The strategy chamber of Eldoria did not feel like a room meant for discussion but rather a place where decisions crushed people slowly, stone walls layered with old maps, battle marks carved into tables, and an atmosphere so heavy with past failures that even confident men lowered their voices instinctively, which made Rylan's calm entrance feel strangely out of place, as if someone had brought fresh air into a sealed tomb.
Across the table stood Sir Aldren Valecrown, the Knight Commander of Eldoria, a man shaped by decades of war with eyes that missed nothing and armor worn not for display but from habit, the kind of man who had seen strategies succeed brilliantly and fail catastrophically, leaving him deeply suspicious of anything that sounded clever too quickly.
Aldren did not waste time.
"If monsters break through the northern ridge within ten days," the commander said, tapping the map with a gauntleted finger, "our forces must split to protect both the capital and the supply routes, which weakens both, so tell me plainly, farmer, where would you place your troops?"
Rylan leaned forward, studying the map not like a battlefield but like land waiting to be worked, fingers hovering over lines and symbols without touching, eyes tracing rivers and hills the way one might trace sunlight patterns across soil.
"I wouldn't place them anywhere," came the calm answer.
The room went silent.
Aldren's brow tightened slightly, not in anger but interest. "Explain."
"Armies are like seeds," Rylan continued evenly, voice unhurried, "forcing them into bad ground because the calendar demands action only guarantees failure, so instead of defending both, I would abandon neither by strengthening the ground between them, because enemies advance faster than supplies, and hunger defeats monsters long before steel ever does."
Aldren studied him harder now.
"You're suggesting delaying engagement," the commander said, "that risks panic."
"Only if people are lied to," Rylan replied, eyes still on the map, "panic grows when leaders pretend control exists where it doesn't, but clear preparation builds trust, and trust keeps lines intact even when ground is lost temporarily."
Aldren folded his arms.
"Then answer this," he said, pointing sharply, "what happens when monsters do not fear hunger, weather, or morale, and advance regardless?"
Rylan smiled faintly, not amused but thoughtful.
"Then they are not soldiers," he said, "they are livestock moving toward feed, and livestock follows paths, not plans, which means the battlefield should be shaped, not defended."
The Knight Commander paused.
"Shaped how."
"Burn nothing," Rylan said, surprising several officers listening quietly, "clear nothing, fortify nothing that looks important, instead make useless ground look valuable and valuable ground look useless, monsters move toward resistance instinctively, so give them the illusion of strength where weakness waits."
Aldren's fingers slowly loosened on the table.
"You're talking about baiting entire fronts," he said carefully.
"I'm talking about letting the enemy exhaust itself choosing," Rylan corrected, "choice is expensive, certainty is cheap."
Silence stretched again, thicker now, not disbelief but calculation.
Aldren straightened, removing one gauntlet slowly as if the conversation had crossed from theory into something dangerously practical.
"One final question," the commander said, voice lower, "if command collapses, orders fail, and chaos spreads, what holds the army together?"
Rylan answered without hesitation.
"Routine," he said, "not loyalty, not fear, not glory, routine keeps people moving when thinking becomes painful, so soldiers should know exactly what to do when no one tells them anything at all."
The Knight Commander stared for a long moment, then let out a short breath that sounded almost like laughter.
"…That," Aldren said quietly, "is the answer of someone who has never lost control of a field."
He stepped back from the table and nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"You don't think like a tactician," the commander said, "you think like something that plans seasons instead of battles, and that is far more dangerous."
Rylan simply inclined his head.
Outside the chamber, plans began to change without announcement, routes adjusted, orders simplified, and the weight inside the room felt lighter than it had in years.
Far above, unseen, the God of Everything smiled again.
The farmer was no longer learning the board.
He was teaching it.