"Quick! Pick up the pace! If Lihe falls, there will be no peace left for the kingdom!"
A black-armored knight shouted as he urged his horse forward, his voice harsh with urgency. He was the deputy of the commander of Lynchester. Upon hearing that Lihe was in crisis, the Lynchester commander took it seriously and sent one-third of the city's defense forces, fully armed, to head toward Lihe.
According to the instructions in the letter, the enemy's camp was not far ahead. Since the seal on the letter was genuine, the black-armored knight didn't doubt its authenticity and urged his horse to run even faster. The soldiers under his command pushed their horses forward with everything they had, even if their faces were flushed from exhaustion, showing no sign of stopping for rest as they struggled to keep up with the cavalry ahead.
At full speed, the already small force was stretched thin, and their formation became loose and unorganized, lacking any form of defense.
Lancelot, who had been forcibly conscripted as a guide, observed the disorganized unit and couldn't help but suggest to the black-armored knight beside him, "Sir, the soldiers are exhausted. Perhaps we should rest for a while before continuing."
Lancelot remembered that this was the very spot where Menachel had set up an ambush. Though the scattered, fatigued forces already seemed like an easy target, clearly ambushing them while they rested would minimize their losses.
The black-armored knight, hearing the suggestion, shook his head. "We're not far from Lihe. Once we defeat the enemy, we can rest then."
He continued, a bit more seriously, "Lihe is a key location for the kingdom. We must ensure that it is protected at all costs."
If Lihe fell, it wouldn't just be the breaking of a natural defense—it would shatter the myth of the "invincible city" and deal a huge blow to the kingdom's morale.
Rejected by the black-armored knight, Lancelot didn't press the issue. He cast a glance behind him at the weary soldiers and the horses that were steaming from the heat, and he fell into thought.
At this rate, even if they manage to break through and attack the rear of Camelot's army, they will likely be wiped out by Menachel alone.
Just then, Lancelot, ever vigilant, noticed a strange fluctuation in the magic around them. With a swift motion, he leaped from his saddle, and in that same instant, all one hundred horses in the formation, including the one he had been riding, suddenly collapsed forward without warning. The knights riding them were caught off guard and tumbled to the ground.
Lancelot landed skillfully and drew the simple knight's sword he had used to disguise himself. He grabbed the black-armored knight from the ground, yanked him by the hair, and swiftly severed his head with a single strike.
The knight's short scream was drowned in a storm of battle cries as the ambush unfolded. From the side of the road, a large group of infantry knights poured out of the forest. Armed with large shields and spears, they easily divided the five hundred soldiers into several smaller groups.
At the forefront of the infantry was a tall knight clad in red and white armor, his face hidden behind a grotesque helmet, with only his bloodshot eyes glowing menacingly.
The wave of troops moved forward like a black tide, slicing through the enemy's exhausted forces. The fatigued soldiers, now without a commander, couldn't even mount a proper resistance. They broke and fled as soon as they clashed, but in the narrow forest paths, there was nowhere to escape.
The battle was a one-sided massacre, lasting only a few minutes. The five hundred soldiers were all wiped out, and the only remaining sight was the one hundred horses, still twitching on the ground.
Menachel ordered a thorough check of the fallen to ensure no one had managed to escape back to Lynchester to report the ambush. Then he turned to Lancelot, offering a rare smile of approval.
"You did well."
Menachel slapped Lancelot on the shoulder with a grin.
The young knight had proven himself. When it came time to act, Lancelot didn't hesitate, executing swift, ruthless actions. During the chaotic fight, Menachel had witnessed Lancelot mowing down the fallen soldiers—whether they were the commander or regular knights—without mercy. Even those who begged for mercy didn't escape Lancelot's blade.
Lancelot, surprised by the praise, looked up. At that moment, this still-green knight was reflecting on his hasty actions during the battle. He felt some guilt for ignoring the surrender requests from a few soldiers.
"Keep that up," Menachel advised, offering a few more words of praise but no promises.
In a confrontation, Menachel never left prisoners unless absolutely necessary. On the battlefield, situations changed in the blink of an eye, and he didn't have the time to worry about whether someone was surrendering or not. Moreover, keeping prisoners created a risk of rebellion, requiring additional guards, which was inefficient for Menachel.
Of course, to avoid the enemy's morale from being shattered completely and to give them some semblance of hope, he would occasionally show some mercy. The two hundred prisoners taken in Lihe were an exception.
…
Lynchester.
On the city walls, the city commander paced back and forth. It had been a day since he sent reinforcements to Lihe, and though the cities weren't far apart, there had been no word from the dispatched troops. A sense of foreboding had begun to creep into his heart. But he still clung to a shred of hope—maybe they had won decisively, celebrated too much, and simply forgot to send a message back?
But today, that last hope was shattered by reality.
In the distance, a large group of soldiers approached from Lihe, marching openly without trying to hide their presence. The commander's face went pale when he saw them, and he quickly ordered his soldiers to ready their bows and prepare for battle.
As the enemy's army drew nearer, the commander could clearly see their formation. At a glance, there were at least two thousand soldiers, a number that made his heart sink. His pupils contracted in shock as his gaze focused on a wooden pole among the enemy ranks, upon which the severed head of a man was mounted. The face was still twisted in pain, but even through the contorted features, the commander recognized it—it was his own deputy.
His lips quivered in disbelief.
At the front of the group, the red-and-white armored knight stopped and raised his head. His soldiers halted in unison.
Menachel removed his helmet, looked up toward the city walls, and smiled.
"Within three days, if you do not surrender, we will breach Lynchester and leave no one alive who resists."
"Fire!"
At the same time, two voices shouted. A rain of arrows descended in a swift cascade.
Menachel' eyes flashed coldly. Dark, red magic coiled around him like lightning, and with a surge of explosive force, he sent a shockwave outward. Countless arrows were incinerated in mid-air, turning to ash.
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