Chapter 130: The Assault
Several days later. Sunset.
The camp of the Holy Empire's first expeditionary force stretched across the plains. Campfires flickered into life as the cooks lit the marching stoves, the heavy aroma of thick stew beginning to waft through the air as they prepared dinner for thirty thousand men.
Soldiers had stripped off their upper plate armor, swinging heavy wooden mallets to drive sharpened stakes into the earth. They were erecting a temporary perimeter of defensive works. The air was a cacophony of barking officers, the rhythmic thud-thud of wood meeting soil, and the laughter of men discussing how much bounty they would pocket once the campaign concluded.
There was a palpable sense of "relaxation" typical of an army that expected an easy victory.
A young Templar sat on a log, fastidiously wiping his longsword. The polished steel reflected a face full of religious fervor and youthful zeal. Nearby, a militiaman tore off a hunk of bread, his tone light as he tried to boost the mood.
"Hear the latest? The 'Undead Legion' across the border is nothing but a bunch of rickety bone-racks that can barely stand straight."
The veteran beside him spat out a blade of grass, his expression laden with contempt. "A motley crew of dregs. They don't even have standardized gear. Give us a few days, and we'll kick them all back into the dirt where they belong."
The young knight nodded, his grip tightening on his hilt. "For the glory of the Spirits."
Suddenly—
WUUUUUUUU—!
A long, piercing blast of a horn tore through the twilight from the distant scout outposts. The sound was sharp, jagged, and carried the highest-level alarm for an enemy raid.
In an instant, every sound on the plain evaporated.
The cook stirring the pot froze, the ladle still dripping, oblivious to the scalding broth splashing his hand. The soldier who had been hammering a stake held his mallet mid-swing, his posture rigid.
The young Templar's mask of piety shifted instantly into a grim, hard line.
Thirty thousand pairs of eyes turned toward the horizon, peering over the half-finished barricades.
A black line.
It appeared at the very edge of the setting sun, directly facing the camp. The line was thickening at a steady, unwavering speed, pressing forward like a coming tide of ink.
"ALL UNITS: BATTLE STATIONS!"
"KNIGHTS! ASSEMBLE!"
"THIRD AND FIFTH MERCENARY BATTALIONS—GET TO THE FRONT! NOW!"
Officers drew their sabers, roaring with everything they had to chase away the mounting dread in their men's hearts. Soldiers scrambled for their discarded plate and steel. Mercenaries cursed as they were driven to the front lines by the flat of an officer's blade, forming a loose, ragged phalanx.
The camp shifted from leisure to a state of extreme, vibrating tension. The scent of fear began to permeate the air.
Cardinal Hal sat atop a pure white warhorse, having manifested at the head of the formation. Behind him stood the Templar Knights—the Empire's sharpest blades and the physical extension of divine right. Each man was clad in full-plate armor engraved with the Three Holy Swords, the silver metal reflecting the blood-red rays of the dying sun. They were the only units in the chaotic camp that remained perfectly, unnervingly still.
The approaching army halted.
There were no war drums. No horns. No pre-battle taunts. A gargantuan legion stood silent upon the plain, looking like a solidified ocean of darkness.
The wind swept across the expanse, kicking up dust and snapping the banners of both sides. The flag of the Theocracy bore the Radiant Sun, fluttering fiercely. Opposite them, the enemy's banner was a field of absolute black, embroidered with silver thread.
In the center of the black fabric was a small, strangely cute, "chibi" skull.
Skele-Envy stood at the head of the Penance Legion. The pitch-black skeletal warhorse beneath him pawed at the grass, white mist erupting from its nostrils. Envy reached out a bony hand, giving the horse a sharp thwack on the skull; the beast went still instantly.
Then, Envy wheeled his mount and rode forward alone, trotting into the "no-man's land" between the two armies. The rhythmic clack of hooves against the earth was amplified by the silence, striking against the hearts of the human soldiers.
A Templar beside Hal gripped his hilt. "Lord Cardinal, their commander has presented himself. Allow me to meet him."
Hal raised a hand in a simple gesture of denial. The knight went silent, though his muscles remained coiled like a spring. Hal urged his own horse forward to meet the intruder.
