Chapter 565: Act 313 – Oath and Sword II
Baron Reld’s army was rapidly collapsing. The cadets of the Royal Knight Academy were driving forward hundreds of fleeing soldiers, with the Seventh Swordsmen Squadron of the Harbor Guard being the first to bear the brunt of the pressure. Disheartened nobles, desperate for survival, were forced to break through their ranks, grasping at straws as if clinging to their last hope.
The Harbor Guard clashed fiercely with the fleeing soldiers. Ironically, when the fleeing noble soldiers turned back to face their former allies, they exhibited tenfold ferocity; their survival instincts turning them into frenzied maniacs.
Behind the two groups, glistening long spears urged them forward.
This was somewhat different from what Sir Marose, the captain of the Seventh Swordsmen Squadron of the Harbor Guard, had anticipated. The princess and her subordinates had not only appeared but had also charged in headlong. However, this charge was alarmingly fierce, not only annihilating Baron Reld’s army but seemingly peering straight through their defensive positions.
The princess advanced with overwhelming momentum, which contrasted starkly with Sir Marose’s increasingly pale face. But what could be done now? This knight, who had hardly ever truly fought in battle, glanced back at his companions with trepidation.
In the pouring rain, a young man clad in the armor of the White Lion Legion held his long sword, lost in thought, like a marble statue, letting raindrops slide off his forehead and cheeks, utterly indecisive.
“They found us!”
“How did they find us?”
“Perhaps now is not the time to think about that.”
He raised his head, his gray-blue eyes reflecting the faint glimmer of the long spears in rows, flashing with rational clarity: Since that’s the case, let’s change the approach.
Above the clouds, lightning traced a brilliant arc—
“Baltar, you have a good student,” Reldor Duluso said, showing appreciation in his gaze as he received the orders from the messenger.
Marquis Baltar shook his head: “The princess is not weak at all; this doesn’t seem like Overwell’s style. Makarolo hasn’t been this decisive either. It seems there’s a commander we’re unfamiliar with on the other side, and the combat effectiveness of the Harbor Guard can be quite concerning; Owen seems to want to use their numerical advantage to hold them back.”
“Just as we did in Lorensh,” the elder said, looking towards the harbor, his view filled with a sea of gray rooftops. “It’s like a colossal meat grinder slowly draining the last drop of blood from Erluin.”
“Your excellency, this isn’t directed at you,” Reld replied calmly after glancing at his guest.
The man smiled slightly, unfazed: “Our past decisions had flaws too; there’s no need to shy away from that. With the holy war imminent, the Temple doesn’t wish for new misunderstandings to arise due to past rifts.”
The elder regarded him silently, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“The old commander…” Baltar fidgeted slightly.
“You are the commander now, Baltar,” the elder replied. “Rest assured, I will not blame Owen for this. In war, victory and defeat are paramount. He has a solid plan; using numbers to overwhelm fewer opponents is also a skill—”
“However…”
“The princess might be in for a hard time this time; the blood being shed on this battlefield will be that of the people of Erluin. They’re all excellent young men; what a pity…” The elder shook his head.
The skies were gradually brightening.
But the situation on the battlefield was not the same—
Messages from the front clearly informed Brendel that the Harbor Guard was changing tactics. But altering plans at the last minute is not a good strategy, especially when the intention is so obvious—Brendel could not help but sneer—The Harbor Guard’s commanders had decided to engage him in urban warfare.
Ha ha ha, he almost laughed to express his delight—Kurko’s defense, Bruglas’s siege, capturing Ampere Seale, the pain of Soao, the blood spilled in the White City—there’s no need to deliberately recollect; each classic battle flashed vividly in his mind like a textbook.
But more importantly—
He had personally participated in these battles.
He had fought against the Crusian people, against Madara, against the Everything Returns Society, and even faced the dark-dwelling Minren, rather than the third-rate Harbor Guard of Ampere Seale.
He looked back at the people beside him.
Locka Vanden Elvis, Enroch Aishahe, Freya Alicia, the historically renowned three heroes of Erluin; paired with Bud’s Brensen, a man capable of leading a battalion of guardsmen to carve a bloody path through “One-Eyed Dragon” Tagus, and the commander of the Royal Knight Corps, Mikko.
The most illustrious rising stars of Erluin’s future surrounded him, who had truly changed an era and pulled Erluin from the depths of its darkest history. Though transient, they were indeed remarkable individuals.
Erluin may have been defeated, but it was not due to a lack of valor in battle.
The opposing commander likely never anticipated that, over the next century on the continent of Vaunte, the speed of warfare would change dramatically due to the players’ involvement. It was a dark, war-torn era, but it was also undoubtedly an age supported by the brilliance and madness of visionary ideals—a grand and tumultuous age.
And now, what was conventionally correct might not apply to the future.
“Locka, Enroch, Freya, Brensen, Mikko, they want to drag us into street fighting,” Brendel said, looking towards the battlefield ahead, a slight smile forming on his lips. “They want to turn this place into a meat grinder. I hope you all weren’t dozing off during the tactics class?”
