Chapter 47: One Man’s Battlefield

I stood on the heavily wooded slope, watching the Winston ranks march in neat steps into Dengot City, which we had just evacuated, and I could not even tell what I was feeling.

This was already the fifth time in a month that we had willingly handed over a major inland city of Delanmaya.

All of this was done on purpose, all because of a piece of intelligence of uncertain accuracy provided by the young head of the Enrique Chamber of Commerce, our merchant friend Hugh:

The Winston Army’s reinforcements were insufficient!

This was a very strange thing: after our brave enemies had crossed the great river’s natural barrier, seized the docks on both banks, and firmly controlled the entire upper reaches of the Morning Light River, they had begun to suffer from a lack of reinforcements and were unable to replenish their troops in large numbers. Their army’s size only fluctuated around ten thousand, a phenomenon that defied common sense and left people confused. No one could be certain what kind of truth lay behind this irrational storm of sand and fog: a strategic adjustment? A deployment mistake? Or could it be that this was simply a maze of deception deliberately laid out by our wise and brave enemy commander?

In the end, we still chose to believe in the power of the Chamber of Commerce’s intelligence network. This was not entirely based on our personal friendship with Hugh; it also included Fred’s grasp and assessment of the situation: from the river-crossing battle that seemed like a surprise attack but was in fact rushed, to the battle at the Centuria Plains where they had consumed a great amount of time only to organize six thousand Heavy Cavalry, our opponent indeed seemed to be stuck in an abnormally discordant rhythm of war, like an outstanding dancer dancing on a tightrope. Although they still put on an amazing and unbelievable performance, they seemed never to have found a stage that suited them.

With less than ten thousand against fifteen thousand, looking at the numbers, it seemed we held the advantage. But numbers could not accurately measure the true strength of the two sides in the war. The immense power our enemy had displayed in the previous series of battles was still fresh in our memories. In particular, our “9th Legion” was in fact still a scattered, ragtag force. To be fair, no one could defeat the Winston Heavy Cavalry on an open battlefield. These silent Knights were absolutely not something any unit we knew of could withstand. If their numbers had been sufficient, the entire Delanmaya might have already been trampled under the hooves of the warriors of the Northlands, never to rise again. Even Fred’s outstanding military command abilities could not make up for this absolute gap in military strength.

Therefore, Fred devised a risky plan:

Abandon the city to lure the enemy!

Just as our young commander had anticipated: the under-strength Winston Army once again displayed their superb tactics of threading through and launching surprise attacks. Time after time, they created crises in various cities, suddenly vanishing when we split our forces to send aid, then suddenly appearing beneath the walls of another city where they absolutely should not have been, capturing the city with a crushing, overwhelming force.

This had been a masterful art of warfare frequently seen on the northern highlands of Delanmaya in the early stages of the war. How many Delanmaya Army commanders had been fooled time and again by these illusions, shuttling back and forth to no avail, becoming threads in Crown Prince Louis’s hands as he wove the flower of the battlefield, using their own reputations to fill their opponent’s glory, leaving behind laughingstocks for others to mock.

Now the situation still seemed to have changed nothing at all, or rather, it had become even worse. The Delanmaya Army scrambled about in panic before the Winston time and again, exposing one strategically significant town and fortress after another to the greedy fangs of the enemy, and quickly losing them all.

“Count Guderian is a wet-behind-the-ears new recruit.” “He lacks the most basic strategic common sense.” “The shame of ruining the country should be borne entirely by him.” Without a doubt, when my friend sat upright in the command post late at night, staring at a detailed map and pondering hard without a wink of sleep, these short-sighted noble lords would most likely gather around some card table piled with playing cards and gambling chips, making such comments in a mocking tone.

But this was exactly Fred’s purpose.

