Chapter 571: Act 318 – The Battle of Saintly White II
The sunlight refracted on Ampere Seale’s ivory-white Lionheart Street, a road initially constructed in the year of the first era’s Month of Death (Chaos. 1437), when the high priest Charlesman wrote: “The long street shimmers like snow, as if leading to the celestial ladder of the saints.”
Four hundred sixty-five years ago, the White Lion army was reviewed by the late monarch Eke on this long street; yet today, after four hundred sixty-five years, they stand again upon this land.
The pikes shine, their armor bright as snow.
“The enemy is here.”
Sir Franz stands on the makeshift battlefield, watching rows of silver-white spearheads appear on the horizon across Lionheart Street. The corners of his mouth droop slightly, and a cold light shines in his eyes.
If the enemy is the White Lion, then what am I? The failure of Karlen is still fresh in his mind as he slowly raises his right hand, fingers together, slicing through the morning wind like a blade.
But Karlen was merely a fool.
The White Lion creed says to fight until death; yet whoever the enemy, the legion shall defeat them—true or false, the outcome will be revealed beneath the sword’s edge. This is a blood-stained blade; words of praise are anything but empty rhetoric; Sir Franz looks up at the White Lion battle flag, a fortress forged from the blood of friends and foes alike, yet how could the youth understand?
He never believed this kingdom could have an army that could defeat today’s White Lion legion; no other legions could, nor could the past White Lion guards. Denying today is to betray history; Sir Franz would never forget those who died in the wars of November.
Their blood will certainly not be shed in vain.
Thus today he will prove all this with swords and longbows—henceforth, the White Lion army shall forever stand upon this land, and their banner will never fade. And today, the fate of the people cannot be shackled by history.
Not everyone is burdened to live heavily under yesterday’s ideals; merely existing is a form of pride.
History speaks through strength.
“Prepare—”
The command, laced with a thick accent from the northern highlands, rides on the wind.
Behind Sir Franz, the light infantry of the kingdom’s White Lion army steps forward, forming a grayish-white wall, raising their longbows in unison. The iron tips of their bows glisten under the sunlight, forming a shimmering line.
The commanding officer squints to estimate the distance.
The archers of the kingdom’s White Lion army hold their breath, aligning their heartbeats with the coordination of their hands and eyes.
The officer finally nods.
“Distance one hundred paces, no wind—”
“Distance one hundred paces, no wind—”
Sir Franz raised his hand high like a flag, sharply slicing forward:
“Loose!”
Buzz—
The air seems to be sucked away, the bowstrings vibrating at an ultra-low frequency. The arrows are released; the three hundred archers of the White Lion legion fire simultaneously, then, as if in slow motion, each reaches back to pull another arrow from their quivers…
In an instant.
The sky is filled with arrows like locusts.
The gaze of the young officer cadets of the Royal Knights Academy follows the ascending arrows, the orderly cavalry line creating ripples like water disturbed. Brendel observes coldly—having experienced numerous wars, he knows that while a mass volley of longbows is not the deadliest way to inflict casualties, it’s a monumental test of the army’s quality.
Many battles in Erluin have shown that when a poorly trained army faces concentrated ranged attacks, morale plummets. Humans instinctively seek a way out of peril; fear and desperation tear apart formations and lead to flight.
But war is the process of overcoming instinct.
“Maintain speed!”
“Maintain speed!”
Mikko, Brensen, and even Locka shout hoarsely, as the cadets manage their steeds and raise small shields.
Kammer takes a light breath in the saddle, his gray-brown eyes fixed tightly on the ever-rising arrows, his head tilting back.
Having already fought several times, this is, however, their first real face-off on the main battlefield. The clash has no tactical requirements—it’s merely a contest of raw combat will.
And their opponents are no longer the easily defeated port guard—but the grim-faced, coordinated warriors of the White Lion legion clad in gray and white armor.
