CHAPTER 70: CHAPTER 70: ROUT

Late in the deep of the second night, a sharp horn blared from the direction of the southern city.

Followed immediately by screams and flames.

Viscount Webster had never slept. He donned his battle armor and rushed out of his tent, his face grim.

The area was defended by a small order of knights from the nobility, not many in number and poorly equipped. He had thought they could hold for a few days, never expecting trouble so quickly.

By the time he led his men to the scene, the entire stretch of the city wall had become a slaughterhouse.

Blood flowed down the stone steps, mingling with the remnants of armor and severed limbs.

Bodies hung upside down from the parapets, eyes still open, faces frozen in terror.

Not a single survivor.

"Kill!" Webster shouted, charging with his blade swinging.

His warblade was heavy and fierce, felling several attacking Snow Swearer warriors with a single sweep, his fighting energy blazing like fire.

The knights followed closely, fighting desperately, inch by inch reclaiming the city wall in chaos.

By dawn’s approach, the remaining fires still burned, the air reeking of scorched flesh and blood.

Webster leaned against the damaged battlement, his armor splattered with fresh blood, a cut on his forehead dripping down his chin.

His gaze fixed forward, chest heaving heavily.

With such difficulty defending even on the second day, what next?

As the sky lightened, the news spread within the city.

"The southern city’s garrison is wiped out."

"The Snow Swearers have already breached."

"They say that petty noble fled the battle, defecting long ago..."

Rumors spread, creating panic in the streets, and shaking the soldiers’ morale.

Viscount Webster wasn’t allowed much rest; that night, the main force of the Snow Swearers mounted pressure.

They didn’t assault immediately, but aimed their catapults at the North Gate.

"Whoosh—"

The first black projectile traced the sky, trailing thick smoke as it fell.

With a thunderous explosion,

a black fog burst forth, spreading a foul stench, engulfing half the arrow tower.

"Ahhh!!"

The soldiers on the wall covered their noses and mouths, retreating, but some still fell with screams of agony.

"Don’t touch it! That’s a Curse Bullet!"

The soldiers panicked, the black mist clinging to the armor, sizzling with corrosive sounds, and even the wood boards showed signs of decaying pits.

Then came the second, the third.

The Snow Swearers seemed prepared, launching dozens of Curse Bullets at the North Gate, the thick mist spreading over the entire defense line.

Archers collapsed from poisoning, the wall corroded, even the corpses began to melt.

"Fall back, retreat for now!"

"We can’t retreat; if we do, this gate is lost!"

Confusion in command, morale shattered.

An Elite Knight shouted, "Cover your noses with wet cloths! Fall back means total ruin!"

But only a few Knight Teams from the Old North remained at the ramparts.

They stood, clad in damaged armor, eyes bloodshot, enduring the toxic fog, even as the ground beneath was a flowing poison, even as comrades around them fell one by one.

Viscount Webster swiftly arrived on the scene.

He climbed atop the battlements, his wounds still unhealed.

Standing on an arrow tower shrouded in toxic mist, he gritted his teeth and ordered, "Reinforce with knights from the East Wall and South Wall! The North Gate can’t hold!"

The Commander dashed out, sending one batch after another to various fronts.

Less than half an hour later, they returned, faces stiff.

"Reporting, Viscount, such-and-such refused to assist, claiming they must hold their own line."

"Such-and-such Lord states heavy casualties, unable to spare forces."

...

Webster stood motionless, staring at the rolling black fog ahead.

The wind lifted his cloak, disheveling the blood-stained hair on his forehead.

There was a brief silence on the wall, only the sounds of coughing and painful groans floating in the air.

He understood.

The nobility had long been calculating their escape; they never intended to hold out till the end.

Just then, a guard stumbled up the battlements, face stained with blood, voice trembling:

"Vi, Viscount, sir, there’s a breach at the West Gate..."

Webster whipped his head around: "What?"

"They say someone saw no enemy there and thought they could escape..."

Before he could finish speaking, another Order Knight arrived, nearly rolling off the horse in urgency, shouting hoarsely:

"The West Gate is a trap! They’ve let them out, luring deserters, with ambushers waiting outside!"

"Hundreds just exited and got encircled! All slaughtered!"

"Those idiots!" Webster roared, his voice hoarse, "Getting themselves killed is one thing, but dragging the whole front down with them!"

He slammed a fist into the stone wall, blood seeping through his fingers.

Half an hour earlier, a report from the West Gate mentioned a breach in the defense line there.

The Pioneer Nobles from the South immediately saw an opportunity.

They gathered their knight orders in secret, sidestepping the battle lines, heading straight for the West Gate.

No one attempted to stop them.

"If not now, when?"

"These northerners don’t consider us as their own anyway; whether the fort stands or not isn’t our concern."

They spoke with righteous conviction.

Preserving their own strength was what mattered most.

It was what the nobility had been taught since young.

So, hundreds moved at night, the clatter of hooves and iron armor echoing on the stones as they charged out the West Gate.

The distant dark wasteland lay silent, appearing devoid of enemies.

As they crossed the defense, stepping onto the cold wasteland, a row of red dots ignited out of the darkness.

They were the eyes of the Snow Swearers, gleaming like those of night beasts.

In the next moment, horn blasts sounded from all directions, the snow erupted, and countless ambushers leaped from the snow, converging from everywhere.

"Enemy attack!"

Before they could finish shouting, the leading knight was pierced through the helmet by a rain of arrows, falling straight off the horse.

A turmoil erupted at the rear, as the horses attempting to turn crashed into each other.

But the Snow Swearers gave them no chance to react.

They plunged into the masses, releasing bursts of fighting energy, axes and swords like the wind, cutting down the noble guards one after another in the melee.

The leaders wore thick beast armor, eyes glowing red, their bodies encircled by deep blue fighting energy, surging like the tide.

Each swing of their axes left a shadow, splitting men and their armor alike.

Some were Wolf Knights, the elite of the Snow Swearers.

They charged across the battlefield on giant wolves with snow-white fur and fierce eyes, tearing armor with claws, crushing throats with fangs.

Those who had barely escaped the ensuing chaos were quickly torn apart before they could regroup.

Blood quickly dyed the ground, the ferrous scent rising like mist in the air.

Some knelt, begging for mercy; others shouted surrender, but the Snow Swearers’ eyes showed no compassion.

They only killed relentlessly, as though cleansing with blood, erasing all shame.

Warhorses neighed and fell, crushing men, spears piercing armor, pulling out blood and bits of flesh.

The cries faded quickly, eventually vanishing in the wind and snow.

This breakout became a massacre.

Fewer than ten escaped.