Chapter 574 – The Young Nobles First Command.

Alphonse could not believe it. Even as enemy banners rose on the eastern horizon and thousands of mounted warriors charged into view, he refused to retreat. Pride held him fast. His gauntlet clenched around the reins of his warhorse, and his jaw was locked so tightly that it ached.

“Commander, we must fall back!”

One of his captains shouted in alarm.

“Their numbers are overwhelming!”

“Thou shalt be silent!”

Alphonse snapped at the soldier and raised a hand to signal his troops to halt. His eyes locked on Arthur Valerian, the young noble leading the enemy charge. A silver cloak streamed behind him, his face hidden beneath a polished helm. The crest of Valerian gleamed on his chestplate, along with glowing runes that pulsed faintly. Two swords hung at his sides, and he was flanked by knights clad in armor that shimmered with enchantments. The ornate materials were unlike anything they had expected from his forces.

“This alters nothing.”

Alphonse muttered, more to himself than anyone else. In his mind, the size of the opposing army meant little. Arthur had no reputation for tactics or for combat skill. If Alphonse could reach him and cut him down, the rest would collapse. Even with the odds against them, he remained confident. Strength was not measured by numbers alone. In this world, it was levels that determined the outcome.

His army, three thousand strong, was better trained, better armed, and likely more powerful. Even in a full engagement, he saw only one outcome. Victory.

The only real threat was a man named Wayland, who had already defeated Emmerson twice. But if Alphonse could delay him for just a little while, the battle would be his. He kicked his steed forward, shouting in anger.

“Forward, I say! If none shall breach their line, then by mine own hand shall I sunder it!”

*****

The drums of war thundered again as Theodore’s loyal army surged forward, discipline holding firm despite their commander’s enraged state. Roland, still atop the walls, didn’t move. His eyes tracked Alphonse like a hawk watching a snake.

“Is he aiming for Arthur?”

He muttered, watching as the enemy forces shifted. The army turned away from the city and redirected its focus toward Arthur, abandoning the siege entirely.

“He is not even trying to retreat. Does he really believe he can win just by cutting Arthur down?”

“He might. It is a basic tactic they teach at the Knight Academy.”

Robert answered as he came to stand beside his brother. It was a common tactic to capture or even kill the enemy commander. The Valerian brothers were forbidden from killing one another, even during times of war, but that did not mean accidents were impossible.

Roland would not be surprised if Theodore had already given quiet orders to take the opportunity if it arose. He could easily imagine his brother promising protection to any soldier who carried it out, even if he never intended to keep that promise.

“Yet he isn’t committing all of his troops…”

Although most of the three thousand soldiers were charging toward Arthur, a portion remained stationed at the city gates. Roland could not be certain, but he assumed Alphonse was protecting his rear. The golems still stood there, fully capable of launching an attack. Perhaps Alphonse feared a counterstrike, which would be a reasonable precaution.

Even so, it did not matter. If their enemies believed Roland was the only capable fighter among them, they were making a dangerous mistake.

‘It’s time for those guys to shine…’

And shine they did, with sunlight reflecting off not only their armor but also their metallic limbs. Arthur shouted a command, and the army moved aside to reveal a small group of armored men. At first glance, they appeared to be a standard cavalry regiment, but as they approached, it became clear that something about them was unusual.

Their armor appeared mismatched in several places, especially around their limbs. To an untrained eye, it might have seemed as though they were simply missing pieces of armor, leaving their arms and legs exposed. But this was not the case. Their limbs had been replaced with mithril and dwarven steel, forged to endure battle even more effectively than the flesh and bone they once had. These were veterans of wars long past, knights whose bodies had been broken but whose spirits still hungered for the fight.

What remained of them had been reforged in Arthur’s forges, crafted under Wayland’s guidance. Their missing limbs were replaced with prosthetics made of magical alloys and etched with runes of power. Many had been presumed dead, their names lost to time, their graves empty. But they had not fallen. They had returned.

A hush settled over both armies as the mounted figures advanced. It was the calm before the storm. Smoke hissed from vents in their backplates, and arcane light shimmered along the seams of their artificial limbs. At the front rode a warrior wielding a massive dark glaive. He held it in his right arm, a prosthetic that pulsed with magical energy. His face was hidden behind a heavy, dark helmet, but from one of its eye slits, a faint and ominous glow shone through.

“…Sir Wischard.”

Roland stood atop the battlements and watched the old man break from the formation, charging forward alone. He had once been a legend, a commander from the old border wars, the same wars where his father had earned his title. Stories told of him slaying giants and shattering battalions in the years before the Ardens rose to more fame. He had nearly achieved what Roland’s father had, yet faltered just before the end.

The tale claimed he had died, buried beneath the rubble of a collapsing fortress during a final stand. But that was a convenient fiction meant to preserve his honor. The truth was harsher. He had lost a limb and an eye to an enemy commander in an ambush and barely lived. His own house cast him aside not long after, forcing him into quiet retirement in a small village manor where his name was meant to be forgotten. But now he had returned, his body remade in steel and magic. He rode a warhorse clad in armor thick enough to shrug off artillery fire, no longer an exile but a weapon reborn.

He raised his glaive, and the knights behind him followed in perfect unison. Then they charged. The thunder of hooves became a quake that shook the ground. The rune-enhanced knights moved with terrifying unity, breaking into Alphonse’s line like a blade through cloth. Sir Wischard struck first, his glaive slicing through a line of infantry like they were made of straw. One man fell with his chest torn open, another was thrown back ten meters, armor shattered from the force of the blow.

The next few moments dissolved into chaos and bloodshed. Theodore’s troops, who had believed themselves superior, were facing a brutal awakening. The company of prosthetic knights carved a path through their ranks. One knight impaled three men with a single lance thrust, then slammed it into the ground and vaulted from his saddle. He crashed into a squad of spearmen, swinging a flanged mace that lit up with runes at every impact.

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Another veteran, with twin prosthetic arms, spun two curved blades with inhuman speed. He deflected every strike and cut down all who came near. There were not many of them, fewer than a hundred, but they still tore through Theodore’s forces like a storm. At the center of it all, Sir Wischard was like death incarnate.

“He’s really pushing that prosthesis. I may have to rebuild it after this is over…”

Roland remained still atop the battlements, eyes locked on the battlefield. He had always considered Wischard to be on par with the Guild Master, perhaps even stronger. After his injury, Wischard had stagnated, unable to level through battle. But now it seemed he was trying to reclaim lost time, and Theodore’s soldiers would be the ones to pay for it.

“…Arthur, are you sure about this?”

The tide was in their favor, but Roland had stayed behind, not because he couldn’t fight, but because he had been asked not to. Through his helmet he contacted their leader, Arthur who was riding together with his troops, something he wished he didn’t.

“Yes, my friend. You have to let me do this.”