Chapter 3: The Battle at Liberty Pass

A month passed—still no reply from Michael.

Of course, whether there was a reply didn’t really matter.

The former Champion General who had won over countless fierce leaders, Harrison Foster, in just a month, with his immense charisma, had already bound Marcus Taylor to his cause.

The barracks buzzed with rumors, soldiers swapping stories about Foster’s exploits. Marcus found himself defending Foster’s decisions, his loyalty growing stronger by the day.

"The northern border is unstable. If Maple Heights’s army moves out in full force, the border will be left unguarded, and the Canadian raiders will surely invade. Therefore, the campaign to serve the President must be swift."

In the army tent, Harrison, armored, pointed at the map, analyzing the situation with a stern face.

The tent smelled of leather and sweat, the table covered in maps and coffee stains. Harrison’s finger traced the border, his eyes sharp and focused.

"General Marcus, the chaos in Washington is minor—the raiders are the true threat. Maple Heights has three hundred thousand troops; ten thousand elite are more than enough for Washington, the remaining two hundred thousand will continue to guard Maple Heights."

Harrison grinned, bloodlust in his smile: "I can see the Canadian chief dancing in Washington already!"

He winked at Marcus, his grin broadening. The men around the table chuckled, imagining the Canadian chief doing the jitterbug in the Capitol rotunda.

"Dancing?" Marcus was puzzled.

He didn’t know the man before him had once enjoyed watching foreign leaders dance for him.

But it didn’t matter—he was swept up by Harrison’s ambition.

Marcus shrugged, letting Foster’s confidence carry him. The mood in the tent shifted—hope and excitement replacing doubt.

Thus, under the banner of purging traitors, Harrison, with Marcus and one hundred thousand troops from Maple Heights, marched grandly toward the Capital.

The column stretched for miles, flags snapping in the wind, the sound of boots and horse hooves echoing through the valleys. Townsfolk lined the roads, watching the army pass with a mix of fear and awe.

At the gates of Liberty Pass, facing the local defenders, Harrison personally led three hundred cavalry in a feint, pretending to attack and drawing out the enemy.

The sun blazed overhead, dust swirling as the cavalry thundered across the field. Harrison’s voice rang out, rallying his men, the tension thick as molasses.

But to Marcus’s surprise, when the enemy sallied forth with thirty thousand men, Harrison led his three hundred cavalry straight into a frontal assault.

Marcus was stunned, mouth agape, unable to speak.

He watched as Foster charged ahead, fearless, the gap between legend and reality vanishing before his eyes.

Harrison led the charge, his three hundred cavalry forming a wedge, slicing into the enemy like a blade.

The horses crashed through the lines, the riders shouting, sabers flashing. Dust and chaos filled the air, the enemy scrambling to regroup.

Harrison himself was the fiercest, wielding a long spear like a dragon, sweeping away foes with every strike.

He moved with the grace and fury of a man possessed, each swing of the spear a testament to his skill and determination.

The heavy cavalry’s debut revealed terrifying power—the enemy couldn’t withstand the charge of three hundred riders.

The defenders faltered, some dropping weapons and fleeing, others standing their ground only to be swept aside. The tide of battle turned in an instant.

After a round of battle, Harrison hurled his spear, knocking down a swath of enemies, then snatched up his newly forged hard bow.

He drew the bow with practiced ease, the string singing as he fired. The men around him cheered, the energy electric.

In the midst of ten thousand troops, he drew and fired—the arrow flew, and the enemy leader a hundred yards away dropped dead.

The leader’s fall sent shockwaves through the ranks. Panic spread, soldiers tripping over each other, the formation breaking apart.

Harrison knew: kill the enemy chief, throw their ranks into chaos; once their formation breaks, their own trampling becomes deadlier than any foe.

He smiled grimly, remembering lessons from old football games—take out the quarterback, and the whole team falls apart.

Laughing, Harrison led his dozen guards into the enemy’s central camp, casually cutting down their main banner.

The banner toppled, the enemy’s spirit broken. Harrison’s laughter echoed, a sound of triumph and defiance.

Victory came with flair and ease.

Harrison was exhilarated, but Marcus was scared out of his wits.

Marcus’s heart pounded, sweat soaking his shirt. He’d never seen such recklessness—and such results.

When Harrison returned, Marcus knelt before him.

Marcus dropped to one knee, head bowed, the gesture both respectful and desperate. The men watched in silence, the air thick with awe.

"Boss, you promised only a diversion, so I agreed to let you lead the charge—why did you go straight into the enemy’s heart?" Marcus pleaded.

His voice trembled, the words heavy with worry and frustration. He looked up, searching Foster’s face for answers.

Harrison laughed: "I saw the enemy attack in haste, their lines disordered. I worried the chance would slip away, so I acted. Isn’t this a great victory?"

He clapped Marcus on the shoulder, the gesture warm and reassuring. The men around them grinned, pride swelling in their chests.

Marcus grimaced. He’d always been a cautious commander—never seen such reckless tactics.

He shook his head, muttering, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Boss.” But deep down, he couldn’t help but admire Foster’s guts.

"We won, but it was too risky. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t bear the responsibility."

Marcus’s voice softened, the concern genuine. The bond between them grew stronger, forged in the heat of battle.

Harrison patted Marcus’s shoulder: "I said during training, even against a hundred thousand, I could break them. Today, consider my boast fulfilled."

He winked, the old swagger returning. The men cheered, the victory cemented in their memories.

"This was thanks to Marcus holding the rear—otherwise, I wouldn’t have dared such boldness." Harrison quietly changed how he addressed Marcus.

Marcus pretended not to notice, simply bowed: "Boss flatters me."

After this battle, Harrison’s reputation as a war god was established once again in Chicago.

Word spread like wildfire, newspapers printing headlines: "Foster’s Cavalry Unstoppable!" The city buzzed with excitement, kids reenacting the charge in backyards and playgrounds.