Chapter 100: Take the offensive

From the Empire’s map of noble family influence, the Ross family’s main power base lay in Rick Province. However, in Morning Breeze Province they also possessed significant holdings: two cities, three fortresses, and vast tracts of directly governed land.

Nightfall Domain was likewise one of the Ross family’s territories. Back when the Riss family’s sixth-tier Divine Chosen was still alive, that was true dominance—enclaves and industries everywhere, immense family power.

But now? Even their ancestral lands were being eyed.

“So the first time we meet, he calls me a ’good, honest man.’ They must’ve investigated me beforehand—bullying the easy target.”

After Count Kote’s death, as his son, Phield would inherit a portion of land. If he married Elsa, that would give the Nibelungen family room to maneuver.

First, through political manipulation, they would ensure Phield obtained territory in Morning Breeze Province.

Then they would have him killed. Elsa, as his wife, would inherit everything.

The Nibelungen family would effortlessly gain enormous benefits—while appearing completely uninvolved.

The fact that Elsa was already contracted yet still being pushed to find a husband clearly signaled something suspicious. They never intended a real “marriage” in the first place.

“Of course, it could be true love,” Phield muttered, “though the probability is zero.” He was under no illusions about himself.

“What are you thinking about?” Elsa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Nothing. Just the war.”

They chatted casually for a few more moments before Elsa departed.

But Phield was certain that if he took a slightly more proactive approach, Elsa would be very “willing” to interact with him—despite the words “forced engagement” practically written across her face.

Soon enough, soldiers delivered equipment and horses.

Six warhorses in total—one of them especially magnificent, bearing monster blood.

Additionally: twenty mountain-walnut crossbows, fifty square shields, and fifty standard-issue sabers.

“Excellent.” Phield was overjoyed, turning the shield and blade over in his hands.

A distant horn sounded, signaling assembly. Phield climbed onto a raised platform, shaded his eyes, observed briefly, then climbed down and urged, “Sam, distribute the weapons. The rebels are advancing. Prepare for battle.”

At dawn the following day, as the sky barely lightened—

Under the deep, resonant blare of horns, countless people dressed in ragged hemp clothing, clutching wooden clubs, pitchforks, or firewood choppers, formed a dense, chaotic mass. Men, women—even children. Their faces were filled with terror, their steps uneven and trembling, yet they shouted in unison:

“The Shadow descends upon the world! Blood sacrifice to the True God!”

More than fifty thousand villagers had been corrupted by the Eye of Vow. Under the cultists’ command, they assembled in an endless sprawl stretching for miles, preparing to assault the fortress.

The nobles had blockaded the cultists within Itavon Province for nearly a month. If the rebels did not break through, they would simply be starved to death.

Amid the sea of villagers stood a conspicuous force of roughly three thousand armored warriors. Draped in gray-and-white robes, their faces painted with unknown runes, they roared:

“By the will of God—take the fortress!”

The Imperial commander-in-chief of this campaign, Governor Tacolin, fully embodied aristocratic pride and arrogance.

He did not regard peasants or cultists as worthy opponents.

Rather than relying on the fortress’s defenses, he chose to sally forth and clash head-on.

Amid soaring roars and prayers, the allied noble forces poured out from the fortress gates, forming battle formations of varying sizes across the plains. The forces included elite private troops from Itavon Province, Morning Breeze Province, and Rick Province, alongside Imperial legions, the Griffin Knight Order, and adventurers, patriots, and minor nobles from surrounding regions.

Soon, banners stood thick as a forest. Mages hurled long-range spells and detection magic into enemy formations, while soldiers shouted in exhilaration, their voices shaking the heavens.

“For the Empire!”

“For the Empress!”

“For glory!”

“Good. Formations are nearly complete. Have Livrasa lead one thousand heavy cavalry—charge the rebels head-on! Then commit the full army.” Tacolin stood atop the watchtower, slamming the railing. “I want those dogs to pay!”

“My lord, should we send light cavalry to probe? We haven’t seen the enemy’s Divine Chosen,” a noble asked.

Tacolin waved dismissively. “Unnecessary. They’re nothing but rabble. Crush them directly.”

“Yes, sir! Convey the order via voice-transmission magic—prepare to attack!”

On the rebel side, their commanders seemed equally irrational. Despite commanding malnourished rabble, they showed no fear facing tens of thousands of noble troops.

Heavy horns sounded again, reverberating in every chest.

The controlled villagers trembled violently. Tears streamed from their eyes in terror, yet their bodies marched forward involuntarily, cultists and soldiers shouting all around them:

“Blood sacrifice to the True God!”

“Blood sacrifice to the True God!”

Phield was positioned in the Third Legion on the allied left flank—composed entirely of small formations from noble private armies. To him, such a loose cluster of independently operating units was a cardinal sin in warfare.

If one noble retreated, it could trigger a chain collapse.

“Governor’s order! Full assault! Annihilate the enemy!”

Regin, commander of the left flank, rode between formations, shouting encouragement and commands. His voice carried magical amplification, ringing painfully in Phield’s ears.

“Advance!”

“Advance!”

More than ten thousand noble troops on the left began marching forward in unison. Family mages chanted incessantly, casting enhancement spells generously upon allied ranks.

