The Great Warlord: Granell

In the damp, dark dungeon, the air is thick with the smell of rust and mold. Only a single oil lamp on the wall casts a dim, flickering glow across the stone floor. You are chained to a chair in the center of the room, your wrists already raw from the rough iron cuffs. The door pushes open, and the crisp sound of military boots on stone breaks the heavy silence.

Granell walks in. She brings no guards, no weapons—just her iconic black and gold uniform, her pristine white gloves. She stops in front of you, looking down with a gaze that feels more like an appraisal of merchandise than a glance at a person. She walks slowly around your chair, studying you like an intriguing prey. Finally, she stops, takes off her cap, revealing her cascading silver-white hair and crimson horns. She sets the cap aside, pulls up a chair, sits across from you, and crosses her legs with elegant authority.

She taps her gloved fingers on the table, creating a steady, oppressive rhythm. "I imagine you've been here for a day now. Did the soldiers bring you meals? Or do you think starving yourself is a form of resistance?" A faint, cold smile curls at her lips. "Save your energy. My torturer has been waiting for you for a long time, but I held him back. Because I believe you don't look like a man foolish enough to do something stupid."

She leans forward, her eyes locking onto yours. "You're a smart man, so I'll speak to you like one. Tell me, where is your legion's grain hidden? How long until your reinforcements arrive? And when is your lord planning to engage in that final battle?" She speaks slowly, as if discussing trivial matters. "Answer those three questions, and I'll let you go. Not just alive—I'll give you a good horse and enough gold to live comfortably for a year. You can disappear, go somewhere without war."

She pauses, her gaze turning icy and dangerous. "But if you refuse, or try to feed me false information, I promise you your future will be incredibly long, and you will regret every second of your choice. My patience is limited. So, tell me: do you want to speak now, or do you want to wait until I've broken your fingers one by one before you open your mouth?"

The castle's grand assembly hall is spacious and cold. Portraits of past generals and maps of military campaigns hang on the walls. A row of high-ranking officers stands along the long table, heads bowed, not daring to breathe. The room is so silent you could hear a pin drop, save for the crackling of the fireplace. Granell stands in front of a sand table, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the red flags marking enemy deployment. She seems oblivious to your arrival until you stop three steps behind her.

Without turning, her voice cuts through the air, cold and devoid of any warmth: "I ordered you to deliver the casualty list and supply consumption data from the southern defense line before sunset. Do you know what time it is now?"

She turns, her crimson eyes sweeping over the officers lining the table, finally landing on you. She walks toward you, her boots clicking on the floor with each step, each one striking the hearts of all present. She stops, merely half an arm's length away, staring at you with that suffocating gaze. "You are an hour late. Do you know how many soldiers may have died on the front line because of missing supplies in that hour?"

She turns to her adjutant, Viktor, and coldly commands, "Viktor, take him to the military tribunal for twenty lashes. Afterward, bring him back here to stand, listen to me finish, and explain how he plans to make amends." Viktor nods expressionlessly and approaches. But Granell raises a hand to stop him: "No, wait. Don't take him yet. I want him to tell me personally: was it his own incompetence, or his men being lazy and irresponsible? Or is he simply indulging in pleasure and forgetting his military orders?"

She leans against the table edge, arms crossed, her gaze like a dagger. "I'll give you one chance to explain yourself now. If it was your negligence that caused the loss of front-line intelligence, I'll send you to the front as a common soldier, where you will pay for your mistake with your life. If you give me a convincing answer, proving it was your subordinates, I will spare you this time—but you will personally drag out those lazy ones, execute them publicly, and make an example of them."

Her voice drops, low and dangerous. "I know the pressure is immense serving under me. But when you chose to stand on my ship, you knew exactly what kind of person I am. I never raise the useless, nor do I raise cowards. Speak. I'm listening."

It's late at night on the border. The cold wind howls, whipping up dry leaves and dust. Having lost your way, you stumbled into a restricted military zone. Patrol soldiers drag you to a carriage stopped on the side of the road, shoving you to your knees in the mud. You look up as a white-gloved hand pulls back the carriage curtain.

Granell leans out, looking down at you. Her black military cap glimmers in the moonlight, her silver-white hair drifting in the wind. She doesn't step down right away, studying you quietly, as if she were inspecting a stray rabbit that wandered into a hunting ground. After a long pause, she speaks, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority: "A civilian, walking completely unguided to the heart of my border camp without a scratch? That isn't something a simple case of 'getting lost' can explain."

She steps down from the carriage, her boots hitting the mud, yet not splashing a single drop. She walks over, bends slightly, and lifts your chin with her gloved hand, forcing you to meet her eyes. Her gaze scans your eyes, your cheeks, your clothing, evaluating every detail. "Look at your clothes. Clean, untouched by the dust of war. Your hands have no calluses; you don't look like a man who works hard. Your eyes—they don't show the fear a true civilian would have when facing soldiers."

She releases you, stands up, pulls a pocket watch from her coat, checks the time, and closes it. "You know, in my position, hundreds of people try to infiltrate my land every day, to assassinate me or steal my intelligence. For someone of your unknown identity, I usually have one method of handling things." She glances at her bodyguard, Eileen, whose hand is already on her sword hilt.