Mikko stared at him coldly; the prior orders seemed to have been correct, but that wasn’t any great achievement, at most merely standard. If they were in charge, they might have done better.
Brensen said nothing; the changes in Brendel were too drastic for him. In fact, ever since the escape from Bud, he had been undergoing transformation. Although he had once been reluctant to admit it, he had to acknowledge that the young man before him was no longer the son of a flour mill owner he had once looked down upon.
Yet though their animosities had been resolved, it didn’t mean that he would side with Brendel.
Among the four, only Locka Vanden Elvis smiled slightly, appearing unconcerned. This young man in the Royal Knight Academy’s black military uniform, with long light gold hair tied back in a ponytail, seemed somewhat shy and had not completely shed the marks left by the Academy on his generation—still somewhat inexperienced but already showing the steadiness of a named general.
In fact, in history, he had always been at the top among the three heroes. Locka Vanden Elvis was the eldest son of a relatively undistinguished noble family in the Vieiro Province. His family had never produced noteworthy figures in history, but Locka was undoubtedly an exception.
In history, Locka Vanden Elvis had manipulated the armies of Siphai at will and was referred to as the “Unsheathed Sword” due to his gentle demeanor—implying that once unsheathed, he would charge forward unrelentingly and invincibly.
Yet unfortunately, this unsheathed sword had not yet had the chance to draw its blade before dying of illness during a campaign to the north, having not even been able to partake in the Second Black Rose War.
This is arguably one of the greatest regrets of Erluin.
Of course, this time Brendel would definitely not let such a regret repeat itself. His gathering of these young people around him was also out of concern that they might perish accidentally in the upcoming war over Ampere Seale, such as how Enroch among the three had ultimately died from a stray arrow.
But one cannot forge a sharp blade without experiencing tempering.
Brendel understood this, and all he could do was take precautions as best as he could.
“My lord, this will be difficult. The Harbor Guard’s forces already surpass ours and hold the advantage of terrain. If they are determined to engage us in urban warfare, it might be tough for us to handle,” Enroch, riding on horseback with shiny black hair, replied cheerfully.
At this moment, he resembled Carglis, contrasting sharply with the taciturn nature he would later exhibit; he shared a close bond with Locka and had even referred to him as a brother. This must be the change brought about by the double blow of the kingdom’s decline and Locka’s death, Brendel thought with some sympathy.
“That’s not necessarily true.” He smiled. “Forget it, today I’m here at the request of the princess to teach you. Actually, defeating the Harbor Guard just like we did to Reld is quite simple.”
“Talking big,” Mikko blurted out plainly.
“Ha ha, that might not be the case,” Brendel chuckled. “Mikko, how about we make a bet? If I can really do it, will you help me with something?”
The gray-haired young man glanced at him: “What matter?”
“Come be my servant, how about that?” Brendel thought mischievously; the future commander of the Iron Faced Knights would be his servant. He still remembered the trouble this guy caused players back then.
One must say that at heart, Brendel was somewhat petty.
Of course, as for the possibility of failure? That was not something he considered.
Mikko paused a moment, clearly understanding that the other party would not make such a wager without reason. But youth is fearless, so he eventually nodded: “What if you lose?”
“I’ll be your deputy.”
“Mikko.” Freya couldn’t help but remind him; surely she’s the only one here who knows Brendel best.
But the gray-haired youth merely glanced at her, replying, “Don’t worry, Freya, I won’t let him be too embarrassed.”
“I’m more worried about you being embarrassed…” The future Valkyrie thought silently.
“Alright then, the contract is established.” Brendel said with a grin. “You all come here; I’ll tell you how to attack in this battle…”
In fact, Freya’s concerns soon became reality.
Brendel began issuing orders—
The next moment, the cavalry of the Royal Knight Academy began advancing in the direction indicated by his sword. From above, it appeared as if huge pointed arrows were splitting into countless tentacles, the cavalry was advancing and coordinating their attacks, racing forward through the many streets.
It seemed that in an instant.
In the darkness, the faces of all the officers in the White Lion Legion, who stood ready, closely monitoring the developments on this vast battlefield, changed.
Countless reconnaissance squads flitted back and forth between the front lines and the rear, ambiguous information converging from multiple angles, presenting a clear picture before everyone’s eyes.
Panic engulfed the command post of the White Lion Legion.
“How are they coordinating?!”
“They’ve gone mad!”
“By Martha, this is impossible!”
Everyone was utterly dumbfounded.
In the direction of the Evergreens Square—
In fact, directly in front of this square was a densely packed commercial district, and at this very moment, the fleeing soldiers under Baron Reld were using the many winding alleys to charge at their allies’ positions from all sides. Behind them, the young knights of the Royal Knight Academy were executing their tactics meticulously—one contingent of young knights drove the remaining soldiers while continuously disbanding, reorganizing, and forming tactical groups to encircle the Harbor Guard’s flanks.
In just ten minutes, the Harbor Guard’s lower-ranking officers seemed to have experienced a long, unbearable nightmare. This exceeded all common sense they had learned; the enemy could appear at any time, from any direction, where they wished to attack their positions.
