Transmigration: The Tyrant General Can Hear My Thoughts

Chapter 298: Chapter Two Hundred And Ninety Seven

Damon rode his black warhorse at full speed along the dirt road leading to the Benson military camp. The hot sun beat down on his shoulders. His mind was still lingering on the quiet atmosphere he had left behind at the mansion. He thought about Camilla and her soft smile.

But as he approached the high gates of the military base, his sharp senses immediately noticed that something was truly terribly wrong.

Usually, the camp was filled with the organized, rhythmic sounds of training. He expected to hear the loud, clear shouts of the instructors and the sharp clack of wooden practice swords.

Today, the camp sounded different.

There was no training. Instead, there was a loud, chaotic buzz of panicked voices, running footsteps, and the painful sounds of men groaning in pain.

Damon pulled his leather reins sharply. His warhorse galloped through the open gates and came to a hard, sliding stop in the center of the dusty yard.

Damon jumped down from his saddle before the horse had even completely stopped moving. His leather boots hit the dirt with a loud thud. A young, nervous soldier quickly ran forward, grabbed the leather reins, and led the panting horse away to the stables.

Damon looked around the camp. The large training arena was empty. Soldiers were running back and forth between the supply wagons and the large white medical tents.

Some men were sitting heavily on the ground, leaning their backs against wooden barrels, holding their stomachs tightly.

Kade was already running across the dirt to meet him. Kade looked incredibly stressed. His dark blue uniform was covered in dust, and his face was very pale.

"Welcome, my lord," Kade said, stopping in front of Damon. Kade bowed his head deeply, breathing fast.

Damon did not return the greeting. His dark brown eyes scanned the chaotic scene. His face hardened into a mask of authority.

"Report," Damon commanded simply. His deep voice cut through the noise of the camp.

Kade swallowed hard. He took a step closer so the passing soldiers would not hear his words too clearly.

"We might have missed one of the spies, General," Kade spoke. His voice lowered a little bit, full of regret. "It seems this one was newly planted inside the camp."

Damon’s eyes narrowed instantly. A cold, sharp chill ran down his spine. He thought they had completely cleared the camp of all hidden enemies.

"Continue," Damon ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"When I arrived this morning to begin the early drills," Kade continued, explaining the timeline of the disaster. "I found that hundreds of our men were really sick. They were unable to stand up. The apothecary and the head from the medical tent examined them immediately. They said it was poison."

Damon’s face instantly showed fear. He was the Tyrant General, a man who feared no enemy army, but the thought of his own loyal men suffering and dying from a hidden poison terrified him.

"Poison?" Damon asked, his voice tight. "How did it happen?"

"The grains were poisoned, My Lord," Kade explained sadly, pointing a finger toward the large supply tents near the back of the camp.

"The spy managed to slip into the food storage late last night. He mixed a toxic powder into the large wooden sacks of wheat and barley. Those soldiers that ate the early morning porridge are the ones who became sick."

Damon gritted his teeth. "And the spy?"

Kade dropped his hand. His face turned very grim.

"After poisoning the grain," Kade reported, "the spy was spotted by the night watch. The guards saw him sneaking out of the supply tent. They chased him and cornered him."

Kade shook his head slowly.

"But realizing he was trapped and about to be captured and interrogated," Kade said, his voice full of frustration. "He took his own life. He bit down on a hidden poison capsule hidden inside his back tooth. He died instantly on the dirt. So, we don’t have a single clue on who is behind this attack."

Damon closed his eyes for a brief second. He processed the terrible information. The enemy was incredibly organized, willing to sacrifice their own spies just to harm the Benson army.

Damon opened his eyes. He looked toward the large, white canvas medical tents.

"Are they going to be alright?" Damon asked. His deep voice carried a profound worry for his soldiers. He viewed every single man in his army as his own responsibility.

"I think so, General," Kade replied, trying to offer some comfort. "The medical tent said they will be fine in some days. They caught it early. The head apothecary and his assistants are working tirelessly right now to brew an antidote to flush the poison out."

"Take me to them," Damon ordered.

Damon turned and walked with fast, long strides across the dusty camp. Kade walked closely behind his right shoulder.

They reached the largest medical tent. The flaps were tied open to let fresh air flow inside.

Damon stepped inside the tent.

The scene inside made his strong heart feel sad and heavy.

The large tent was filled with rows of wooden cots. Almost every single cot was occupied by a sick, groaning soldier. The men looked terrible. Their faces were pale and sweating profusely. Many of them were holding wooden buckets, vomiting painfully into them.

The air smelled sharply of sickness, bitter herbs, and strong vinegar. Dozens of female camp medics and young male assistants were rushing back and forth between the beds.

They were carrying clean white cloths, bowls of fresh water, and cups of dark, steaming herbal medicine.

Damon walked slowly down the center aisle. He looked at the faces of his men. Some of the younger recruits looked up and saw the General walking past them. Despite their terrible stomach pain, they weakly tried to bow their heads to salute him.

Damon immediately raised his own hand, signaling them to stop.

"Rest," Damon said softly to the sick men. "Do not move."

He reached the far end of the medical tent. A long wooden table was set up there covered in glass bottles, dried roots, and stone bowls.

Standing behind the table was the head apothecary of the camp, Master Thorne. He was wearing a stained white apron. Next to him was Silas, the new head medic. Both men were working frantically, crushing dried herbs with stone tools.

"Master Thorne. Silas," Damon called out quietly.

The two men stopped their work immediately. They turned around and bowed their heads deeply to their commander.

"General," Master Thorne greeted him respectfully.

Damon stepped up to the table. He looked at the crushed roots and the dark liquids boiling in small pots over a charcoal fire.

"Tell me exactly what is happening to my men," Damon requested calmly. "What kind of poison was used?"

Master Thorne picked up a small piece of rough canvas from the table. Inside the canvas was a small amount of pale, yellowish powder.

"We tested the remaining grains in the supply tent, My Lord," Master Thorne explained, showing the powder to Damon. "It is White Hemlock root. It is a very dangerous, toxic plant found in the deep swamps. When the root is dried and crushed into a fine powder, it looks exactly like normal flour."

Silas nodded his head in agreement.

"It is highly effective, General," Silas added. "When ingested, it causes severe stomach cramps, violent vomiting, and extreme muscle weakness. If a man eats too much of it, it spreads to the lungs and it will eventually stop working."

Damon looked at the pale yellow powder. He felt a deep surge of anger.

"Have we lost any men?" Damon asked, bracing himself for the worst news.

"No, My Lord. Thank the heavens," Silas replied quickly, offering a small, tired smile. "Because the men eat in shifts, the first group fell sick before the rest of the camp could eat the morning meal. We stopped the kitchens immediately."

"And the treatment?" Damon asked.

Master Thorne pointed to the boiling pots. "It is going well, General. We forced the sick men to drink warm salt water and mustard seed to induce vomiting and empty their stomachs. Now, we are feeding them crushed, burnt wood charcoal mixed with goat’s milk. The charcoal binds to the remaining poison in their blood, and the milk coats their stomachs to stop the burning pain. They are weak, but they will survive. They just need complete rest and clean water for the next seven days."

Damon let out a long sigh of relief. Knowing his men would not die lifted a massive weight off his shoulders.

"You have done excellent work, Master Thorne, Silas," Damon praised them honestly. "Take whatever supplies you need from the main treasury. Do not spare any expense to make sure these men recover fully."

"Thank you, General," the two men bowed happily, returning to their urgent work.

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