“Only by leaving important cities that even we ourselves are reluctant to give up to the enemy, will the enemy be equally reluctant to give them up.” That was what he told us. He pretended to be rushing around exhausted, following the enemy’s baton, skillfully exposing one city after another that should never have been lost strategically to the Winston. Even Crown Prince Louis, who was world-famous for his wisdom in not coveting immediate gains but pursuing greater victories, could not resist such temptation. Hesitating time and again, he finally left garrison forces in these cities while leading his iron cavalry to continue his incredible strategy of threading through and launching swift raids. This was a huge gamble. If Hugh’s intelligence had been wrong and our enemy had sufficient troops, Fred would have essentially handed more than half of Delanmaya over to the Winston.

We succeeded. At least, for now, it seemed that we had succeeded. We had split up the Winston forces that were already at a numerical disadvantage, and we had kept pace with the enemy commander’s once-magical, unpredictable strategies. Intelligence from all directions indicated that Crown Prince Louis had fewer and fewer usable troops at his disposal. Now, we had the capital to face the enemy head-on in battle. Beneath the towering Dengot City, we had successfully set the final trap. Now, I was witnessing our enemies striding proudly into the final trap.

“Attack!” When the last enemy soldier stepped through the city gate, Fred gave the order to attack. The soldiers left their hiding places and surged toward Dengot City from all directions, forming a crescent formation in front of the castle’s only gate. Rows of swords, spears, axes, and arrows reflected the red glow of the twilight, prophesying their own fate of being stained with blood.

There was no need to doubt it: those rows of soldiers were exactly our 9th Legion, the ragtag unit known as the “garbage can of the army.” Fred had almost performed a complete dissection of this unit. All original unit designations were abolished and replaced with the unified structure of the 9th Legion. Soldiers who had formed their own cliques were thoroughly broken apart and assigned to new units. Every branch of troops was issued standardized equipment, and no more than three people from the same faction were allowed in each squad… This series of measures had achieved the expected results. At least on the surface, our ranks now looked like “an army” rather than “a mob of stragglers.”

Facing our sudden appearance, the Winston Army displayed combat quality far above the ordinary standard. The soldiers on the city walls did not hesitate in the slightest. Under the command of their junior officers, they quickly arranged themselves into defensive formations. Archers, Spearmen, and armored infantry stood in layered ranks on the battlements, as if ready to enter battle at any moment, showing not the slightest fear of us even though we were nearly twice their number.

“Full defensive formation.” Fred did not dare to be careless in the least. “Guard against a surprise attack!”

His worry was not unfounded. When our soldiers halted under the loud shouts of their junior officers and had just finished their defensive preparations, a tremendous uproar suddenly erupted from the other side of the city wall, a place we could not see. Then, the city gate swung wide open, and pouring out from within was the opponent we least wanted to see: the Heavy Cavalry.

A formation made up of only about a hundred Knights charged fearlessly toward the left flank position. Just as I had seen before, aside from the sound of hooves, these grim reapers with covered faces made no other unnecessary sound. And behind them, the hysterical shouts of the Winston did not pause for a single moment. In their eyes, perhaps these warriors among warriors were the symbol of invincibility. Wherever they appeared, honor and victory followed, even if they numbered fewer than a hundred.

“Spearmen, advance! Raise your spears! Double-layer defensive formation! Third layer, prepare!” Riley shouted loudly at the front of the formation. As his words fell, two layers of spear walls, front and back, were raised at the very front of the formation. The spears of the rear ranks thrust their dangerous tips out through the gaps in the front ranks, forming a second line of defense against the charge.

Generally speaking, Spearmen would only reveal their spears at the very last moment when the cavalry was right on top of them, catching the enemy off guard to cause maximum damage. But this convention was completely useless against the Winston Heavy Cavalry. We had personally witnessed how the heavily armored Knights smashed through spear formations with overwhelming superiority, then slaughtered wantonly within the enemy ranks. Their strength had almost surpassed the common sense of unit strategy. Only tactics that likewise surpassed common sense could possibly stop them.

Therefore, even though the enemy’s numbers were so small as to be negligible, Riley still gave the order to form ranks while they were still far from approaching us. We did not know what they intended to do, and we could not afford to take that risk. For us, the only measures we could take were to set up layer after layer of defenses. If one layer was not enough, then two; if two were not enough, then three, until these mad charging machines came to a stop.