Unfortunately, Nightfall Domain had no mages—no buffs at all. Phield could only shake his head.

“Second-tier spell—Light Feather!”

Phield suddenly felt weightless, his iron armor seeming insubstantial. He turned and saw a familiar figure—Laurent, the knight he had met earlier. His family mage had generously applied a buff to Phield as well.

“Hey! Baron Phield!” Laurent gave him a thumbs-up, lifted his lance, and shouted enthusiastically, “Let’s show those damned rebels some color!”

To the nobles, the rebels were nothing but starving rabble—walking merit.

“Of course.” Phield smiled back, then lowered his helmet visor. Despite wearing two layers of iron armor, he could still hear the thunderous pounding of his heart.

Three armies advanced simultaneously, banners waving.

No probing. No skirmishing. Just direct assault.

An elite square of heavy cavalry formed the vanguard. Livrasa, the Empire’s Divine Chosen, roared:

“Imperial heavy cavalry—charge with me! Third-tier divine technique—Comet Impact!”

Her body transformed into a streak of sky-blue flame, crashing into the cultist formation. Everything in her path was pulverized into dust. Even those not struck directly ignited instantly upon contact with the flames. Miserable screams and explosive bursts of incinerated flesh echoed everywhere.

Livrasa was like a high-speed train carving a rail of flesh and blood.

With her spearheading the charge, the heavy cavalry followed in wedge formation along the bloodied path.

“They’re using precious heavy cavalry in the first wave? That’s confidence.”

Phield was stunned. This governor’s style of warfare truly broadened his horizons. “Not even softening them with arrows… At least let the mages bombard a few rounds.”

And sending a Divine Chosen straight in—weren’t they worried about enemy Divine Chosen isolating her?

Imperial banners flew high as the heavy cavalry closed within a hundred meters, urging their mounts into full gallop. Rebel arrows and stones clanged against armor, unable to penetrate.

“Watch out for scorpion ballistae!”

Someone shouted. The rebels rolled out compact field ballistae—smaller than fortress ones but easily capable of piercing armor. The so-called “Scorpion Ballistae” fired suddenly. Dozens of massive bolts tore into the heavy cavalry ranks, instantly skewering twenty or thirty riders.

Some were pinned together with their horses.

Such losses could bankrupt most barons—but to the allied army as a whole, it was negligible.

The cavalry charge struck moments later. Though the rebels braced countless pikes and spears, the heavy cavalry slammed into them without hesitation.

Bang!

It was like a wall crashing into another wall. The frontline vanished in a haze of blood mist. Chunks of flesh shattered by charging warhorses rained from the sky. Rebels were knocked down in droves, trampled into the mud. The heavy cavalry suffered significant losses as well—many impaled like skewered meat.

Phield had no time to observe further. The left flank was about to make contact.

Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!

A dense volley of fireballs arced overhead and landed not far from him. One unlucky minor noble’s formation was obliterated instantly under the saturated bombardment—reduced to fragments. Only the noble himself remained standing, staring blankly at the blood splattered across his body.

In transcendent warfare, ordinary people existed merely to drain mana and stamina.

If divine power was forced into expenditure—that was pure profit.

Although ordinary people, by sheer numbers, do have a chance to kill a Divine Chosen, it would never happen in open-field combat—and certainly not with expendable fodder troops.

“Fuck. This is even more brutal than I imagined.”

Seeing the rebels reposition their archers, Phield immediately shouted, “Shields up!”

The First Army of Nightfall Domain, already on high alert, raised their shields at once and continued advancing slowly. The dull thuds of arrows striking shields rang out in rapid succession. A few arrows slipped through gaps and felled several soldiers.

Fortunately, most of the rebels’ bows were hunting bows—good enough for rabbits, perhaps, but with very limited lethality against soldiers wearing leather armor. Only three or four men were hit, and all sustained minor wounds.

“Return fire!”

Phield had no intention of taking a beating without responding. Seizing the brief lull, he ordered his troops to shoot. The supplies they had received earlier now proved their worth.

With a sharp chorus of crossbow mechanisms snapping, more than a dozen rebels dropped immediately. There was no time for a second volley. The foremost allied forces had already collided head-on with the rebels, and the battlefield devolved instantly into chaotic, savage close combat. Blades and spears harvested lives in frenzy; blood and flesh sprayed everywhere.

Even knights or seasoned warriors, once swallowed by the mass of bodies, had no room to evade. Front, back, left, right—even beneath their feet—there were people. Combat techniques and martial skills meant nothing. With bad luck, one might not even have space to raise an arm. In that moment, only raw strength and solid armor mattered.

Phield witnessed it with his own eyes: a powerful warrior unleashed second-tier magic power, sweeping down swaths of rebels. But once his mana was exhausted, he was overwhelmed by a storm of spears—stabbed to the ground, and finally beaten to death with crude farm tools.

There was no formation left on either side—just flesh crashing against flesh. In less than ten minutes, severed heads rolled across the ground, and blood pooled thick enough to form crimson ponds.

“Hold the formation!”

Phield had come to gain benefits—not to bury his entire army here.

He had already dismounted. There was no room to charge anyway; it was safer within his own ranks. He ordered the First Army to maintain their defensive spear formation and halt their advance.

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