Are you mad? You want me to lie in the King’s name? That’s perjury, treason!"

"Then... do we say it was Prince Reuben who sent us?"

The look Vidal gave him was cold enough to freeze blood. "Reuben and Alaric are enemies. You want to ignite a civil war?"

"Then what do we do, General?" the deputy finally asked.

Vidal hesitated. For once, he didn’t know.

Then, with clenched jaw and steel in his voice, he shouted toward the wall, "We seek an audience with Prince Alaric!"

The soldier atop the wall disappeared from view. The sun beat down. No one came to offer water. No one opened the gates.

After a long, tense wait, the soldier returned and delivered a single, curt reply:

"Prince Alaric refuses to see you."

Balder Vidal’s knuckles turned white around his reins. A storm raged behind his eyes—but there was nothing he could do. Outmatched, unwelcome, and humiliated, he turned his horse around.

"Fall back," he muttered. "We report this to the Capital."

Behind him, the steel towers of Calma gleamed under the rising sun, a silent symbol of defiance—and of a prince no longer in exile.

The general fumed. He had no choice but to leave along with his hundred strong soldiers. They have to report the matter to the capital.