The battlefield was drowned in smoke, blood, and screams.
"Master is dead! Master is dead!"
The cry echoed across the plains like a rolling thunderclap. Seventy thousand ordinary soldiers of the Nott coalition army had barely moved forward in their formation, yet already panic was spreading like wildfire. The ranks broke, men glanced nervously at one another, and fear overtook reason.
In the rear, the cavalry—seeing the chaos—tried desperately to flee. Horses reared and screamed, terrified by the roar of machine-gun fire. Panic in a cavalry charge was death itself, and soon the ground was littered with broken bodies.
The MG42 general-purpose machine guns cut through the enemy like wheat before a scythe. Riders were torn from saddles, armor shredded as the bullets rained upon them. The rear ranks tried to dismount and scatter, but terror drove the herd forward. Horses trampled their own masters, crushing bones and flesh into the mud.
For a moment, it was not the enemy who killed them—it was their own panic. The Nott coalition camp became a slaughterhouse.
Yet, amidst the chaos, a voice roared above all:
"Everyone charge with me! They are only two thousand! Forward! Forward!"
It was Ragnar, standing tall upon his warhorse, eyes gleaming with madness.
Suddenly, the war drums thundered, not in rhythm of attack but in retreat.
"Who dares beat the retreat drum?!" Ragnar bellowed, his fury shaking the air.
"It was me."
Lot IX, king of the Loth Kingdom, stared at Ragnar grimly.
"Why?!" Ragnar demanded, his voice filled with outrage.
"Because those men out there are my soldiers—my kingdom's people! I brought twenty-five thousand cavalry and one thousand knights to this field. They are the lifeblood of Loth. I will not watch them be thrown into the meat grinder for your madness. You may not care, Ragnar, but I am their king—I must care!"
Lot IX's voice cracked with grief as he saw his men cut down before even reaching the enemy line. His heart bled at the sight.
Ragnar snarled, defiance burning in his eyes. "No! Their mages cannot sustain such large-scale bombardment forever. They will run out of magic soon. If we press the attack now, we will crush them with sheer numbers!"
With a wild gesture, Ragnar unsheathed his sword and rode out in front of his men. His rune-engraved armor shimmered, a magical shield forming around him.
"Warriors of Nord, follow me! Charge!"
"Madness… he's gone completely mad," Lot IX muttered, sinking back into his seat.
"Father, what should we do?" asked the young Prince of Loth, trembling with uncertainty.
Lot IX steeled himself, then shouted, "We retreat! If Ragnar wants to march his people to death, let him. I will not sacrifice Loth for his insanity."
With that, he mounted his horse and ordered the Loth banners to withdraw.
---
At the rear of the Kiswell Kingdom's line, Gavin Ward watched the battlefield with narrowed eyes.
"The army of Loth is pulling back," he observed coolly.
Beside him, his officer Rotis pointed toward the chaos. "Your Majesty, the Nord soldiers remain. They are still charging under Ragnar's banner."
Indeed, Ragnar's voice carried across the field:
"Warriors of Nord! Their magicians are spent! With me! Any man who slays an enemy will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins!"
The promise of gold ignited reckless courage. Twenty thousand Nord infantry surged forward, their cries echoing:
"Swear to follow His Highness unto death!"
"Kill the Kiswell dogs!"
Greed and glory spurred them on.
But Gavin Ward lifted his hand calmly. "Stop firing."
The machine guns fell silent.
Confusion rippled through his men, yet Gavin's eyes gleamed coldly. He had a plan.
The cavalry, broken and scattered, were already fleeing—no longer a threat. Now the Nord infantry, blinded by their charge, marched straight into a trap. Let them come closer, Gavin thought. Let them march into the killing ground.
The barrels of the MG42s glowed red-hot from sustained fire. Now was the time to switch barrels, replacing the light machine-gun barrels with the heavy ones. Soon, the weapons would unleash 1,500 rounds per minute, a storm of lead unlike anything the Nord infantry could imagine.
The Nord soldiers advanced steadily.
Two kilometers.
Fifteen hundred meters.
One thousand meters.
Seven hundred.
Five hundred.
Four hundred.
Three hundred.
Still, no fire came.
"See! Their mages are empty of power!" Ragnar exulted, raising his sword high. "The fools have no magic left to resist us!"
His hatred burned at Lot IX for abandoning him, but victory was in sight. "Archers! Ready bows!"
At two hundred meters, Ragnar envisioned Kiswell soldiers buried under a storm of arrows. His heart swelled with triumph.
"Victory belongs to me!" he cried. "Gavin Ward is unworthy to face me!"
"Loose all arrows!"
Yet at that precise moment, Gavin Ward's own voice thundered across the Kiswell lines.
"Fire!"
With that command, the MG42s roared once more, their terrible firepower exploding like the wrath of thunder gods. The killing ground lit up with streams of bullets.
The Nord archers never loosed their arrows. Their lines shattered instantly as lead ripped through ranks, tearing men apart by the dozens. Blood sprayed into the air, screams drowned beneath the mechanical roar.
It was not a battle—it was a massacre.
---
Expanded Narrative & Key Moments
The initial collapse of the Nott cavalry, trampled by their own panicked horses, showed how fear itself can destroy an army before the enemy even arrives.
Lot IX's retreat marked a pivotal turning point, as one of Ragnar's key allies abandoned him, unwilling to waste his kingdom's lifeblood.
Ragnar's reckless charge, driven by arrogance and greed, exposed his men to Gavin Ward's calculated trap.
Gavin Ward's tactical pause—halting fire to lure the Nord infantry closer—turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse once the MG42s resumed.
The clash of ideology between Ragnar's desperation and Gavin's cold strategy foreshadowed the true balance of power: discipline and modern firepower over reckless valor.
By the time the smoke cleared, the cries of the Nord soldiers were drowned beneath the endless hammering of machine-gun fire. Gavin Ward did not even need to smile—his enemies had delivered themselves to his guns.
Victory, in the end, belonged not to Ragnar, but to Gavin Ward.
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