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A tall, slender Hols soldier let out a piercing cry. He crouched down, and then sprang straight up into the air. He launched himself high off the ground, thrusting his spear straight toward his terrifying, fully armored enemy. The strike was as fast as lightning, and the enemy's unexpected agility nearly caught Xu Ning off guard. Still, he managed to raise his shield in time, letting the sharp spearhead skid across its smooth surface only for the enemy to twist like a nimble snake and leap upward, grazing the side of Xu Ning's face and knocking loose several rings of chainmail.
His cheek experienced a searing burst of pain from the violent impact, sharp enough to numb the bone beneath it, and his teeth seemed to loosen from the shock. However, no blood came. Meanwhile, the mace in his hand swung out with the momentum of his trotting horse. The Hols soldier hastily pulled his spear back, trying to block with the shaft. However, the hard, ridged head of the mace, forged from modern alloy steel, showed no sign of stopping for mere wood.
With a sharp crack, the mace crashed down onto the man's arm, unstoppable. The narrow lamellar plates protecting his forearm crumpled and bent under the blow. The bone beneath shattered completely with a bone-chilling crunch. The Hols soldier was sent sprawling to the ground by the force of the blow. Before he could scramble to his feet, the next cataphract drove his lance straight down, pinning the soldier to the ground with ease.
A bowman drew back an oversized, fearsome bow. An arrow as thick as a thumb was nocked and aimed squarely at Xu Ning, who was out in front of the charge. The arrowhead, shaped like a long, slender chisel, glinted with a blinding, cold light. With a light release of the fingers, a sharp, shrieking whistle tore through the air, and a slender, black shadow streaked straight toward the thinly armored patch on his neck.
He immediately raised his heavy oak shield, reinforced with double layers of hardened cowhide. It was more than capable of deflecting a slashing blade or a thrusting spear, yet the heavy arrow nearly punched clean through it. The long, sharp arrowhead pierced the shield several centimeters, grazing his armored arm before lodging in place.
A cold sweat broke out instantly across his back, only to be absorbed a moment later by the thick padding of his clothing. He immediately turned his horse around and charged at the archer. Just as the man scrambled to nock another arrow and was caught off guard, Xu Ning brought his weapon down in a single overhead strike, crushing the man's skull. As the massive bow, nearly as tall as a man, began to fall to the ground, a thought struck him. He reached out, scooped up the bow, and hung it from his saddle.
The heavy cavalry rampaged through the ranks of the archers and crossbowmen. At this range, the archers and crossbowmen had little time to draw their bows before the cavalry crashed into their formation. These were extremely powerful weapons even double-armored cataphracts could not withstand more than a few hits but it took too long to draw them. By the time most archers managed to fire a shot, the cavalry had surged past them to the next target. The heavy arrows flew harmlessly out from behind their backs.
Meanwhile, the cataphracts' long swords, chain maces, and flanged rods made short work of the lightly armored archers. With the momentum of their trotting horses behind each swing, some blows were enough to cleave a man in two. Within just a few minutes, more than half of the archers and crossbowmen were dead or wounded. Mangled corpses piled up across the ground, and foul-smelling entrails were trampled into the mud beneath the horses' hooves. The worst off were the wounded who hadn't died yet their wails of agony seemed sharp enough to pierce eardrums.
At last, the remaining small cluster of archers could no longer bear the horrific casualties. Letting out a chorus of wails, they turned and fled toward the ranks behind them. They shoved their comrades desperately, trying to force a path open to escape. But all that awaited these deserters was a storm of blades and axes. They didn't die beneath the cavalry's hooves but were instead cut down by their fellow soldiers.
The commotion in the surrounding area quickly settled down. Layer after layer of heavy infantry converged on the area. They planted their spears in the ground, raising them upright. This formed a dense, bristling wall of spearpoints that glinted with a cold, menacing gleam in the rain. It was like a hedgehog with its quills raised, radiating a heart-stopping sense of danger.
The area where the archers and crossbowmen had once stood was gradually compressed from all sides. Mangled corpses were trampled mercilessly underfoot without hesitation. A commander wearing a tightly sealed helmet watched with a grim expression as the torrent of steel rampaged through the center of the formation.
His helmet had a sleek, streamlined design that extended into a brim-like ridge at the back of his head. It covered nearly his entire face, leaving only a Y-shaped slit for his eyes and the bridge of his nose. The armor he wore was likewise extremely tight and closely fitted, consisting of a thick, densely woven layer of chainmail beneath a shell of hardened leather armor that showed not the slightest hint of bulkiness or heaviness. Instead, it clung snugly to his body, lending him an agility that heavy armor should not possess.
Amid the falling rain, the feather-adorned standard poles shifted their patterns, the individual feathers seeming to take on a life of their own as they rose and fell, opened and closed, arranging their colored and colorless sides into one signal after another. Meanwhile, the heavy infantry continued to close in on the center, compressing the open space that the cavalry relied on to build speed and robbing the rampaging cataphracts of their initial overwhelming power.
It seemed as though it wouldn't be much longer before the cataphracts found themselves trapped with no escape. Yet, the commander betrayed not the slightest flicker of positive emotion. In fact, his face remained just as grim as before, his thin lips pressed tightly together and a cold, vicious glint flashing in his narrow, upturned eyes.
Two elaborately armored guards dragged a man dressed in ornate, luxurious garments forward. This powerful, high-ranking Hols nobleman received not the slightest shred of the respect he might have expected.
The guards hauled him along as one might drag a fattened pig from its pen. His once fine, resplendent robes had already accumulated a thick layer of mud and filth. From time to time, the guards struck him savagely with their halberds. By the time he arrived before the commander, he was in a wretched state, resembling a pig rolling in mire.
"Tuo Losifen... I have no wish to utter your full name, as to do so would be an insult to my tongue."
The commander turned around, his face devoid of expression as he stared down at the trembling man prostrate on the ground before him. Without warning, he lashed out with a powerful kick. The blow caught the man square in the nose, sending blood pouring over the toe of his boot. The man was left writhing and thrashing on the ground, letting out a wretched wail of pain.
"Because of your swinish, idiotic decision, we lost every last one of our archers and light cavalry. They could have served us a far greater purpose. Yet, because of you, they were easily destroyed by human cataphracts. I swear upon Effas even flaying every inch of skin from your body would not quell my fury! How should I deal with you?"
The commander ground his teeth and tore the man's helmet off, revealing short, flaxen hair and long, pointed ears. Reaching out, he grabbed a fistful of the man's slightly curled hair and yanked hard, forcing his head up and exposing a face streaked with tears, snot, and blood.
"My Lord! My Lord! Please, have mercy. Spare my life, I beg you. I'm willing to pay any price to make up for my mistake. I'll give up all my wealth and titles."
The commander gave his hand a violent yank. With a piercing shriek, a fistful of flaxen hair came away in his grip. Blood was already welling rapidly from the man's scalp. He then reached out and seized the man's long, pointed ear. With just the slightest pressure, he snapped the cartilage, tearing through skin and flesh and ripping it away with a spray of blood.
"Your stupidity has exceeded even my imagination! Does a maggot-ridden wretch like you, crawling out of rotten flesh, truly believe you'll still hold onto your wealth after this?!”
The commander's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, but he stopped himself. A far better punishment had just occurred to him.
"Guards! Strip this man of his armor, hand him a pitchfork, and put him in the first rank. If you manage to live through today, I will pardon your crimes."
Amid the nobleman's loud, wailing sobs, the guards stripped him of every last piece of his armor and clothing, leaving him in a pair of white trousers. Just as his bare feet touched the muddy earth, a rusted pitchfork was flung before him.
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