They had built their standard defense lines according to the manuals provided by the officers of the White Lion Legion, but in the face of such an assault, they were nearly defenseless.
Before this position, the princess’s side of the attack seemed to transform into a genuine flowing river; once the entire army moved, it was like mercury spilling onto the ground.
The situation was changing completely.
“How do they maintain their command system?!”
“Transmission crystals?! That’s impossible, with a battlefield this large, any magical communication would interfere with one another—Listen up! Even Bud’s wizards couldn’t manage that!” Foster, the commander of the First Guards of the White Lion Legion, nearly shouted at his adjutant.
The adjutant’s face turned pale, and he could only nod weakly.
But perhaps the adjutant’s bitter smile finally made Foster realize that this fury was not helping to alter the current situation; he couldn’t help but stiffly lift his head.
Dazedly staring at the huge map hanging in the center of the tent…
On the map, the bright red line depicting the Harbor Guard’s defenses now seemed heavy, clumsy, and riddled with holes… as if silently mocking the entire White Lion Legion.
But this was an absolutely standard defense line.
Even among the infantry tactics of Cruz, the powerful empire, one could find no more perfect example of a defense than this; it was heavy, clumsy, but equally solid and unassailable.
It was flawless.
Every defense point was so meticulously arranged, it seemed to have been refined over generations. It was like a slow-moving giant; against it, there were only two outcomes—either the last drop of its blood would be spilled, or it would spill the last drop of blood from its opponent.
It was like a perfect meat grinder.
What was fed into it was both their lives and the enemy’s. Besides a frontal breakthrough, there was no other option. The White Lion Legion and Owen, along with Marose, meticulously arranged this bloody battlefield, prepared to let the princess bleed out her final drop of blood here.
But just as they were ready to deliver this heavy blow, they suddenly found their enemy turning into a pile of scattered sand before them, then infiltrating into their very bodies without any gaps.
In an instant.
This giant’s massive frame had become its own greatest enemy.
The once-sturdy defense line seemed to have suddenly entered a precarious state, yet everyone was even unaware of what had happened.
They would never understand how the cadets of the Royal Knight Academy turned an army into a heap of shreds; in all conventional wisdom, this was a prelude to an army’s collapse—a suicide, and Baron Reld had just minutes earlier made the perfect illustration of this.
But in the blink of an eye, the opponent’s black cavalry had completely obliterated this common understanding.
They did not comprehend—
Just as they failed to understand the profound changes that radio brought to the battlefields after World War I, Brendel was effecting a similar transformation through a different means.
This was not his doing.
Players had even more exquisite means to achieve all this.
But for Brendel, this was already enough.
Amidst the intertwining wind and rain, the young blond man raised his hand high, looking at the wind fairy spider on his hand. He simply tied the paper note onto it before letting the fairy-like creature disappear into the storm.
He turned back, silently looking in the direction where that person stood, his heart burning with fervor.
No one understood better than him what this war taking place in Ampere Seale would undoubtedly change.
This brief clash, lasting no more than a quarter of an hour,
Was destined to be eternally recorded in history.
When Foster withdrew his gaze from the map, he finally recognized that he might have made a mistake. He looked at his subordinates, the young people of the White Lion Legion, who still wore expressions of disbelief.
“My lord, how did they manage to do this?” Someone even had the audacity to ask.
“That’s not the point,” Foster interrupted them with a hint of disappointment. He hoped that the future of the White Lion Legion could be more calm and perceptive. “The key point now is that the Harbor Guard is destined to be defeated, following in Reld’s footsteps within moments.”
The young people paused, then their eyes brightened.
“Alright, it seems you all understand,” Foster then nodded: “Launching ahead of schedule is the moment when the Lion of the Kingdom reveals its claws.”
Everyone straightened.
“Send word to Owen and have him return to his position.”
“Franz, I want to see you and your knights appear at the assigned position on schedule, without any difference.”
“Conne, don your cloak; you can also prepare for action.”
“The Lion of the Empire—”
“Unstoppable!” shouted the knights in unison, all standing at attention, solemnly saluting the commander before turning to leave.
A young man walked past them.
“Commander, an army is crossing through the Dragon Celery Market towards the flank of the Harbor Guard.”
The tent fell silent.
Foster paused slightly, looking back at the giant map, “That’s Karen’s area. What flag are they flying?”
The young man hesitated and did not answer.
“Answer my question, soldier.” Foster questioned seriously.
“It’s the White Lion battle flag… my lord.”
Foster was taken aback.
“Which division’s White Lion battle flag?” he hurriedly queried, almost shouting, “Who acted without my orders?”
“It’s—”
“What is it?”
“It’s the White Lion Legion… the Royal Guard.” The young man stuttered in reply.
“The Royal Guard?” Foster was stunned. Does the White Lion Legion possess such a unit?
…It seems so. It was the designation for that division that followed the late king Eke on his western campaigns, but it had been left vacant forever after his death, established to pay tribute to the ‘Lion’ of Erluin.
Foster’s expression changed.