The kingdom’s most elite warriors—
Swish—
The rain of arrows descends, causing all mounted knights to lean back slightly, arrows clattering to the ground around them. Those arrows begin to deform slightly before even reaching them—a barely visible golden light extends along the path of the arrows. By the time the arrows breach this light and strike, they’ve lost much of their might.
“It’s magic!”
“It’s a conflict aura… there are Temple knights among the enemy ranks!” A scream goes up from the White Lion legion.
Kammer feels a moment of blankness as the arrow strikes; as he shakes his head up to look, he sees the vanguard of the infantry wearing white heavy armor breaking away from the main force amidst the rain of arrows.
They are taking the fire…
Kammer gulps hard, suddenly feeling a dryness in his throat.
Brendel, sword raised, his gaze resolute, remains fixed on the northern noble’s position, waiting for an opportunity, which is now fast approaching.
At last, he raises his sword, using every ounce of strength to roar:
“White Lion guards, heed my command, crush all your enemies!”
“You are born of glory, so spread your wings and embrace your victory—”
“Regardless of who stands as enemy, the legion shall prevail!”
The sword of the earth points toward the skies, as if a flag is flying. The White Lion guards let out a collective roar, shaking the heavens and earth, changing the faces of their enemies.
In just a few seconds, the archers of the White Lion legion have already loosed four volleys of arrows. The flying arrows sweep across every inch of terrain within the short distance of less than one hundred meters, their long-range capabilities are not particularly strong, but that is relatively speaking.
It was utterly meaningless.
Sir Franz watches in shock as the holy-white army forges ahead unimpeded, the White Lion battle flag persevering through the storm of arrows.
All firepower focused on them yields no fruit; the sharpest arrows cannot come within a foot of their bodies, a layer of soft azure light naturally deflecting the arrows.
The archers switch between hunter’s arrows and various shapes of piercing arrows, yet none achieve results.
On the contrary, the enemy is accelerating.
Faster than galloping horses.
Sir Franz feels a chill in his body; he has seen the Cruzian Broken Sword Legion atop the highlands, witnessed Saint Ausoor’s Stag Guards in the November War, and the army before him pulls him back into that nightmare.
One in ten survives.
The blood spilled in that war seems to have stained his vision red.
“Bring up the mages!” Sir Franz nearly grits out, sweat beading on his forehead.
“My lord, the mages are still behind!”
Sir Franz leads the first swordsmen of the kingdom’s White Lion army’s Jude battalion—this light infantry’s objective is to swiftly maneuver to cut off the princess’s party from behind.
He brings a volley of archers and a light infantry battalion to the location, barely enough time to regroup before they engage. He originally thought plaguing two hundred of the enemy with five hundred men would be completely acceptable.
But now he feels nothing but regret for underestimating them. Sir Franz closes his eyes: “Hurry, bring Knight Nicolo to support, summon the Temple for assistance!”
“Damn it, how can there be Temple knights among the enemy ranks?! Those damn Cruz people, they truly have no honor…”
He turns around.
But the enemy must be blocked, even if it costs dearly.
“Archers retreat, switch to longswords! White Lion infantry, advance—”
Behind the archers, longspears rise like a forest.
But it’s already too late; the White Lion guards have reached the forefront.
This army, as if emerging from legend, is truly about to spread their wings and embrace victory; the azure lines swirling around their armor seem to have come to life, stretching outward.
In an instant, behind every warrior of the White Lion guards extend a pair of wings nearly ten meters wide.
Ah!
The infantry of the kingdom’s White Lion army, just set their pikes, gawked as their enemies suddenly lifted off the ground—this was not flying, but something far more terrifying—they leaped high, soaring nearly twenty meters, instantly reaching above the kingdom’s White Lion army’s formation.
Isn’t this the tactic of the Wind Elf Guards? As Sir Franz looks up, his mind goes blank.
This would also be the last thought of his life.
