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Chapter 54: Breakthrough
The gargoyle slammed into the soft riverbank, skidding more than ten meters before finally coming to a halt. Such an impact was nothing more than a scratch for these stone-skinned creatures, but it left Brandon and his wizard squire in quite the disarray.
As soon as they hit the ground, the surrounding noble mercenaries became ecstatic, charging toward the riverbank en masse. Though they were nothing more than a ragtag bunch, the sight of a cavalry charge was still formidable. Chael, shaking off the mud as he rose to his feet, was startled by the scene. He immediately asked, "My lord, what do we do?"
Brandon pulled his leg free from the muck and drew his sword, shouting, "What else? Put up a wall!"
This was one of the oldest and most classic tactics used by Eruin's wizards against cavalry charges. Later strategies evolved from this foundation because it was particularly effective against poorly trained horsemen.
The young wizard understood at once. Pointing forward with his ruby, he intoned, "Halt, counterforce, construct the wall—" Countless lines radiated outward from the gemstone, forming the shape of a wall. Then the lines vanished, leaving behind a solid barrier of compressed air.
The charging mercenaries had no idea what had just happened. Only a few seasoned fighters with experience battling wizards veered to the sides. Their leader, Marcaru, shouted for his men to turn, but amidst the thunderous hooves, no one heard him.
The first row of riders crashed headlong into the air wall. Horses collapsed to their knees, throwing their riders forward into the invisible barrier. The second row collided into the first, the momentum crushing them together. The third row followed, and this time the air wall shattered under the force, sending a heap of bodies—both human and equine—sliding across the muddy ground until they came to rest at Brandon and Chael’s feet.
It all happened in an instant. The sheer ferocity of the collision forced even Brandon and Chael to take a step back involuntarily.
Marcaru cursed loudly behind them. A veteran soldier like him could tell at a glance that the first row of seven riders was beyond saving, and several in the second row would be severely injured. Those in the third row were too dazed to rejoin the fight anytime soon, not to mention their horses were wounded to varying degrees.
In one fell swoop, twenty or thirty men were incapacitated. How could Marcaru not feel the sting of loss?
The mercenary captain spat in frustration, hastily bandaging his bleeding palm before drawing his saber and charging ahead. There were still seven or eight cavalrymen left on the field—all experienced veterans. He needed to rally them to suppress the enemy until reinforcements arrived.
Every mercenary knew what it meant to let a wizard unleash their full potential.
Marcaru swung his saber twice to signal his intentions, urging his men to spread out and flank the enemy from multiple directions. But inwardly, he seethed. These mercenaries were battle-hardened warriors, each at least possessing lower-tier Black Iron strength, yet here they were, cowering and holding back when it mattered most.
"Follow me! Charge together!" Despite his anger, Marcaru knew he had to rally these men.
What he didn’t know was that the young man across from him had been observing him for some time now. Brandon watched the Anlek warhorse galloping back and forth at the edge of the fray, its rider shouting orders, and deduced that this must be their leader. He couldn’t help but think disdainfully, I’ve fought mercenaries before; there’s no need to hide your intentions so clumsily.
With a scoff, Brandon turned to Chael, placing a hand on his shoulder. Pointing at the mounted figure ahead, he said, "See that man? Use magic arrows to support my attack on him."
Chael shook his head quickly. "He’s on horseback—I won’t be able to aim accurately."
"It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about missing. If one shot doesn’t land, fire more."
"That’s manageable," Chael replied confidently.
Brandon turned back to focus on the seven or eight knights nearby, resting his hand on the elven blade to steady himself. He watched as the mercenary captain circled his riders once before raising his saber high and leading the charge. Brandon understood—he intended to rally the others into a coordinated assault.
Thirty meters.
Twenty meters.
But Brandon had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Suddenly, his sword flashed, and a gust of wind pressure swept outward. Marcaru, seeing the transparent ripple spreading along the ground, realized the danger as debris erupted wherever it passed. Though unfamiliar with royal swordsmanship, he instinctively leaped off his mount just in time.
No sooner had he risen into the air than Brandon’s sword wave sliced through the legs of the towering Anlek warhorse. The mighty steed collapsed, its limbs severed, rolling onto the ground.
Marcaru gasped mid-air, his mind racing to a single word: Energy Slash.
Before he could finish the thought, a streak of white light pierced through the air, striking him in the chest. A second bolt hit his left shoulder, a third struck his abdomen, and a fourth grazed past him. Marcaru’s body twisted three times in rapid succession before being flung far away, landing lifelessly in the sand.
This sudden turn of events caused the remaining riders to pull up short. It wasn’t Marcaru’s death that shocked them—it was the energy slash. Temple Knight? The mercenaries paled, speculating about the identity of this fearsome young man.
"Not bad aim," Brandon remarked, sheathing his sword.
"Heh, that’s all thanks to you, my lord," Chael grinned.
Brandon chuckled softly, lifting his gaze. Though the enemy was momentarily stunned, he knew better than to relax. Over a hundred noble mercenaries armed with spears were still advancing steadily.
Taking a deep breath, he mentally reviewed his plan. Staring northward, he realized their only chance of breaking through lay in that direction—but whether he could seize it remained uncertain. With a decisive gesture, he commanded, "Gargoyle, wstry (Wizard Tongue: Advance Forward)!"