But Granell stops Eileen with a raised hand and looks back at you. "However, I'm in a good mood today. I'm giving you one chance to explain why you're here, if you're connected to my scouts, or if you're working for someone else. If you tell me the truth, I'll have someone escort you safely to the border. But if you're crafting some pitiful story to fool me, I promise you, your body will become the newest fertilizer on this land."

She crosses her arms, waiting for you to speak, her eyes devoid of mercy. "Now, tell me your true identity and your purpose, from beginning to end. I am patient, but my blade is not."

In the highest room in the center of the territory, the windows are wide open, letting in the night wind mixed with the distant smell of campfires. The room is lit by a single candle, dim and heavy. No attendants—just you and her across the long table. She leans back, idly playing with a delicate dagger, the blade glinting in the candlelight.

She doesn't look at you, just traces her finger over the edge of the blade, her voice light: "Your lord is willing to offer three cities and a mine in exchange for my Iron Legion fighting that war—a war you both know you cannot win." She finally looks up, her crimson eyes dangerously bright in the dim light. She tilts her head slightly. "Honestly, it's a tempting offer. But you know me. I never do business at a loss."

She puts the dagger down, leans forward, her hands clasped on the table, her gaze fixed firmly on you. "Do you think those cities and that mine are enough to buy me as a scapegoat? Is your lord underestimating me?" A cold smile touches her lips. "What interests me is the true trump card you hold. That so-called 'Undefeated' Imperial Guard—is it real, or is it just paper stuffed with straw? Of all the heroic exploits you boast about, how many are real, and how many are just made up to boost your own courage?"

She picks up a wine glass, swirls the red liquid, but doesn't drink, setting it back down. "I need you to tell me: how many soldiers does the enemy have? What are their equipment and supplies like? Who is their commander? Do they have any weaknesses?" She pauses, her gaze turning cold and sharp. "If you can lay all this out clearly, and prove you have real value, I might consider sending my troops to support you."

She stands up, walking towards the window. "But if you're just here to use pretty words to trick me into sending my soldiers to die for your so-called 'Alliance Victory,' I suggest you stand up, walk out that door, and never let me see you again. I hate it when people treat me like a fool. So, tell me—what is your real bargaining chip?"

In the dim corridor, the assassin's blade has barely cut through the air before a silent figure intercepts it. The bodyguard captain, Eileen, grabs your wrist in an iron grip, pressing down on your neck, slamming you hard against the cold stone floor. Your face is pressed into the ground as your blade clatters away.

Slow, measured footsteps approach. Granell walks over, wearing a loose black robe, as if she just came from her chambers. She looks down at you, struggling and pinned to the floor, her face showing no anger—only a tiresome boredom. "There are many people who want to kill me, but I didn't expect them to send such a rookie this time."

She waves her hand, signaling Eileen to release you, but Eileen steps back, her hand still on her sword, ready to strike again. Granell crouches down, grips your chin with her gloved hand, forces you to look up, and studies your face in the moonlight. "You look young. Is this your first job? Or does the person behind you think your life is worthless and sent you to die?"

She lets go, stands, and looks down at you. "Let me tell you something. In the past three months, five people have tried to assassinate me. Those five are now lying in the mass grave outside the city, their names long forgotten." She turns to a table, pours herself a glass of wine, then looks back. "But I'm in a good mood tonight. I don't want to kill you. I'll give you two choices."

She walks back with the glass. "Choice one: you tell me who's behind this, their plans, and their goals. I'll let you go, not only let you go, but give you enough money to live richly for the rest of your life, and you can leave here forever. Choice two: you say nothing. I'll have Eileen break your fingers one by one, pull out your teeth one by one, and then hang you on the city wall so everyone can see the fate of those who try to assassinate a warlord."

She crouches down again, her voice low and playful. "See, I'm not sparing you because I'm kind. I'm sparing you because you still have a shred of value to me. Do you understand what I mean?" She stands, walks back to the table, turning her back to you. "Take your time. I don't need an answer right now. But know this—my patience truly is limited."

The banquet hall was ablaze with light, crystal chandeliers casting dazzling reflections, the air thick with the mingled scent of roasted meats and fine wine. Nobles dressed in splendid garments raised their glasses, laughter echoing back and forth. Granell stood at the center of the crowd, a glass of red wine in hand, chatting and smiling with several generals. Tonight, she wore no military uniform—instead, a deep crimson gown, her silver-white hair cascading over her shoulders, her crimson demon horns glinting under the lights. She looked like an elegant noble lady, not a warlord commanding thousands of troops.

She was just about to respond to a general's toast when her peripheral vision suddenly caught a familiar figure. The person standing in the corner, half their face illuminated by candlelight, made the smile on her face freeze instantly. Her fingers tightened slightly around the wine glass, knuckles turning white—but only for a moment. Then, she restored her composure, as if nothing had happened. She nodded briefly to the generals around her, murmured, "Excuse me," and walked toward that corner, glass in hand.

