CHAPTER 65: WHAT NOW?

As dawn turned crimson, I gave the order I had long awaited. The game of shadows and petty raids was over. Now the true battle would begin.

My army of eight thousand was divided into three:

- Right flank: light infantry, armed with spears and shields. Their task was to drag the enemy cavalry into the mud and slow them down.

- Left flank: archers and crossbowmen. They would thin out the enemy ranks with relentless fire, breaking their formation.

- Center: My well-trained, heaviest-armed men. I kept them still, for they had to endure until it was time to deliver the fatal blow.

Ronald’s army was starving and exhausted, yet still vast. Stumbling through the mud, they advanced toward us. The first clash erupted at the edge of the eastern marshes. My spearmen feigned retreat, luring them deeper. When their cavalry sank up to their knees in the mire, our archers rained down arrows like a storm. The shrieks of horses flailing in panic, the screams of crushed men, filled the valley.

Yet Ronald still managed to hold his lines together. After losing his cavalry in the mire, he pushed his infantry forward. They advanced upon us like a wall of iron. And then, the field turned into a true slaughterhouse.

Spear-points clashed against shields, steel grated on steel, my men’s throats were torn open, Ronald’s soldiers collapsed screaming. Screeches, groans, and the dull thunder of iron filled the air. With every strike, blood splashed skyward.

That was the moment I signaled my central unit. Rested and strong, my men surged forward with iron discipline. Ronald’s weary infantry met our fresh strength, and their front lines collapsed instantly. Some fell to their knees, others fled in panic.

At that moment, my second move came into play. Our left flank suddenly staged a false retreat. Ronald’s men, thinking they had won, rushed forward. But what awaited them was the explosion of barrels buried at the forest’s edge. Oil ignited, and in an instant, the treeline became a blazing inferno. In the crimson glow of fire, my men cut short their retreat and charged back with fury.

The battle had devolved into chaos. Mud was soaked in blood. Fallen soldiers were trampled, shields crushed, chests, spears pierced ribs. Every breath burned with the stench of blood.

From horseback, at the center, I entered the fray myself. I dragged an enemy from his mount and slit his throat in one swift stroke. Blood sprayed across my face. My men, seeing this, fought with renewed fury. To them, I was no longer merely a commander but a sword leading the charge.

The carnage raged for hours. Yet my plan held true. Piece dismantled Ronald’s army of thirty thousand piece: his cavalry drowned in the mire, his left flank consumed by fire, his center crushed beneath our disciplined assault.

At last, Ronald stood with only a few hundred men around him. His armor caked in mud, his face streaked with blood, he still resisted. My cavalry encircled him. With one final roar, he spurred his horse forward. But I was ready. I raised my blade, parried his strike, and struck his head hard enough to drop him unconscious with ease.

Ronald’s eyes met mine as life drained from him. He collapsed onto his knees in the mud. His army, seeing their leader captured, broke apart completely.

That day, with eight thousand against thirty thousand, we triumphed. Victory was won not by the sharpness of steel alone, but by patient, calculated tactics. And it was on that day that my name would once again echo in glory.

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The battle had ended, but the field was not silent. Across the mud and blood, the cawing of crows mingled with the groans of the wounded. Ironheart Mike’s mercenaries indulged in their old habits: plunder.

Some hacked off dead men’s fingers with bloody daggers to strip gold rings. Others tore armor from still-warm corpses, ripping bloodied flesh apart as they did. A few even slit open the bloated bellies of horses to retrieve hidden pouches of food and coin.

The sight was grotesque, the stench unbearable. Among rotting bodies, a mercenary laughed, another jeered, "This is enough to feed a whole village!" This was the oldest, most naked truth of war: after victory came spoils, the soldiers’ bloody reward. War claimed not only lives, but possessions as well.

I watched from horseback, cold and detached. For I knew that this filth would still feed my army, fuel the strength for the next campaign.

That was when Mike appeared. With four men beside him, he dragged a man and a woman in chains. Against the reddened sunset, the woman’s face was clear. Her black hair hung in tangled strands, stuck to her cheeks. Her arms were bound behind her back with heavy iron chains.

