65 — 7 (5)

The heavy cavalry had suffered some losses, but their breakthrough power was overwhelming enough to make it meaningless.

Boom! Thunder that had threatened to fall earlier finally came crashing down. Heavy downpour poured like sheets of snow. Shouts, rain, and hoofbeats—everything clashed and merged into a thunderous roar.

Within barely five minutes of the charge, Louis was already in the enemy’s center. “A magnificent army.” He muttered the words, not sure himself whether it was praise or scorn. His lance dripped with sticky, hot blood. There was no time to wipe it. The charge had not stopped, nor did he intend to stop it. He bowled over kneeling infantry who had given up resistance and prayed for mercy, scattering them like bowling pins.

Louis realized the enemy’s assault was weakening. No—it wasn’t weakening; he had broken the spine of the infantry. Amid the torrential downpour, Louis gave a crooked smile and wheeled his cavalry around. The thunderous squelching of soaked earth echoed like drums, chilling Commander of a Thousand Galsha to the bone.

“Give the order!!!”

Orders… orders. The words circled in Galsha’s mind. When thunder cracked again, he realized he had no time left. Just minutes ago he had been confident; now his pale face had hollowed in fear. He desperately racked his brain.

He looked to the right. Archers who had not yet taken damage but whose morale was crumbling were on the verge of panic. One more blow and they would refuse all orders.

“Mo… move the archers! Fire on the cavalry!!”

“…What? If we fire now, our men will die too.”

“Disobedience will be punished by execution. Fire!”

A suicidal order—attack regardless of friend or foe. The archers began to reposition to open distance.

‘The rain grows heavier.’

The blood on Louis’s lance washed away instantly in the downpour. He opened his interface. A map. Dots marked his cavalry and the enemy. He tracked the overall situation in real time. He noticed the first abnormality: archers repositioning. Even that alone showed the enemy’s level. In such weather, arrows were useless. With their infantry line broken, the right move would have been to abandon part of the infantry, form a pike square, and retreat with as many forces as possible.

Louis steered the heavy cavalry out of bow range. In a balanced battle this maneuver wouldn’t have been possible, but his overwhelming power made it easy.

Then he saw the enemy dots shifting in another direction. Louis smacked his lips.

‘Found you. The commander’s there.’

The archers grew restless.

“We can’t see clearly! We can’t tell friend from foe! If we shoot now, we’ll kill our own men—”

“Just fire! The order is given! Disobedience means death! Loose!”

In that chaos, neither those who gave the order nor those who obeyed knew if it was effective. One archer glanced at the black sky and drew. Twang. The signal shot. Once one loosed, the rest followed like a wave, arrows stitching the air.

Thud. The first to fall, skull shattered and blood spilling, was not Louis’s cavalry. Instead, arrows rained down on their own infantry, who had just thought they were safe.

The heavy cavalry plowed away, trampling infantry while slipping out of range. Louis personally commanded this detachment—no one dared disobey. On the battlefield, if ordered to die, they would die. Their discipline was razor sharp. They ignored the arrow storm, their armor easily deflecting the weakened shafts. Not a single arrow had the strength to pierce heavy cavalry plate.

Galsha’s eyes rolled white. “M–madness…” he muttered, realizing there was nothing left he could do. He gave the retreat signal. His subordinates, long waiting for this, withdrew faster than any other order.

Yet Louis’s cavalry, as if knowing their exact position, charged without hesitation.

“Stop… stop them!!”

As screams reached his ears, Galsha felt death itself approach. His men, instead of defending him, split apart and fled. His aide struck him to force him onto the ground; Galsha tumbled through mud, thrown from his horse.

His steed neighed and bolted. His aide mounted and fled, reins in hand. Galsha cursed, clutching his chest, struggling to breathe in the rain. He needed a horse, desperately. Then—he saw one stop before him.

Relief. His aide had returned to help him—

Thud. A lance pierced straight through his heart. He collapsed face-first into the muck.

The cavalryman who killed him shouted. Two more confirmed his identity.

‘Enemy commander, dead.’

Breaking a headless army was like tipping over a dying man. To preserve his own forces, Louis sent in infantry to finish them while splitting his cavalry in half.

“Kaiser.”

“Yes.”

“Pursue and slaughter them to the last.”

“As you command.”

Massacre required no mercy. Kaiser was the perfect man for the task. Louis turned his reins to mop up survivors.

The rain poured for two more days before stopping, leaving heavy fog. The battlefield was strewn with corpses, broken pikes jutting at odd angles. Birds circled.

A ratlike man crept, pinching his nose, cursing.

‘No wonder no news came. Wiped out… I must report to Lord Pierre. To annihilate a whole infantry unit without losses…’

He spotted hoofprints in the mud and clicked his tongue.

‘Cavalry. Ordinary, or heavy? In a resource-starved duchy, heavy cavalry is impossible. Must be mixed tactics.’

An arrow struck his shoulder. Blood soaked his cloak. He staggered, clutching at corpses for support, but collapsed. He trembled in mud among the dead.

Louis inspected his arrows, drew one, and loosed. The man screamed, clutching his leg where Louis had aimed to disable, not kill.

“Affiliation.”

“Ughhh…”

“I don’t have time. Next shot goes through your skull.”

“I–I’m a scout of Lord Pierre!”

Louis smiled. He was starving for information.

“Purpose.”

“No… no purpose. Just reconnaissance!”

Louis drew again; the man sobbed.

“It’s true! Please! I’m useful! Spare me!”

Two cavalrymen rode up.

“Lord Louis, are you unharmed?”

“Bind him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man was disarmed, dragged up, barely conscious. Louis gestured.

“Take him.”

Fred drowned himself in liquor upon reaching the Pontina Duchy. He had to be here formally for royal approval, though losing Dekal gnawed at him. No word from his brothers; all awaited slaughter.

Suddenly, Jordan burst in, panting.

“Marquis Gangpireu has launched a territorial war! The king’s approval is imminent—he must have bribed him!”