In mid-air, the pikes rain down. One spear with overwhelming force penetrates his heart even before he can react. At the moment of his death, the leader of the Kingdom’s White Lion army’s first swordsman retains that look of utter astonishment.
Shock.
Unwillingness.
And disbelief.
The White Lion army, leaving behind a sea of corpses, begins to retreat—not in panic, but in formation.
Lower-ranked officers seize command from Sir Franz; though morale has greatly plummeted, they still must complete the final mission of this legion.
The White Lion legion, to death shall rest.
Carglis is greatly troubled by this scene; perhaps the kingdom’s White Lion army is not the strongest, but undoubtedly the most tenacious. The glory backing them ensures they will not retreat, yet they also have only one chance and cannot afford to let the enemy entangle them.
More than three swordsman battalions of the White Lion army are executing a flanking maneuver; even a brief delay becomes the difference between heaven and hell.
As he and his trusted knights land, they simultaneously make the same decision—forward. They must tear through the enemy’s formation, opening a pathway for the knight cadets behind.
The youth from Duke Toniger’s domain are almost reckless, but they face the same fearsome opposition; their fierce sword skills only create a tide of blood among the crowd. But their rate of advancement is insufficient, far from enough.
Carglis draws the Lion’s Blade, nearly blinded by rage, shouting: “Push through them! Even if you must clash, forge a path through blood. Listen! Only forward; retreat is not permitted!”
“Aro!” Everyone is blinded by bloodlust.
The White Lion guards abandon all defense, almost brutally pushing through the sea of soldiers, knowing that while the kingdom’s White Lion army’s attacks are practically harmless to them, those undeterred soldiers cling to their arms and legs, preventing any forward movement.
Carglis bears the brunt of the assailants alone; in just a moment of combat, he feels he is reaching his limit, breathing heavily as white mist condenses under his helmet’s visor. The White Lion guards finally start to take casualties, some ending up pinned below the soldiers of the kingdom’s White Lion army, a sword piercing them to the ground.
But the cost isn’t without consequence.
The line of the kingdom’s White Lion army’s first swordsman battalion is finally beginning to give.
Kammer suddenly hears cheers in his ears; left and right, the cavalry formations begin to spread out, forming a thinner, broader shock formation.
They are about to charge, he suddenly thinks. As expected, squads of knights are accelerating on the flanks, raising their banners up front.
Kammer identifies those knights— the silver elf Lady Knight, the red-haired “Demon” Miss—mountaineers believe that people with red hair share the bloodline of demons, and Kammer is no exception, especially as Xi’s fighting style is notoriously fierce.
Then come the three knights of Count Yanbao. Kammer can’t help but linger a moment over that lady knight. Close behind are Bruglas’s Brensen, senior Locka, and the stern Mikko.
Under their lead, the cavalry forms a crescent shape, gradually accelerating from a trot to a gallop.
The ground trembles, rumbling like thunder.
Kammer hears someone nearby roaring: “Accelerate! Accelerate!”
“We’ve entered their optimum range!”
“If you want to live, don’t stop!”
“Cavalry, accelerate, maintain formation!”
Before Kammer can react, he feels a bump. He turns to see a black figure rush by him, raising his gaze, only to see a fluttering black cloak.
And the raised, wide, dark sword blade.
The Earth Sword Harangea.
It is “Commander.”
That is the term the cadets use for him; Kammer gapes, unable to believe that he is charging forth. In their imaginations, Brendel ought to be a strategist, not a knight in the front lines.
But just as he is astonished, he sees another slender figure keeping pace with the Commander—Sir Overwell, the Lone Wolf, a name that has long echoed through the kingdom; the kingdom’s elder—Sir Overwell is joining in the charge?
What glory this is…
But who is truly glorified?
Before Kammer can voice anything, one knight after another overtakes him and positions themselves beside Brendel, starting with the mercenary knights of Lubis, seasoned fighters clustering around their lord, making Brendel appear as if he is a king out hunting.
