"Kill them all! Seize the goods!"
The bandit leader roared, brandishing his long saber. His subordinates burst forward, their battle aura flaring as they charged with high morale and ferocity.
The slaves and serfs screamed in terror, dropping their rations and tools, scattering in every direction like startled birds. The soldiers, caught off guard, frantically drew their weapons, trying to form a line of defense. But arrows rained down mercilessly. Some didn't raise their shields in time and were pierced through the shoulder, crying out in pain as they fell.
Yorn jolted awake. His wooden bowl crashed to the ground, shattering. He stared around at the unfolding chaos, bewildered and terrified.
He had been casually bragging and drinking porridge. How had everything gone to hell so fast?
The knights quickly surrounded Yorn, swords drawn and shields raised. Silver-white battle aura shimmered along their blades. Their warhorses neighed and reared as they galloped forward to meet the attackers head-on.
"Engage!"
Two knights took the lead, their battle aura bursting forth from their hands. Their blades glowed faintly with power as they cleaved toward the bandits charging at them.
With a flash of sword qi, two enemies were sent flying, their blood spraying across the muddy mountain path. But these bandits were far from ordinary thugs—many were berserkers trained in battle aura techniques.
A towering bandit leader let out a guttural roar, wielding a massive axe enveloped in dark-blue battle aura. With one powerful swing, he sent a knight and his horse crashing to the ground in a heap.
The warhorse let out a shrill cry as it fell. The knight's armor split open under the impact, blood seeping from the cracks as he groaned in agony.
Both sides were now locked in a brutal melee. Flashes of battle aura lit up the night, reflecting off blood-smeared faces twisted in rage and desperation.
Yorn struggled to stay calm, trying to issue commands, but the situation was rapidly spinning out of control.
Despite the knights' courage and discipline, they were outnumbered. The bandits attacked with ferocious coordination, quickly punching holes in the defensive line.
"Damn it!"
Yorn watched, helpless, as a knight was cleaved down by the bandit leader. The same brute then charged straight at Yorn, bloodthirsty intent in his eyes.
Yorn's heart pounded. What's going on?! Why are these bandits so strong?!
Their movements were sharp, their attacks ruthless, and their objective chillingly clear.
"Boss! This kid looks valuable!" a bandit shouted. "Should we take him alive for ransom?"
"Keep him? For what?" the bandit leader spat. "The order was to bring him back and sacrifice him!"
Yorn froze in terror. A sacrifice?
Was his glorious journey going to end like this?
Boom!
A thunderous noise echoed from the distant mountain path.
Heavy hoofbeats followed, drawing nearer by the second. Roars and war cries rang out from the mist.
"Charge!"
Yorn looked up. From the path ahead, a squad of heavily armed knights burst onto the scene like a thunderbolt.
They struck with explosive force, slicing into the bandit ranks without hesitation.
Leading them was Louis, his black hair flowing in the wind, commanding from the rear like a storm god descending.
To Yorn, he looked like a hero riding on clouds, and he nearly burst into tears of joy.
"Boss! You're here?!" Yorn screamed, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Louis didn't even glance at him. His eyes were fixed on the battlefield.
"Attack!" he ordered calmly.
Unlike Yorn's unprepared group, Louis's knights were a polished, elite unit. They had trained together for months, their coordination flawless. They hadn't rushed in blindly but had waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike—when the enemy's guard was down and Yorn's men were nearly broken.
Their entrance turned the tide instantly.
"Kill!"
Battle aura flared across the charging knights. Like thunder rolling over the hills, they cut through the bandit formation with terrifying efficiency.
Dozens of warhorses thundered forward. Swords clashed, spears pierced, and blood flew like rain.
A bandit barely raised his weapon before a spear blazing with battle aura impaled him cleanly, nailing him to the muddy ground.
Nearby, Lambert let out a battle cry and unleashed a wide arc of sword qi, sending three or four enemies flying.
Their mangled bodies tumbled in the air, crashing into the dirt in a heap of limbs and gore.
The bandits, caught off guard and unprepared, barely had time to react. Some couldn't even activate their battle aura before being cut down.
The rest panicked, trying to flee—but it was too late.
Cavalry had already encircled them. A few tried to sprint into the woods, but the horses were faster. Before they got far, spears pierced them from behind, ending their escape.
Louis's knights did not waste time. Their momentum never faltered. With every swing of the sword or thrust of the spear, another bandit dropped.
They weren't fighting—they were harvesting. Death moved with them like a shadow.
"Damn you!"
The last bandit leader standing roared, his dark-blue aura surging wildly. He swung his massive axe in a desperate arc.
But several knights moved in unison. Their swords clashed against the axe, while their shields slammed into him, forcing him back.
In the next instant, a cold blade slipped through his defenses. Blood burst from his chest as his eyes went wide in disbelief.
He collapsed, lifeless.
With their leaders slain, the bandits' will to fight completely crumbled.
The battle ended as suddenly as it had begun.
Yorn stood trembling, hardly believing what had just happened. It felt like a nightmare had passed through and vanished in minutes.
Louis remained on his warhorse, eyes scanning the battlefield with calm detachment.
All enemies were either dead or captured.
Roughly twenty survivors remained—captured bandits bound tightly, many bleeding, all glaring with unyielding hatred.
Lambert stepped up beside Louis and whispered, "Confirmed. They're all members of the Snowsworn."
Louis narrowed his eyes.
The Snowsworn.
He had heard of them. A rebel group born in the frozen lands of the North.
Their ancestors had once been warriors of the Snow Country. After the Empire's conquest, their royal court was destroyed, their royal family wiped out.
The survivors had retreated to the wilderness, hiding, brooding, building strength. They had sworn to take revenge—blood for blood.
"So it was them," Louis muttered, deep in thought. He strode slowly toward the prisoners.
The bound rebels glared with burning hatred.
"Dogs of the Empire… You will pay, one day. Every last one of you!"
"Kill us! Your end is coming too! This land will become your grave!"
"You bastards! May you all die wretched deaths!"
One prisoner suddenly spat bloody phlegm at Louis's feet.
A knight stepped forward, enraged. He kicked the prisoner over and pressed his sword to his neck. "Watch your mouth!"
Even so, none of the captives flinched. Their eyes burned with unwavering hatred.
Louis stood still, watching them silently.
These weren't just bandits. They had been raised in hatred, molded by it. They would never submit. Never repent.
Keeping them alive would only invite future disaster.
Without hesitation, he raised his hand and gave the order.
"Execute them all."
The knights nodded grimly. They dragged the captives away, one by one.
Blades flashed. Blood ran into the muddy soil.
The cries faded.
Silence returned to the mountain pass.
FOR MORE CHAPTERS
patreon.com/Johnybairstow