The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 87: Help Is On The Way

Chapter 87: Help Is On The Way

The hooves never stopped.

They beat against the earth like war drums, endless and deafening, rising and falling in rhythm with the tension curled deep in General Sun’s chest. The road south was a blur of dust and pine shadow, but he hardly saw it anymore. His focus was narrow. Sharp. Distant.

They had ridden through the night without pause.

There had been no time for ceremony when the orders were given. No lavish send-off, no rallying cheers. The elite riders of Daiyu had been called upon, and so they rode—two thousand strong, every one of them drawn from the eastern barracks, trained in war but unprepared for what lay ahead.

The southern wind carried the scent of scorched wood and something fouler still. It grew stronger with each mile they passed.

General Sun sat tall in the saddle, his armor immaculate, his sword at his hip, but his eyes betrayed a man already measuring loss.

The letter from his son had not been shared publicly. Not in full. He had memorized the lines himself—the clipped phrasing, the uncharacteristic sharpness in Longzi’s handwriting. He knew that tone. Knew what it meant.

Longzi was afraid.

And that alone was reason enough to move faster.

"Commander!" one of his officers called, pulling up beside him on a lathered mare. "The scouts say we’ll reach the foothills by dawn. Should we rest the horses?"

General Sun glanced down the line. The mounts were pushing past their limits. Their flanks were heaving, their heads low. The foot soldiers at the rear—those pulled from support units—looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He hated what he had to say next, but he couldn’t afford to let up the pace. "No," he answered. "Let them drink. No more than half an hour. We march through the night."

The officer nodded and fell back to relay the order.

General Sun did not miss the slight slump in the man’s shoulders as he turned and he knew he felt guilty for not being able to let them rest.

But the officer wasn’t the only one to feel guilty, so did he. But there was no time. The southern front was collapsing—if not in numbers, then in order. Chixia had already taken Xueshan. And if the next town fell, they would be halfway to the capital before the court finished its next round of debate.

He pressed a hand to the pouch at his side, feeling the weight of the sealed reply tucked there.

His son’s personal message to him haunted him.

"The Crown Princess is here.

She is doing what she can.

The men are scared.

I don’t think we will hold."

General Sun still did not understand why Zhao Xinying had been allowed to travel to the front at all. What use was a woman trained in nothing but etiquette and subtle poison? She was the Crown Prince’s wife, not a commander.

Beautiful. Charming, even. But ultimately ornamental.

He had seen the type before—untouched by real war, untouched by blood. The sort of woman who posed with tea and paper fans and thought strategy was a game played at banquets. She probably made up the rumors about her simply so that she wasn’t attacked.

Or to bring the attention of the court to her... which she ultimately managed to do.

But one thing was for sure, she should not be there.

And his son should not be dying while the court debated whether or not to admit that this was, in fact, war.

He had sent letters to his wife before he left—quiet, careful words meant to reassure, not alarm. But he had not told her the full truth.

He had not said that he might be too late.

------

By the next afternoon, the wind had shifted again. Stronger now. Carried with it a scent they had all come to recognize.

Rotting corpses.

They passed the first abandoned village at twilight. Nothing was left but a few collapsed roofs and a scattering of bones, charred black and brittle in the road. One of the younger men vomited into a ditch. No one scolded him.

No one spoke.

It was late into the second night when they crested a rise just before the southern valley.

They expected smoke. Fire. The sound of clashing steel or wounded men calling for help.

Instead, the ridge was eerily quiet.

General Sun raised a hand, signaling the column to slow.

The cavalry pulled back to a halt, their mounts grateful for the rest, though it came too late to be kind. Riders dismounted. Foot soldiers collapsed against their packs. The ground here was cold, the grass long and swaying, but no one relaxed.

They all felt it.

Something had happened.

"Scout the ridge," General Sun ordered. "I want a report before dawn."

"Yes, sir."

He dismounted carefully, his knees aching as they hit the ground. Age, stress, and saddle hours had stolen some of his grace. But not his will.

As the officers moved to set up camp, he walked to the far edge of the bluff and looked out across the valley.

In the pale light, he saw the edges of the battlefield.

Bodies.

Hundreds of them, if not thousands.

There were no banners. No signs of retreat. Just corpses. Burned. Twisted. Scattered in patterns that didn’t make sense.

He couldn’t tell which side they belonged to. It didn’t seem to matter.

They were all dead.

But what struck him more was the calm.

In the distance, nestled between two hills, were the dark outlines of tents. Red banners hung lazily in the wind. Soldiers moved about them—slowly, deliberately, as if they were setting up for a meal or washing after a drill.

The Red Demons.

Still alive.

Still in formation.

They were—he blinked—relaxed.

The same men who were supposed to be overwhelmed. The same soldiers who had been described as "barely holding" in his son’s message.

There was no sign of panic. No rushing. No burning wagons. Just the steady, disciplined hum of routine.

His heart lurched.

Had they been too late? Was this a decoy of the Chixia army to pretend to be the Red Dragons and use that insignia to march on the capital?

Or had they arrived to something else entirely?

Behind him, the first scout returned with a pale face and shaking hands.

"Report," General Sun snapped.

The scout swallowed. "Sir. There’s... there’s no battle left."

"What?"

"They’re all dead, sir. The enemy. Just dead. The Red Demons didn’t even see half of them fall. They said the mist took care of it."

"The mist?"

"The Witch, sir. That’s what they said. That the Witch handled it."

General Sun’s expression darkened. "You mean the Crown Princess."

The scout hesitated. "They don’t call her that here."