The frontline pressed harder. Steel met flesh in a relentless rhythm. The Orcs, crammed into the chokepoint, began to falter. Their numbers thinned. Their war cries turned uncertain.
Mikhail saw it—the hesitation, the fear creeping into their eyes.
Now.
He shoved forward through the press of soldiers, scanning the ground. His hand closed around a broken banner staff, its fabric torn and bloodied. He drove it down—hard—impaling it through the skull of a dead Orc. The makeshift trophy stood tall atop the mountain of corpses, a grim monument to their defiance.
Mikhail raised his sword, his voice a raw, primal roar:
"TIME FOR SPEECHES IS DONE! IF WE DIE—WE DIE WITH HATRED ON OUR LIPS!"
The response erupted like thunder.
"HATRED!"
Eighty thousand voices roared as one, a sound so ferocious it seemed to shake the very earth. The sheer force of it crashed over the Orc horde like a physical blow.
The effect was instantaneous.
The Orcs broke.
Some tried to hold their ground—they died where they stood, cut down in the fury. Others fled, scrambling over their own dead, trampling each other in their desperation to escape. The unstoppable green tide became a rout.
Mikhail stood atop the rubble, chest heaving, watching the Orcs retreat into the distance.
Good. Now comes the hard part.
His eyes tracked to the horizon. Seven massive silhouettes stood against the blood-red sky, unmoving, waiting.
The Titans.
Without the Orc melee to occupy the defenders, the Titans would resume their bombardment. And this time, there was no barrier to stop them.
Mikhail turned sharply.
"Hilowat."
The Vice Commander stepped forward immediately, bloodied but unbowed.
"Prepare the cavalry. You're leading a frontal assault—straight at the Titans. Draw their attention. Make them focus on you."
Hilowat's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened. "A diversion."
"Exactly." Mikhail's voice was cold, tactical. "While you engage, Miyako and I will flank through the treeline with the mage strike team. We hit them from the side before they can retreat. We kill them all."
Hilowat nodded. "Understood. I'll take the Bloodfrost warriors and—" He paused, frowning. "Where are the mercenaries?"
As if summoned, the Golden Pike emerged from the chaos, weapons drawn, formation intact. Maximus at their head, his expression unreadable.
Mikhail's eyes locked with his for a heartbeat. Then he nodded once.
"You're with Hilowat. Frontal assault. Don't get in his way."
Maximus's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. "Understood."
Hilowat moved immediately, barking orders. "Imperial Knights! Bloodfrost! Golden Pike! Mount up—we ride in two minutes!"
Soldiers scrambled for horses. The courtyard filled with the sound of clinking armor, stamping hooves, and shouted commands.
Mikhail turned back to the horizon.
The first spear was already in the air.
SCHWING—
It arced through the sky, a black line against the dying light, growing larger, closer—
CRASH!
It slammed into the far end of the courtyard, cratering the stone. Another followed. Then another. The bombardment had resumed.
Hilowat swung into his saddle, his warhorse snorting and stamping beneath him. The cavalry formed up behind him—Imperial Knights in the center, Bloodfrost on the flanks, Golden Pike bringing up the rear. Over two hundred riders, ready to charge into hell.
Mikhail stepped forward, catching Hilowat's reins.
"Hilowat."
The Vice Commander looked down, waiting.
Mikhail met his eyes, his voice dropping, stripped of command, just... honest.
"No dying."
For the first time in as long as Mikhail could remember, Hilowat smiled. Not a smirk. Not a grim acknowledgment.
A genuine smile.
He nodded once.
"Understood, my Lord."
Then he raised his sword high, his voice carrying across the assembled riders:
"FOR THE EMPIRE! FOR THE CROWN! CHARGE!"
The cavalry erupted forward in a thunder of hooves and steel, a living avalanche of death hurtling toward the Titans.
Mikhail turned immediately. And with the help of the Telepath, he gathered the mages.
A horse was already waiting—Miyako in the saddle, her hand extended. He grabbed it and swung up behind her, his injured arm wrapped around her waist for balance.
Behind them, the mage strike team mounted up—twenty battle-mages, their staves glowing with barely-contained power.
Miyako didn't wait for orders. She kicked the horse into motion, and they plunged into the treeline, the mages following in tight formation.
The forest swallowed them.
Ahead, through the trees, the silhouettes of the Titans loomed like mountains.
Mikhail's hand tightened on his sword.
Let's end this.