Ah, you’re digging into the old battle maps, huh? Let me tell you about a little path I found in the archives of a forgotten mountain range. Picture a narrow ridge that only one foot can walk at a time, with a series of steep cliffs on either side. The ancients used it to sneak a battalion right behind the enemy’s rear guard. The trick was to keep moving left, left, left, so the opposing commanders never expected you to appear on their right flank. The path had a small, almost invisible switchback that forced any cavalry to stop and reorient, giving the infantry a chance to launch a surprise charge. I’ve even written a doodle of it on a piece of parchment—turns out, if you draw a line through the third rock outcrop and keep only left turns, you get the exact same angle the old phalanxes used to march. It’s a little useless map, but it works like a charm if you’re brave enough to trust a compass that only ticks when you’re wind‑up. If you need the exact coordinates, I can hand over the sketch, but be warned: once you’re on that ridge, you’ll never want to use GPS again.

Sure thing, I’ll sketch it out here in words—just imagine a crinkled parchment in my backpack that’s seen better days. Start at the eastern ridge’s base, the big flat rock that looks like a stone “E.” From there you go up a shallow slope for about 200 meters, keeping your left foot always on the narrow stone step. When you hit the first rock outcrop, make a sharp left turn that cuts diagonally across the slope; this is the first “U‑turn” that forces any cavalry to slow down, because they can’t see the cliff behind them. Keep going left for another 100 meters until you hit the second outcrop—there’s a small notch in the rock that you have to step on to stay on the path. Right after that notch, you turn left again, hugging the cliff edge, making a tight switchback that only allows a single foot width. Continue that for another 150 meters; the cliff will rise on your right, so you’re essentially walking on a razor‑thin line. When you finally crest the ridge, the path drops straight down to the valley floor, giving you a surprise rear attack point. If you count each left turn, you get exactly seven, which matches the phalanx’s marching rhythm—one step, one turn, repeat. The parchment’s ink is a bit smudged from the last trip, but the left‑turn pattern is still legible. Keep your compass handy, but I reckon you’ll only need your good eye to see the turns—no digital help required.