"Heavy-armored troops! Charge forward!" Fredrick's command echoed through the battlefield, cutting through the wails of the wounded and the crunch of snow underfoot.
At his lead were the senior students and battle-hardened fighters, forming the vanguard of the charge. Behind them, however, was a different sight—new recruits, fresh to battle, faces pale, some still dry-heaving from the earlier carnage. They were no match for seasoned warriors, but there was no time for hesitation.
Fredrick and his fellow senior students refused to allow the recruits a moment to recover. The longer they stalled, the weaker their formation would become. Battle was not merciful, and neither would he be.
"Move! Or you'll die standing still!"
Most of the soldiers pushed forward, albeit unsteady. A few lagged behind, still vomiting onto the snow, but Fredrick had already moved on. They would either catch up or be left behind.
Not that it mattered. The battle was already won.
The remaining cavalrymen, the once-proud force that had charged in with such bravado, had already lost all will to resist. They clung to life by the fragile thread of surrender. Their weapons lay abandoned in the slush of blood and ice, their spirits crushed.
Fredrick barely paid them any attention. He ordered them stripped of their equipment and taken prisoner. There was no longer any entertainment in cutting them down.
Instead, his focus turned to the corridor ahead, where the sounds of battle still raged. Without delay, he led his knights forward, their galloping hooves sending sprays of blood-stained snow into the air.
The massacre in the corridor was nearing its climax.
The initial cavalry charge had ended in disaster, their pike formations shattered by the monstrous ballistas. What remained of the garrison troops fared no better.
They had been greeted with a relentless hail of crossbow bolts, each one fired from cover. The convoy's crossbowmen, hidden behind fortified carriages, fired through narrow slits, striking down enemy bowmen before they could even raise their weapons in response.
The garrison troops had no choice but to huddle together, shields raised, but it did little to protect them from the unrelenting assault. The frozen ground beneath them was a butcher's yard of bodies, the snow turned to crimson ice beneath their feet.
Trapped and desperate, one of Count Cobry's sons—the commander of the garrison troops—finally gave the order: Retreat.
But retreat was not an option.
At that moment, the wooden walls near the camp's entrance collapsed. Unlike the carriage barricades, these had been simple wooden partitions, never meant to withstand an assault. The moment they fell, Stroud and his cavalry brigade surged through the opening, cutting off the enemy's escape.
And they were not alone.
Behind them, Bale's pike infantry followed, swiftly erecting wooden barricades to entrap the remaining garrison troops in a brutal killing zone.
In the center of the chaos, Elrod clashed with the Gold-ranked commander, his iron claw and opponent's swords singing through the cold night air. The magical buff from Seraphine had strengthened Elrod, allowing him to stand toe-to-toe with his formidable opponent. They met in a violent storm of steel, sparks flying with each collision.
Meanwhile, Hilter remained with Allen, his sharp eyes monitoring the battle as he relayed commands. Beside him stood Seraphine, Eman, and Patt, awaiting their orders.
And then came Arman.
His charge through the corridor was an unstoppable tide of death. His lance struck down soldier after soldier, his knights following in his wake, their weapons carving a path of destruction.
Some garrison troops attempted to flee, squeezing through the narrow gaps in the barricades, only to meet an agonizing fate. Hidden beyond those openings were senior academy students and pike infantry, waiting to ambush any who tried to escape. Their screams filled the night, sharp and fleeting.
Even one of Count Cobry's Silver-ranked sons met his end this way, impaled as he attempted to slip through the cracks.
By the time Arman arrived with reinforcements, the battle had already reached its conclusion.
The remaining garrison troops—battered, exhausted, and terrified—finally broke. Some threw down their weapons and knelt, surrendering without resistance. Others, desperate to take even one enemy with them, raised their swords in a final stand—only to be mercilessly cut down.
From above, Serena and her unit rained crossbow bolts onto those who refused to yield.
Allen gave the final order.
"Spare those who surrender. Kill the rest."
The last remnants of resistance crumbled.
As the dust settled, Elrod let out a triumphant laugh. He held up the severed head of the Gold-ranked commander, still dripping with blood, a prize of his hard-fought duel. His own shoulder bore a deep wound from the battle, but his grin was unshaken.
Hilter, however, remained uneasy.
"There should have been another Gold-ranked enemy," he murmured.
What he didn't know was that the second Gold-ranked son had died at the very beginning—his body crushed beneath the panicked retreat of his own soldiers, impaled by one of the ballista bolts meant for the cavalry.
Smoke rose in the distance.
Outside the camp, Jasper's light cavalry had completed their mission. They had set the rebel-sweeping corps' camp ablaze, sending a messenger to report their victory.
But with that report came an unexpected problem.
They had found over 2,000 prisoners.
Captured from a rebel stronghold, they had been enslaved by the rebel-sweeping corps and now sat in desperate, starving misery.
"What do we do with them?" Allen exhaled heavily, shaking his head in frustration. 2000 men could not simply be left to die in the snow, but neither could they be easily managed.
"I suppose we have no choice but to take them in for now," he decided at last.
"Patt, Eman, organize the escort. Fredrick and his knights will take a company of pikemen to bring them here. Make sure to collect those wooden shields they used—those will serve as firewood tonight."
Hilter was given another task—to set up extra tents and bonfires in the northwestern part of the camp. It would be cold, but at least the captives would not freeze to death.
By the time the 2000 men arrived, the camp had been transformed.
The first thing that greeted them was the path of corpses.
Their march through the gates was silent, all whispers and murmurs vanishing the moment they saw the reality of the battlefield. Bodies were stacked high, stripped of armor and weapons, their lifeless eyes staring into the snow-covered night. The stench of blood still lingered in the air.
The prisoners crossed that crimson path without a word.
Only after reaching the northwestern area did they finally exhale, their shoulders sagging with the weight of everything they had just witnessed.
Allen watched them carefully. He had worried they might cause unrest—but after seeing the bodies, their spirits had been thoroughly broken.
The snowflakes continued to fall, veiling the camp in a deceptive quiet.
Bonfires burned bright across the camp, their flickering light casting long shadows over the bodies, the ruins, and the weary soldiers who had survived the night.
Allen stood before his tent, watching the snowfall with a distant gaze.
The battle was over. The slaughter was over.
But this war was far from finished.
The convoy's journey to the Northlands had only just begun.