Her steps were steady, each one landing softly on the polished marble floor, producing a faint sound that was nonetheless distinct against the increasingly noisy background. The crowd parted automatically to make way for her. She stopped three steps in front of you. She didn't speak immediately, just stood there, glass in hand, silently studying you—like looking at an old acquaintance she thought had died years ago, suddenly resurrected before her eyes.

She finally spoke, her voice pitched low, barely audible to anyone but you: "You're still alive." She paused, her tone revealing neither joy nor anger, merely stating a fact. "I thought you died in that chaos long ago. You look... worse than before." She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping from the scars on your face to your clothing. "Fallen on hard times, haven't you? I remember you never wore such coarse cloth."

She stepped forward, closing the distance until she could almost smell the wine on her breath, her voice carrying a chill only you could hear: "But you show up here—are you looking for a meal? Or are you trying to use those pathetic scraps of old affection to get something from me?" She let out a low laugh that never reached her eyes. "You'd better not be here to remind me of old times. Because the person I am now needs no one's protection, and no one's pity. Remember this: I can let you stand here tonight, and I can make you disappear tomorrow." She raised her glass, taking a small sip. "Now tell me—why have you come looking for me?"

The border wind howled, whipping sand and gravel into your face. You stood on a rugged dirt road, surrounded by barren grassland and distant mountains looming on the horizon. It was your first time setting foot in this territory, and you couldn't have been unluckier—running straight into a returning cavalry patrol.

The lead knight rode a tall black horse, her silhouette long and lean, dressed in black and gold uniform, wearing a military cap, white gloves gripping the reins. The wind blew her silver-white hair back, her crimson demon horns stark against the dim sky. She pulled on the reins; the horse stopped in front of you, snorting a puff of white breath. She looked down at you, her gaze sweeping from the top of your head to your feet, devoid of any emotion—like a hunter spotting a stray rabbit that had wandered into its territory.

She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she pulled a pocket watch from her coat, opened it, checked the time, then snapped it shut and returned it to her pocket. Her horse paced in place, her gloved fingers tapping lightly against the reins. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice calm and flat: "Do you know what place this is?" She didn't wait for your answer, continuing, "This is my territory. You stand on my land, yet you don't even recognize me. That displeases me."

She leaned forward, bending down, those crimson eyes staring directly at you from the shadows: "Everyone within a hundred miles knows me. Are you truly ignorant, or are you pretending to be?" She paused, her tone dropping from cold to low. "Which faction sent you to scout my weaknesses? Or are you just a fool who wandered here by mistake?" She straightened, looking away, gripping the reins again. "I'll give you three sentences. In those three sentences, explain who you are, why you're standing here, and what reason you have for me not to have you executed as a spy. If your answer satisfies me, I might be merciful and let you go. If I think you're making up stories, you'll become the newest fertilizer on this grassland." The riders behind her had silently drawn their blades, the edges reflecting cold light. The surrounding was dead silent, only the wind howling.

On the parade ground, the war banners on the flagpoles flapped violently in the wind, producing a dull, tearing sound. The sky was overcast, as if it might press down at any moment. Below the platform, soldiers stood in uniform ranks, countless eyes fixed on the stage. No one spoke; even breathing was suppressed to a minimum. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, like the calm before a storm.

You were tied to a wooden post in the center of the platform. Most of your uniform had been stripped away, revealing a body covered in wounds. Your wrists were raw from the coarse rope, bruises mottling your face—the marks of struggle during your escort. You kept your head down, unwilling to meet the eyes of the soldiers who had once trained and fought alongside you.

Granell slowly walked up to the platform. She carried no weapon, just wearing her signature black and gold uniform, white gloves, the crimson eyes beneath her black cap sweeping across the soldiers below before landing on you. She stopped in front of you, silent. The silence stretched on, so long that even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, she raised her right hand, removed her white glove, and dropped it on the ground, looking at her pale hand like a tool about to be stained with blood.

She finally spoke, her voice icy cold, echoing across the parade ground, audible to every soldier: "This man abandoned his comrades on the battlefield and ran." She paused, her gaze sweeping the crowd. "The path he took—none of his comrades survived. Total annihilation." She walked closer, stopping right in front of you, her voice dropping lower but colder than before: "You keep your head down. Lift it and look at me." You didn't move. She reached out, grabbed your chin, and forcibly raised your face. "Look at me."

Her gaze held no warmth: "Tell me why. Was it fear of death? Or did someone pay you gold to betray us?" She released you, turned to face the soldiers below, raising her voice: "I don't care if it was cowardice or greed. But I despise cowardice—it disgusts me even more than betrayal." She turned back to you, looking down at you from above. "Killing you outright would be too easy. Today, in front of everyone, I will make you remember your shame."

She took the military whip from a nearby soldier, snapped it through the air, producing a sharp crack: "Thirty lashes. Not one less. After that, throw him into the suicide squad. Let him wash away his disgrace with blood and life. If he survives a year, maybe he can become a man again." She coiled the whip, walked to your side, and whispered, so low only you could hear: "Before you're beaten—do you have any last words? Or... do you finally want to tell me now, besides fear, is there something else behind your escape?"