Her eyes... were pure white. As if no light dwelled within them, as if they opened onto another world.

She stumbled and fell, but one of Mike’s men yanked the chain mercilessly, forcing her up again. Even through her mud-stained clothes, a faint beauty was visible. This woman was no ordinary captive.

Mike approached me with heavy steps. "Leo," he said in his deep voice, shoving the woman forward. "This is the one you were looking for. She was hiding in the deepest part of the enemy camp. Tried to escape when she saw us. Wounded one of my men. Had to chain her."

Her white hollow eyes turned to me. Her lips trembled, but no words came. She only stared.

Then Mike struck the chained man beside her, forcing him to his knees. "This one’s Baron Lrian, supporter of Count Ronald. The bastard’s been praying since morning."

Baron Lrian, kneeling in the mud, looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"Lord, save me from these demons! Lord, I take refuge in You... in You alone!"

Spittle dripped from his mouth, his voice shaking. His face, caked with mud, was pale with terror. Once, he had raised his goblet at feasts, boasting in polished armor. Now he knelt before me, whining like a beaten dog.

Mike’s men exchanged mocking laughter.

"So this is what nobility looks like? He’s about to piss himself from fear!"

The baron’s muttered prayers were more scream than plea. His panicked eyes locked onto mine.

"Lord... this man... he’s not human! He looks into my eyes... hungering for blood!"

The laughter grew louder. To them, mocking a trembling noble crawling through the mud was rare amusement. Yet in Lrian’s trembling eyes, there was something else: pure terror.

"I saw it!" he spat, saliva flying. "In the battle, blood splashed across his face, but he didn’t wipe it off! He drank it in, devoured it with his gaze! Are you blind? He feeds on blood! He is a vampire!"

Silence fell. The laughter died. Even Mike frowned and cast me a quick glance.

Straightening on my horse, I stared at the baron through the shadows. My voice was sharp and cold as a blade.

"Take this man away and execute him. I have no time for his nonsense."

The baron writhed in his chains, screaming:

"You see! You see, don’t you?! If he’s human, why silence me?! Because it’s true! He’s a blood-drinker, a creature of the night!"

As Mike’s men dragged him away, they exchanged brief glances, likely already thinking of how to divide his belongings. Their laughter faded into uneasy silence. I turned instead to the woman.

"Give me the chain."

Mike hesitated, then handed it over. The cold iron ring pressed into my palm as her body trembled. She sank to her knees, her head bowed before me.

My men fell silent. No laughter, no whispers. Every eye fixed on the white-eyed woman and the chain in my hand.

I leaned down, close to her face. "Mount," I ordered, pulling her up by the waist.

She climbed onto the horse with difficulty, her back to me, still silent. Before moving toward the camp, I called out to Mike.

"You handle the rest. I’ll take some rest. And send letters to the Count’s brats and that bastard baron’s heirs. Tell them to surrender their lands quietly, or... I’ll leave the consequences to your imagination. Also, you’ll see to it that half of the loot reaches Argenholt Manor without a coin missing. Don’t you dare try to cheat me, old dog."

Mike lowered his head in silence. In his eyes, I saw what years of battle had forged: neither greed nor fear, only pragmatism.

I urged my horse forward through the mud, glancing one last time at the battlefield. I understood then that this was not merely victory, but a message. With eight thousand, we had crushed thirty thousand. And that rumor would spread like wildfire.

When I reached camp, my men stood ready by my tent. Willabelle still sat chained to the horse. I helped her down. Her eyes, blank and white, seemed like voids, yet within them, I saw something else: fear.

Inside the tent, the weight of her chains nearly toppled her. I caught her by the arm and forced her to sit. Silence hung between us. Her lips moved, no sound came. As if she wished to speak, but the words burned to ash in her throat.

At last, she forced them out. "What now?"

"What now? I tell you what now. For the intelligence you gave me during the war, I have decided not to execute you. But as punishment for your betrayal... from this day forward, you are my slave."