The art of warfare can be taught, but it is difficult to learn—a phrase that has been haunting Edgar lately, and while studying at the Royal Military Academy (RMC), he spent two hours studying the huge model of the Battle of Rossbach, and at first he was only amazed by the mastery and intricate maneuvering tactics of Frederick's army, which was so detailed that no one could doubt that the battle could never have been lost at this level of tactics.

Until a certain moment, he suddenly asked himself a question: What if it was a different person?

Can such textbook tactics be replicated by another pair of war hands? If he had an equal force, would he have been able to emerge victorious from the chaos of the campaign in the same way?

How can a tactician set the variables for the ferocity and superhuman energy unleashed at the moment of the charge? Does the science of war still exist when this unstoppable momentum radiates not only from one soldier, one squadron, one battalion, but with the entire regiment, driving them forward with equal force and destroying the enemy at high speed?

He seemed to see the artillery tearing and destroying from the mountains and rivers, the infantry stabbing, firing, and sweeping, and the cavalry trampling and chopping, and there was no time to deploy, deploy, or even retreat. The three arms work together seamlessly, almost beyond the most rational arrangement, and are full of superhuman strength. As the poet describes Napoleon's craft: grasping, binding, harnessing, condensing, until a million hearts. The art of war is not non-existent, it is only beyond books, and the few geniuses who seem to be ignorant of strategy and who constantly violate military common sense are not ignorant, they just act resolutely according to their own strategy, and in some cases, a famous person is strategy, and the French call this state Savoir Faire.

Cementing and shaping clay into vessels, and spinning scattered threads into sturdy cloth, this is what he has to do, smelting the rabble under his command into steel, and turning him into a "superman" who can take on great responsibilities.

Edgar looked at the Huscarl, Thegn, and Geneat, who were being trained, especially the Frontier Cavalry, who patrolled the coast and frontier on a daily basis, and who were trained with sticks and whips by the Guards Cavalry officers.

"It's too weak, I only need a wedge team to defeat these boys." The Count of Northumbria said to the king.

"Take your time, that's all they can do now." Of course, Edgar understood what the Count meant, this kind of slender line lined up was the weakest formation in the world, even if there were tens of thousands of men, and the attackers could attack from the farthest flank, or use the reinforced forces to directly penetrate the part connecting the center and the flank, and the army of 20,000 men did not even have time to react. The best way to defend positions is to occupy the most important points, such as the most dangerous parts of the terrain that should be defended by the most reliable troops, and at the same time to station a large main force in positions that can support these points in time, and always keep the enemy in good hands before attacking them.

"To tell you the truth, if these guys only have this ability, I wouldn't dare take them to Franks." The more Earl Walsioff looked at them, the more he felt that these men were like the English militia who had been slaughtered at Hastings—proud, restless, and unpredictable.

"How's my guard?" Edgar smiled, he didn't plan to continue discussing the training of these recruits with the Count.

"I don't see it, but their armor is prettier, and their mounts are scary."

"These Normans have the same, but not as many as we have for the time being."

"What, Your Majesty has more equipment?" Volsiov's eyes lit up, according to the edicts of the past few years, the lord could also provide his warriors with armor and spare mounts, and the northern territory he managed was obviously not as rich as the royal family's direct leader, and could not supply so many sophisticated armaments.

"I can give you seven hundred sets of iron cuirasses and helmets, and up to three hundred war horses." Edgar saw through the count's thoughts at a glance, the northern army really needs to be strengthened, not to mention that those good horses are better handed over to the count's Northumbrian knights than their own militia horses, anyway, with these southern Sain's current performance, they can't be used as real cavalry on the battlefield.

"Your Excellency, we have to hurry, we don't have much time left, and I don't intend to ask the Bretons for help unless they have to."

"Has that been confirmed?" The Count of Northumbria looked worried, and the beard on his face was swept to one side by the wind.

"Not yet, only what Anjou revealed."

"Anjou?" Vorsiov had a look of disdain on his face, "When did that old pervert of Fulk care about us in England?" ”

"He is not the same as us, and has always been hostile to our Breton allies, but he is the same as us in his attitude towards the Normans."

Walsioev pondered for a moment before asking, "Your Majesty is saying that it is impossible for him to support the Count of Blois's side?" ”

"That's right, even if Philip himself intervenes, Fulk will not allow the covenant between Normandy and Blois to continue, it is too much of a threat to him."

"But he may also exaggerate and use our hands to clear the door for him, and perhaps the Blois are not going to directly oppose us?"

"Then it's up to our cousin Philip, and if he chooses to back down, it will be tantamount to giving us Normandy. However, I don't think Philip is such a weak guy, and he may prefer to play fancy diplomatic tricks, but he does not lack the courage to oppose us when it comes to such big things. ”

"Well, he's a king after all."

"What's more, he doesn't lack allies now, and we have to thank the emperor for his 'kindness' first." Edgar's eyes grew sharper and sharper, revealing a sharp glow, "Where are your guests now?" ”

"They have just left York, is Your Majesty going to see them?"

"The sooner the better."

Walsiov felt a chill, the king's scheming became deeper and deeper, and on the afternoon when the Danish envoy arrived, while still disposing of the carcass of wild boars in the hunting grounds, the king sent an order to himself to send someone to Sweden to fetch Prince Eric, the younger brother of the king of Denmark, of course, because Eric's wife was related to him, but twenty years ago, the king's methods were so ruthless.

The sound of bows and arrows sounded in the autumn, the cold whistling of the lord's heartstrings, and before the slaughter began, the smell of blood seemed to have begun to permeate, and Volsiov had already felt his fate turning: I was not a good courtier, at least a good warrior.