A priest in white-and-gold robes and a skeleton wreathed in the visible energy of the grave met in the center of the field.
Hal felt no fear. As the mouthpiece of the Spirits, the undead were his natural prey—filth to be purified.
"Hal Cyrus, Cardinal of the Holy Empire of Gusteko," he announced, his voice clear and resonant. He infused the words with Mana, ensuring they reached the ears of every soldier in the vicinity.
The skeletal general stared at him, two points of Soul Fire pulsing within his sockets.
"Skele-Envy. First among the Seven Generals of the Evernight Empire."
First among seven.
Hal's mind cataloged the information. So there are six more entities of this caliber at Tier 5?
Envy gave Hal no further time to calculate. Having stated his name, the general simply turned his horse and rode back to his lines with mechanical efficiency. There were no further words, no testing of resolve, no diplomatic flourishes. It was as if he had merely been checking off a box on a list of procedures.
Hal watched his back, returning to his own ranks in a pensive silence.
Fifty thousand troops. All armored. Formation perfect. Discipline absolute. This is an elite force.
But it is not their main strength.
Hal reached the conclusion quickly. A power like the Odri Empire wouldn't surrender the entire East out of fear of a mere fifty-thousand-man unit. Evernight was hiding something far more horrific.
Therefore, the purpose of this army was clear: a probe. A show of force. They were using a secondary wing to test the resolve and capability of the Crusade. That "First among Seven" claim wasn't a boast—it was a psychological strike meant to shake his conviction.
Calm returned to Hal's heart. War was decided by steel and Od, not by titles.
"Pass my orders," Hal commanded, his voice regaining the steady authority of a supreme commander. "The vanguard shall be comprised of the Third and Fifth Mercenary Battalions. The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Militia Regiments will support the flanks."
"Order them to initiate a probing assault on the enemy lines."
It was a textbook tactic. Use the mercenaries who fought for coin to exhaust the enemy's stamina and arrows, forcing them to reveal their tactical depth. Their lives would pave the way for the true assault of the Regulars.
"Lord Cardinal," a priest rode up, looking hesitant. "Should the Templars support them? The morale of the mercenaries is... questionable."
"Unnecessary," Hal waved him off. "We are outnumbered. The Templars must conserve their Prana for the enemy's core. We shall endure several waves of attrition until our reinforcements arrive. That is our primary objective."
"Understood."
Soon, a force of seven thousand men detached from the Holy Empire's ranks. They were a mess of mismatched gear and loose formation. Driven forward by the flat of the overseers' blades, they trudged forward with a low, grumbling chorus of curses.
Hal watched these sacrificial pawns, expecting the enemy to dispatch an equal force or perhaps open fire with archers.
However...
The impossible happened.
The entire black legion across the field moved. Not a detachment. Not a wing. The whole.
Fifty thousand soldiers surged forward like a single, massive slab of black iron. There were no battle cries. No thundering drums. Only the terrifyingly synchronized sound of a hundred thousand feet hitting the dirt.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The earth heaved under the weight of the collective march. Hal's pupils constricted.
Are they insane?
To commit their entire strength to a total assault in response to a mere probe?
What kind of commander ignores every fundamental law of military strategy?!
Hal's gaze snapped toward the skeletal figure at the front. Envy had simply raised a bony hand and given a light, effortless flick forward.
A command of absolute simplicity.
Hal realized the truth then. This wasn't a probe. From the very first second, the enemy intended to fight a decisive war of annihilation.
There was no time to adjust his deployment. The seven thousand men he had sent forward were now like seafoam crashing against a steel dam. They would be pulverized in seconds. He couldn't let seven thousand men be slaughtered; it would shatter the morale of his remaining force before the first drop of blood was spilled. More importantly, he could not show a single heartbeat of hesitation. That would be a betrayal of the Spirits.
"ALL UNITS: CHARGE!"
Hal's voice, amplified by his Mana, thundered across the plains.
The command was received. The main body of the Crusade—twenty thousand regulars and three thousand Templars—unleashed a deafening roar.
"FOR THE SPIRITS!"
Drums thundered. Horns shrieked. A sea of Holy Light ignited as the knights channeled their power, forming a radiant ocean of silver that surged forward to collide with the encroaching darkness.
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