How many layers of spear walls could they break through?

The answer would come soon.

Thirty paces, twenty paces, ten paces, five paces…

Just at the instant when the frontmost rider was about to make contact with the protruding spears, he suddenly pulled his horse’s reins and turned sharply to the right, riding along the edge of the spear formation. Immediately after, the large body of riders behind him turned at the same time. The rear soldiers almost stepped in the exact hoofprints of those ahead as they completed a beautiful turning maneuver. This unexpected move threw the units on both sides of the front line into a panic. Row after row of spears were lowered as they passed, as neatly as falling dominoes, almost as if they were saluting this fearless group of riders in tribute.

These silent riders paid no heed to the panic in the formations beside them, sweeping toward the right flank position like a fierce gale. Their hooves pounded the earth beneath them, producing a dull, heavy sound, as if some heavy object were repeatedly striking against one’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Facing the right flank legion that had already formed its defensive formation, they gave people the feeling that they were not even charging, but rather freely galloping across the vast expanse of the world. The army that outnumbered them a hundredfold seemed to not exist in their eyes at all. Or rather, it was simply incapable of stopping their advance.

The facts proved that our enemy was unpredictable; no one knew what their purpose was. When they were about to make contact with the right flank’s spear formation, they once again executed a perfect collective formation-turning maneuver and galloped back toward their own castle. They traced a splendid arc with their hoofprints in front of our positions, receiving the “spear salute” of all the front-row soldiers. They had almost twisted the very nature of this battle, turning it into their own exclusive equestrian performance. They had successfully established their image of fearless invincibility in the minds of their opponents, driving our already not-very-high morale down to its lowest point.

“Ah!” A miserable scream came from somewhere. When this group of Knights was about to completely leave Rodrick’s position, the last rider suddenly turned around and swung his war blade, splitting the skull of a Spearman standing at the very edge of the front row. Blood splattered everywhere, dyeing the spear in the dead man’s hands. Who could have imagined it? The first drop of blood to stain that spear had actually come from its own master.

An uncontrollable roar of cheers erupted from the city wall across from us. The first drop of blood on the battlefield stirred up the fighting passion of the Winston. Some bold and mighty warriors let out deafening battle cries, as if issuing a proud declaration on behalf of their silent comrades. On our side, however, there was dead silence. Everyone, including myself, was cowed by the enemy’s power, sunk into a profound shock.

Beside me, Fred, acting as commander, could not help but let out a troubled sigh: “They can actually pull off something like this?” Indeed, a hundred men had charged at a grand formation and killed only one person, yet the feeling it gave was that these invincible warriors who surpassed human limits could break through our positions at any moment and take our lives at will. This was not merely a probing attack; it was a demonstration of force. Look at the ugly expressions on our soldiers’ faces. They had almost completely shattered our morale. No, in fact, they had already done so.

Suddenly, a mount dashed out from our front line at great speed, galloping toward the cavalry formation that was gradually growing distant. A fierce and bold figure on the mount flashed a pair of gleaming twin blades. His head of red hair was even more vivid and blazing than the sunset clouds about to sink in the west, like a ball of scorching fire burning fiercely.

“Red Flame? What does he intend to do?” I cried out in astonishment.

“Let him go.” The look of surprise on Fred’s face vanished in an instant, replaced by a faintly excited smile. “If it’s him, perhaps it’s possible. But…” Fred shook his head helplessly. “That fellow really does whatever he wants.”

Before long, the lightly equipped Red Flame and his swift “noble mule” had already closed in on the tail end of the Heavy Cavalry formation. The enemies on the distant city wall had not yet reacted. They had no idea what this one-eyed, twin-blade Ranger intended to do. Even if all of this was right before their eyes, even if it had already happened, they still would not believe their own eyes, would they? What? Did this mad Elf actually dare to attempt to charge alone against the most powerful cavalry formation on the continent?

The truth was exactly that.