Brendel soon answers Kammer’s unspoken thoughts through action.
The line of the kingdom’s White Lion army’s first swordsman battalion is finally beginning to give.
The opportunity is at hand.
Brendel draws back his gaze from both sides; to his left is Sir Overwell and Nemeses, and to his right are Charles, Husher, Andrigraphis, and Medephis.
These are his comrades.
What it means to be a comrade.
They are of one mind and spirit.
He knows that some among them have shared hardships with him in this world, while others have fought beside him in another segment of history; yet, these two histories seem to converge at this moment.
It is within reach, from either perspective. The wind whistles past his ears, as if carrying a voice— the long flute melody of Karasu.
That melody floats above the battlefield.
That year, the enemy they confronted was the endless army of Madara. Just like now, directly ahead, knights adjusted their helmets and exchanged farewells as they prepared for one final charge against the enemy.
Before them lay countless cold, emotionless deaths, flickering like phosphorescent lights.
At that moment, history and reality overlapped.
Then, let’s charge.
He raises his sword and leads the way. The cloak billows, resembling a black flame. Buche, Ridenburg, Madara—all left behind, ahead lies an endless future.
History has been changed.
The cavalry behind him roars, forming three unstoppable barbed spears. Their names are the officer cadets of the Royal Knights Academy, the names are the kingdom’s White Lion guards, their name is—Erluin’s young future.
In the instant that the colossal trident pierces through the line of the northern nobles’ White Lion legion, this supposedly indomitable legion finally crumbled.
The cavalry screams, shrieks, and the sound of the long horns echoes like a great hand sweeping across the battlefield, carrying the victory of all forward, ever forward.
The encirclement of the White Lion legion has split open.
This breach ultimately tore apart one of the darkest corners of Erluin’s history. When Grand Knight Nicolo led the reinforcements, he arrived pale-faced, witnessing the crumbling part of the White Lion legion—an image he had never seen in his life.
Then he saw a black flame sweeping away from the defeated soldiers.
Beneath that flame stood a young man, his eyes resolute as steel, and the sharp blade in his hand. Grand Knight Nicolo drew his long sword; what a Temple knight he was, surrounded by a golden halo radiating outward.
Another Temple knight.
Kammer sees in real time as their commander crosses paths with that Temple knight, not even having time to alert anyone—that was the holy knight of the Temple; he even recognizes the other—Grand Knight Nicolo, one of the few golden-tier masters of the Ampere Seale Temple.
But all Kammer sees is a series of fleeting shadows, alongside Grand Knight Nicolo’s severed head soaring high.
“Ah…”
He cannot even find his voice. All officer cadets of the Royal Knights Academy stand utterly stunned. What kind of swordsmanship is this? Mere human language cannot describe a fraction of it.
The first swordsman battalion of the White Lion legion has collapsed.
On the battlefield, a death vortex seems to form; Grand Knight Nicolo’s men are swept into it and quickly crushed to pieces.
Yet Brendel presses on, the young knight sweeping through the flank of the White Lion legion’s third swordsman battalion, then cutting through the freshly arrived and still forming fourth swordsman battalion. Conn dies in battle, Owen is severely wounded.
Their morale soars.
Ampere Seale’s northern city gate barracks—
Baltar stares blankly at the report in his hand; everything on it conveys a single message: the princess and her Royal Knights Academy cadets have broken through.
He lifts his head stiffly.
High Priest Wood’s face is as dark as water. “The growth of the young man far exceeds our expectations. It seems we old folks must step up.”
Reld nods and turns to push open the door and leave.
…
(PS: My cousin gave birth to a baby yesterday, I went to visit today and only managed to get this chapter written out in the afternoon. Hehe, I didn’t expect I’d also become an uncle~) (To be continued. If you enjoy this work, please support me with recommendation and monthly votes on qidian.com; your support is my greatest motivation.)
