Chapter 43: Sven
Sven swung his sword, decapitating one of the weaker enemies. Swiftly, he snatched a spear from the ground and hurled it, striking an archer perched in a tree. He then spun around, parrying the blade of an enemy who had tried to ambush him. After exchanging four quick blows, he managed to stab the soldier through the chest, killing him. Sweat poured down his body as his eyes darted rapidly across the chaotic battlefield. Suddenly, he leaped to the side, narrowly dodging an arrow that whizzed past where he had stood, striking a random person fleeing behind him.
Before he could steady himself, more arrows flew toward him, forcing him to roll across the ground. As he strategized how to deal with the archers, he spotted one of his own soldiers ambushing the bowman, stabbing him in the back. Such scenes were common—there was no such thing as dueling etiquette here. Everyone clashed indiscriminately, and allegiances could shift in an instant.
Sven stood, scanning his surroundings once more. The enemy forces had dwindled significantly, and the survivors were beginning to retreat. Raising his sword, he roared, "Victory is ours!" and charged toward the nearest foe. His battle cry acted like a war horn, rallying his soldiers, who echoed his shouts in unison.
"Victory is ours!"
"Death to the enemies!"
The battle intensified, turning into a massacre. Within minutes, most of the remaining enemy soldiers were slaughtered, while the cowardly ones surrendered—only to be shown no mercy. Many were butchered for sport, their corpses desecrated in mockery. Those spared faced a fate worse than death: political imprisonment.
Sven watched it all with a pleased expression, unable to suppress a small, exhilarated grin. This wasn’t his first kill, but the sheer intensity and chaos of the battle sent adrenaline surging through his veins. Not to mention, he had slain ten enemies in a single fight—this would elevate his status and reputation even further. To him, reputation was everything. He despised humiliation in front of the public and other nobles, like the incident months ago when he had been thrown from his horse unexpectedly.
Truthfully, he was strong—under normal circumstances, he would’ve dismounted at the first sign of danger. But that time, his usually docile horse had suddenly panicked, leaving him no time to react.
As he surveyed the battlefield, he saw his father dismounting and removing his helmet. A broad, triumphant grin stretched across his face—they had won a crushing victory with minimal losses and secured valuable spoils. However, his father’s expression darkened after a closer inspection of the battlefield.
Noticing this, Sven rushed over. Before he could speak, Rudolph Mortimer approached, holding a few cloth strips soaked in a strange substance. He handed one to the mayor and another to Sven. "This is a beast attractant. It seems someone deliberately triggered the beast tide."
The mayor examined the cloth in his hand before replying with clear disdain, "That’s not all. It appears the elite commanders of the Cold Sun Empire retreated before we arrived, leaving their underlings to buy them time. This is absolute chaos." Initially pleased, he now seethed at the implications—any ambiguity in this matter could trigger a full investigation by the state magistrate, threatening his position.
He tossed the cloth aside carelessly and barked orders. "Trackers, find the escape route of those bastards’ leaders. Rudolph, you and the cavalry will accompany me. As for you, Sven—guard this area. Secure the spoils, bind the prisoners, tend to the wounded, and send scouts to sweep the forest perimeter. Establish a defensive formation—the beasts might return." His orders were strict and meticulous, knowing his son’s inexperience in warfare.