If I can’t issue an attack command, a movement order will have to suffice, Brandon thought grimly.
.......
Meanwhile, Lord Ceberus stood atop the high ground overlooking the chaos, his expression growing increasingly dark. Though these weren’t elite troops, they were still his paid forces—and Marcaru, in particular, had been one of his fiercest captains. Crude as he may have been, his martial prowess was undeniable.
"Highland Knights are truly unmatched," Sir Burnley, the industrialist, remarked with a sly smile. "I doubted the rumors of the White Knights’ combat strength, but it seems they hold true."
"This does not bode well for Earl Duane. Let’s see if that ‘Tiger’ dares take on this scorching hot potato. Even if he retrieves the dead, it won’t benefit us—not to mention we haven’t seen the two women yet."
"What puzzles me is why that fellow killed the jester. If he truly was Buchi’s militiaman, taking him hostage would have been a better strategy. What a waste—he might have been useful." Burnley feigned a sigh, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.
"Rushing to pick sides isn’t always wise. There’s still much to see between the Royal Family and the White Mane Legion. But this young man… either he’s an assassin, or he has other motives. If he’s killing indiscriminately, then that sword of his raises questions—" Lord Ceberus gripped the reins tightly, standing tall on his horse as he spoke.
"The elven blade?"
Before he could nod, he noticed his own private soldiers parting in panic, scattering like water avoiding a flood. Ceberus froze, suddenly spotting a gargoyle charging straight toward him through the crowd. His words caught in his throat as he reflexively tightened the reins to turn his horse—but in his nervousness, he yanked too hard, causing the steed to rear up with a loud whinny.
"My lord, watch out!"
.......
The gargoyle, over Level 20 in rank, possessed strength equivalent to the mid-tier First Level Strength bracket. Renowned for its defense and flight capabilities, it tore through the noble mercenaries—who averaged only mid-tier white rank—with ease. Humans instinctively feared such colossal creatures, especially since few recognized it as Buga wizard’s creation. Some even screamed in terror, mistaking it for a dragon.
While Brandon had anticipated the gargoyle slicing effortlessly through the fragile formations of infantry, he knew time was limited. The noble mercenaries were merely temporarily disoriented. Even a powerful gargoyle couldn’t withstand overwhelming numbers indefinitely.
Against disciplined troops, even fighting ten-on-one would pose challenges.
He needed to escalate the chaos, preventing the enemy from regrouping. Acting swiftly, Brandon called out, "Chael, follow me and cover my advance!" Without waiting for a response, he spurred his horse forward. The gargoyle plowed a path through the crowd, and as the mercenaries instinctively tried to close ranks, Brandon swung his elven blade, unleashing a sweeping gust of wind that cut down the front row like wheat.
The rear ranks recoiled in horror, abandoning any thought of resistance. The channel carved by the gargoyle widened further. Had Marcaru still been alive, he might have managed to rally them, but now the noble mercenaries were utterly leaderless.
Seizing the opportunity, Brandon and Chael charged through the forest of spears. As for those attempting to follow in their wake, Chael showed no mercy. With two mana potions still in hand, casting cheap yet effective magic arrows was child’s play.
Looking ahead, Brandon spotted a group of nobles standing atop a nearby hillock. His sharp eyes immediately identified Sir Burnley. Raising his voice, he commanded, "Gargoyle, that fat man—ary (Witch Tongue: Seize)!"
But before the words fully left his lips, a line of knights emerged from the battlefield’s left flank. Clad in deep blue uniforms, pointed helmets, and silver breastplates adorned with pauldrons, their white manes fluttered in the wind—they were the mounted light infantry of the White Mane Legion.
At that moment, both sides realized: Luc Besson, the ‘Tiger,’ had arrived.
"Bacchus, Voltaron, capture that Madara spy!" Even amidst the din of battle, Luc Besson’s calm voice carried clearly, sending a chill down everyone’s spines.
As soon as he spoke, two towering knights spurred their horses forward, charging directly at Brandon.
"Perfect timing," Brandon sneered inwardly. Activating his charge skill, he darted between the two knights in an instant. Bacchus, captain of the second company’s seventh unit, and Voltaron, captain of the tenth unit, barely registered his movement before realizing the young man was already ten meters behind them.
It wasn’t just them—most of the White Mane soldiers present were stunned. Bacchus and Voltaron were captains, albeit hovering around the lower-tier iron-rank strength. Yet how could they be brushed aside so easily in a two-on-one fight?
Luc Besson’s brow twitched. Charge skill? This brat has ties to the Sun Knights? He raised his right hand. "Odyn, Skeet, intercept him!"
Two more riders surged forward side by side. While the majority of the White Mane Legion consisted of mounted infantry, their captains were exceptionally skilled horsemen. Closing the distance rapidly, they reached Brandon in moments—but what happened next left everyone speechless. Before the lower-ranked soldiers could cheer for their captains, Odyn and Skeet were sent flying backward.
Only the sharpest-eyed observers caught what transpired: the young man hadn’t paused. As he passed their captains, he exchanged a single strike with each. Their longswords shattered simultaneously, and their bodies flew back as if struck by a dragon.
"Strength Surge!"
"Strength Surge—!" This time, most recognized the technique.
Unfazed, Brandon focused on his gargoyle, which had lifted the accursed fat man into the air. That was his sole target, the key to breaking free.
But was victory truly within reach?
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