As soon as Arno’s forces exited the city, the sentries dispatched by Luos sounded the alarm. The long blast of the horn gave the knights in the camp ample time to arm themselves.

  Nearly forty to fifty minutes later, both sides could discern the moles on each other’s faces with the naked eye.

  Luos looked at the motley crowd before him, and even his habitual caution could not suppress the sneer of contempt that crossed his face. Peasants worse than mere apprentices rode unarmored horses of every description, jostling haphazardly in disarray. Commoners lacking even metal armor had strapped simple wooden planks to their chests as makeshift armor, standing in chaotic, unorganized clusters. Facing such an enemy, Luos truly believed that 300 knights, not 500, would be sufficient to annihilate them in the open field.

  "Baron Arno is a fool," Luos said, the tension in his shoulders dissolving at the sight. "He abandons his greatest advantage—the protection of fortifications—and chooses the most ill-suited form of warfare to prove his foolhardy courage. I respect his bravery, but I will laugh at his stupidity."

  Previously, he had fretted over how to attack a military fortress with limited cavalry, a single troop type, and no logistical support. Now, the city lord named Arno had resolved that problem for him by foolishly leading his forces into the open.

  Luos clapped the shoulder of the short knight beside him. "Prepare yourself. You’ll be the key today. Deliver a crushing blow to them and teach that upstart from the capital that in Bell Province, he must learn respect."

  The short knight nodded and swung onto a powerful warhorse, which stamped its hooves restlessly, unaccustomed to its new rider.

  Over four hundred knights quickly formed a triangular formation under the short knight’s lead, each leveling a lance. Facing the dense enemy ranks of over two thousand men, the short knight curled his lips into a cruel smile. He intended to avenge his fallen warhorse, washing away the shame of the arrows that had pierced him with enemy blood. He yanked his visor down, clamped his legs tightly, and the unfamiliar mount jolted forward, then began to accelerate.

  He lowered his body until he almost clung to the horse’s back, holding his lance level with the tip slightly downward. His roar split the battlefield: "Break through!"

  The pressure of over four hundred charging knights caused a ripple of unease in the motley ranks before them. Behind his visor, the short knight smiled faintly—a smile of merciless superiority, the mark of a conqueror.

  Blair swung his sword twice, the knights behind him lacking experience in large-scale formations. In this moment, he must stand as their anchor, a pillar of resolve. Taking a deep breath, he jerked the reins, and his warhorse shot forward like an arrow, the knights following closely.

  From an aerial view, the two forces collided like a steel arrowhead slamming into a storm cloud. Horses and riders tumbled in a chaotic heap. The romance of a cavalry charge was nowhere to be found—imagine over seven hundred motorcycles crashing at speeds exceeding fifty miles per hour. No true "breakthrough" was possible here.

  In war, courage and morale outweigh tactical finesse, especially in the age of cold steel. When two thousand attackers scale a wall and only three hundred survive, does it owe anything to the commander’s skill? No—it relies on the raw, collective bravery of individuals.

  If Blair had hesitated during the charge, even for an instant, or shifted his course, the belief in victory of the knights behind him would have crumbled. They would have reverted to individual thinking, avoiding the enemy’s edge, and the infantry following would have lost their courage, fleeing in turn. That would have resulted in the very "breakthrough" the enemy sought.

  When the two groups clashed, Blair parried a lance with a sweep of his sword, and his warhorse collided violently with the short knight’s mount. Both horses let out mournful cries and collapsed, their necks shattered by the impact.

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  Blair did not yield, and neither did the knights of Pramisburg. The course of the battle took an unexpected turn: the Bohr knights failed to achieve the "breakthrough" ordered by the short knight. Instead, they slammed into a wall of defiant resistance. In the first moment of contact, nearly a hundred men from both sides were hurled from their saddles. Some, agile and quick, dodged the stampede of horses behind; others, dazed and disoriented, were unable to rise and had their skulls crushed under hooves.

