"Before blaming your vassals, look at yourself first. How can a noble of the North be so sluggish?"
"S-Shut up!"
Fuming at Sylas's mockery, Philip drew his sword clumsily, clearly lacking proper training. Sylas easily parried the blade and struck him in the stomach with the hilt.
Thud.
"Guh!"
With a gasping sound, Philip collapsed to the ground. Sylas grabbed the unconscious Philip by the back of his neck and dragged him out. Although no full-scale battle had erupted, there was still chaos around. Those remaining seemed to be the lord's loyalists.
"Enough! The battle is over! The lord is in our custody!"
"What?!"
"M-My lord!"
Some veteran soldiers and knights turned pale. With their commander captured, everything was as good as over. All at once, weapons clattered to the ground, signaling the end of the battle. Less than an hour had passed since Sylas's command to advance. Only three knights had perished—an absurdly simple victory.
