CHAPTER 79: CHAPTER 79: THE CAVALRY’S OVERWHELMING POWER

Fifty cavalry charged into the fray—at least fifteen of their warhorses were brought down by spears, crashing violently into the ground from the impact. Yet even then, only seven or eight peasant soldiers dared to rush in for the finishing blow.

As a result, only five knights died in that first clash.

Thanks to the bodily strength granted by knight breathing techniques, those who survived the fall quickly adapted to the sudden dizziness. Even while writhing in pain on the ground, they still swung their longswords with deadly precision, slashing through the legs of the encroaching peasants.

"AHHHHH!!!"

Screams and wails echoed across the field—warhorses shrieked in agony, knights roared in fury, and peasant soldiers howled in panic as limbs were severed and blood soaked the earth.

Time on the battlefield was ever-changing.

The fallen knights were soon surrounded by waves of peasant troops. But just as more enemy soldiers prepared to overwhelm them, the rest of the cavalry stormed in—charging in from the flank.

Brand, leading over a hundred heavily armored knights, thundered into the battlefield.

Their lances, lowered and gleaming, pierced through the mass of peasant troops as easily as threading meat on a skewer. Some knights, unable to free their lances in time, dropped them and drew swords to slash through the enemy instead.

At the front, Brand’s blood boiled with battle frenzy. The phantom of a stag shimmered faintly behind him, his aura bursting forth.

With a roar, he lifted his three-meter-long lance high—impaling three or five soldiers still skewered on its shaft—and swung them into the air, sending blood and gore flying in all directions.

This horrific display shattered the will of the already-frightened enemy infantry, many of whom bordered on mental collapse.

"CHARGE!"

Brand made a bold decision: strike the enemy commander

.

He led his cavalry straight toward Baron Roch. The moment the baron saw them galloping in like a tidal wave, his face turned pale and his voice trembled:

"Stop them! Stop them right now!"

"If you don’t, you’re all dead—stop them!!"

Roch’s semi-professional soldiers, at least, did not flee like peasants, managing to form up with raised spears. But they underestimated Brand’s power.

Brand, a peak Bronze Knight, was nearly equal in strength to a weak Silver Knight. At the critical moment, he swept his lance sideways, smashing enemy weapons aside—then barreled forward with his warhorse.

With a thousand pounds of momentum, he crashed into their chests.

Bones shattered. Soldiers flew backward like rag dolls, crashing into others. Those who tried to rise again were greeted by the iron hooves of warhorses and the ever-growing shadows overhead.

RUMBLE!

This was the true devastation of a knightly cavalry charge—an unstoppable force in cold-weapon warfare.

Meanwhile, Baron Roch’s own cavalry, realizing their commander was in danger, rode back to the battlefield.

Faced with a choice between rescuing fallen comrades or protecting their lord, they chose the latter.

"DON’T GET DRAGGED INTO A DRAWN-OUT FIGHT!"

Brand bellowed. His riders, well-trained and battle-tested, split into two flanks, sweeping east and west around the battlefield.

As they exited the rear ranks, Roch’s cavalry arrived—but it was already too late.

Their advance had been slowed to avoid trampling their own infantry, and by the time their commander realized what was happening, they heard the unmistakable roar of charging hooves.

The sound was familiar—it was the gallop of warhorses at full tilt, unburdened by fear or fatigue, capable of leaving hoofprints deep enough to plant a flagpole.

They turned to see two wings of cavalry—fifty riders each—charging toward them from both flanks, with Roch’s soldiers and infantry now trapped in the middle.

Surrounded by peasant soldiers on all sides, the returning cavalry had no room to build up speed.

They had returned to save their baron—only to doom themselves and the army with him.

At that moment, Brand shifted his target—no longer Roch, but the enemy cavalry and their flustered infantry nearby.

The wind screamed past their ears. Each knight felt the searing bloodlust burn in their veins.

Within seconds, they collided with their enemies again.

With every swing of a knight’s sword, heads flew. The enemy riders—slow, disorganized, and without momentum—stood no chance.

"KILL THEM!"

Brand’s cavalry divided the battlefield into three fractured zones.

Their all-out charge carved a path through the center. No one could stop them.

By the time the pounding hooves faded into the distance, the surviving enemy soldiers finally snapped back to reality.

A flood of panic surged within them.

The soldiers no longer heard the barking of commanders, nor the horns of retreat—just the pounding of blood in their ears as they ran in every direction they thought might be safe.

Brand circled his horse in the distance. He wasn’t interested in slaughtering the rest.

His warhorses were running low on stamina, and this was the perfect time to end it.

"CHARGE!"

Once more, hooves thundered like the whispers of death across the battlefield.

Those still gripped by terror dared not stand in their way.

As the noise subsided, Brand appeared before Baron Roch—calm behind his visor.

He lifted his sword. With one clean stroke, he decapitated Roch’s horse.

A fountain of blood sprayed across Brand’s armor and into Roch’s wide, terrified eyes—and then the baron collapsed unconscious.

Whether he had truly fainted, or was merely following the aristocratic custom of surrender, no one could tell.

Later, at Baron Hatton’s castle, Roch awoke.

"I’ll pay! I’ll pay the ransom!" he croaked in desperation.

The wretched stink around him made him swoon again—his face sinking into filth.

When he came to the second time, his body had been cleaned, and most of the stench was gone. Yet Hatton, reveling in his triumph, still waved a hand in front of his nose with no restraint.

Humiliated, Roch’s face turned purple with rage.

"Baron Hatton! You insult a noble of the Empire!"

"Baron Roch," Ryan said calmly, "perhaps you should first consider how much gold you’re willing to pay for your freedom—oh, and for Knight Watt as well."

Roch turned his head and saw Ryan for the first time.

His expression shifted.

"Baron Ryan of the Frozen Territory... Everyone underestimated you."