  From the very first moment of contact, the battle devolved into a brutal melee.

  Cavalry without the power of momentum were no match for infantry in close combat. The unyielding collision transformed the engagement from a battle of cavalry versus rabble into a slog of infantry versus infantry.

  There was no place for chivalry on this battlefield; no knightly mentor would teach such foolhardy ideals. War’s ultimate purpose is to serve politics, and this process is called slaughter—pure, unadulterated slaughter, with no room for one-on-one duels. The advantage of numbers now became overwhelmingly clear.

  Facing these knights who had dismounted, the commoners of Pramisburg wielded multiple weapons: block one sword, and another would thrust through. A knight’s full plate armor protected most of their body, but the joints were never perfectly sealed.

  From the start, this was never an equal war.

  Luos had underestimated the courage of these peasants and commoners, as well as their burning desire for victory.

  He had also overlooked the true limitations of his five hundred knights.

  They might defeat two or three enemies each, but battle was never a simple arithmetic equation.

  Luos’ face darkened, then paled as he watched. The knuckles of his sword hand turned bone-white, and his neglected gums began to bleed from the force of his clenched teeth.

  "Lord, should we recall the knights?" Luos’ adjutant asked cautiously.

  Luos shot him a withering glare. "Is this your first battle?" he snapped, forcing himself to calm down. "Retreat now, and those rabble will gleefully butcher our men. Since their fate is sealed, make them pay a heavy price. Lord Terman will avenge them, and when I return, it will be with overwhelming force."

  Watching the dwindling resistance in the sea of enemies, Luos wheeled his horse and whipped it into a gallop. His only thought now was to escape this place and return with a larger, more balanced army to avenge this disgrace.

  On the battlefield, all resistance had been crushed except for the short knight, who stood alone, clutching a two-handed sword as broad as a door, his body trembling. Each breath sent a searing pain through his chest. Three gashes split his breastplate, and blood oozed out, already darkening as it oxidized. His eyes, like those of a wounded wolf, stared into despair.

  Around him, the people of Pramisburg formed a ring. They had already lost over a dozen lives to this formidable knight. Experience had taught them that dealing with such a warrior required handing him over to Blair, unless they were willing to suffer heavier casualties.

  Blair, covered in dirt and dust, looked every bit the bedraggled warrior. The short knight’s strength had exceeded his calculations. Their earlier skirmish at the city gates had been superficial; this was their first true confrontation.

  "Surrender," Blair said, the flaming aura around his sword intensifying, contrasting sharply with the dim yellow glow of the short knight’s two-handed sword. Glancing at the distant high ground, he sneered. "Even Luos has fled. What do you persist for? Your death will be nothing but a trivial pension in the Bohr family’s eyes. Only in life can you find glory and realize your dreams."

  "Your words are as hateful as your sword," the short knight replied, his helmet long since knocked away by Blair’s sword. He spat, creating a small crater in the dirt. "The glory of the Bohr family cannot be tarnished by surrender. In Westflow City, there are only those who die in battle—no cowards who kneel to survive!"

  Blair did not reply, instead swinging his sword in a powerful arc. As the short knight raised his two-handed sword to block, several swords thrust through the gaps in the armor on his side.

  The short knight coughed up blood, summoning all his strength to batter aside Blair’s blade. Staggering backward, he drove his sword into the earth, clinging to the hilt to remain standing. His fierce, sharp gaze gradually dimmed.

  Blair sheathed his sword, and a profound silence fell over the battlefield.

  "Cleanse the battlefield!" he ordered.

  Only then did the people of Pramisburg seem to wake from a trance.

  Had they won?

  Had they defeated the knights of the Bohr family?

  The Bohr family, so entrenched and respected in Bell Province?

  Over the bodies of the fallen, over ground soaked in blood, cheers erupted, resounding to the heavens.

  In the distance, Luos stared gloomily at the female swordswoman on the main road, a faint smile on her lips. Her sword was coated in a thick layer of frost.