The Heavy Cavalry noticed Red Flame. Two riders from the middle of the formation turned their horses around and charged side by side at Red Flame, trying to block his path. I could not help but worry for our Elf companion. If it came to a head-on collision, Red Flame was absolutely no match for two heavily armored cavalrymen.

Facing the enemy’s interception, Red Flame did not slow down at all. On the contrary, he went even faster. In the blink of an eye, the two sides were about to cross paths. The enemy’s war blade was already swinging down at him, yet he still had not made any defensive move. Just as we thought Red Flame would not be able to dodge in time and cried out in anxious alarm, he suddenly vanished from before the two intersecting flashes of blade light, causing the killing blow that was sure to hit to lose its target.

He lay flat on his back across his mule, dodging the enemy’s attack at the very last moment.

But that was not all.

As his mount smoothly passed through the narrow gap between the enemy’s two warhorses, Red Flame, still lying on his mule’s back, swept his twin blades through two gleaming arcs of light. His movements were as gentle as rowing twin oars on a small boat, carrying with them an ethereal, floating feeling like a butterfly flapping its wings.

Then, crimson light burst forth in all directions!

The two galloping warhorses collapsed in agony, throwing their brave masters to the ground. The armor on the warhorses’ bodies could not block damage below the legs, and the tremendous momentum of the charge increased the destructive power of Red Flame’s twin blades. Two horse hind legs left the warhorses’ bodies along with the flash of the blades, flying off and landing in the dirt.

They would never gallop on a battlefield again!

Red Flame did not take advantage of the situation to kill the unseated opponents. He did not even glance at them. He continued galloping at full speed toward the cavalry formation, letting out a wild shout, and pointed the blade in his right hand at the last man in the formation.

That was the very rider who had killed the Spearman in front of the formation.

That rider had not expected Red Flame to come so quickly. The desperate interception by two of his comrades had not slowed him down in the slightest. Moreover, he seemed not to have realized that he himself was the target Red Flame was pursuing. By the time he realized it, everything was already too late.

A gleaming fast blade had already nimbly slipped past his body armor and precisely slit open his throat. The airflow from his chest turned the blood into a drifting mist of pink that scattered, blurring his figure in that instant. Even though he had lost his life like this, the Knight’s corpse was still carried by inertia to the city gate, and only when the warhorse stopped running did it fall from the saddle.

This strike came too fast. I even wondered whether, when death descended upon him, he had been aware that he was dying.

Beneath the tightly shut city gate, Red Flame flicked his twin blades toward the city wall. The mixed human blood and horse blood on the blades crossed into a red X on the city wall, a mark of shame that the Winston Heavy Cavalry could never erase.

He twirled each blade once in his hands, then sheathed his weapons, and rode his mount slowly back toward our main formation. The cheers and shouts on the city wall had already stopped when he severed the two horse legs. Even the archers had abandoned their duty, forgetting to shoot at the brave Ranger below the wall. Our formation remained quiet as well. Those undisciplined soldiers probably still had not realized, even now, what an extraordinary thing they had just witnessed.

I had never known that a battlefield could be so quiet.

At this moment, the entire battlefield was dominated by one single person.

Charging the formation alone on a single mount, returning with blood on his blades, Red Flame, in his arrogant and proud manner, had deflated the Winston’s originally high-spirited arrogance.

No one could kill so brazenly in front of this outstanding Ranger. No one! Not anyone!

The two unseated cavalrymen slunk past him timidly, as if this handsome Elf with an eye patch were the most terrifying nightmare beast in their dreams, stripping away their willpower and robbing them of their courage in despair.

And Red Flame did not even look at them directly.

When he finally reached the front of our position, Red Flame suddenly reined in his mount, raised his head to the sky, and let out a long, beast-like howl. This sound awakened the still-shocked Delanmaya soldiers. Wave after wave of bold and heroic shouts erupted from our position, carrying within them a force that lifted everyone’s spirits.

Heavy Cavalry? Silent reapers? Formation-Breaking Iron Cavalry? Call them whatever you like. It did not matter.

We would win!

This was the undefeatable conviction that Red Flame had passed on to the entire army at the front.