Boom!
A torrent of flesh and bone collided violently on the open plains outside Rosenberg. The front line of the guards felt as if they had slammed into a wall made of bones and rusted iron. But that was all.
Skeleton warriors, the most basic fodder of the undead legions, had only one real advantage: they feared no death and never tired. Yet their weakness was just as obvious—their bodies were too light, mere frameworks of bone, giving their charges far less impact than other infantry. In the future, they would be completely replaced by more lethal ghouls and heavily armored skeleton greatsword units. But now, that very weakness became the key that allowed the Rosenberg garrison to hold their ground.
The line did not collapse on contact as expected. Whether it was Nolan’s near-preacher-like rally before the battle or the instinct to survive awakening something deeper, these guards—men who usually did little more than chase petty thieves—now unleashed strength far beyond their usual limits.
The advantage of the loose formation revealed itself fully at the moment of close combat. The front line held firm, locking the enemy in place. The skeletons’ feeble impact could not shake the shield wall. Meanwhile, the soldiers behind, thanks to the spacing, had perfect room to strike.
“Die, you pile of bones!” a young soldier roared, thrusting his sword forward through the gap beneath his comrade’s arm, driving it straight into the eye socket of a skeleton clawing uselessly at the shield.
Pfft! The faint blue soul-fire flickered out instantly. The skeleton froze, then collapsed into a heap of scattered bones. Scenes like this played out across the battlefield. Though the line wavered under the relentless pressure of the undead, it did not break.
Hank and Nolan became the fire brigade of the formation. Wherever a gap opened, wherever the pressure grew too great, they appeared.
Hank’s sword was wide and heavy, every strike brutal. The faintly enchanted blade in his hand—an award from past service—became devastating under the strength of a Silver-rank warrior. He did not need to aim for weaknesses. The straightforward military swordsmanship of the Elfin Kingdom, in his hands, carried an almost savage force.
Clang! With a single strike, a skeleton and its rusted blade were split cleanly in two, bones scattering in all directions.
Nolan’s sword, however, was entirely different. Precise. Fluid. Deadly. Though his strength was inferior to Hank’s, his timing and angles were superior.
“Watch out!”
He flashed to the side of a soldier about to be overwhelmed from three directions. With a flick of his wrist, his blade traced two sharp arcs, deflecting the rusted swords aimed at the man’s neck. Then, shifting his footing, he slipped into the final skeleton’s attack gap and drove his blade into its eye socket from an unexpected angle. The entire sequence flowed like water, fast as lightning.
The rescued soldier barely understood what had happened. One moment, death loomed; the next, a flash of steel, and the threat was gone. He shot Nolan a grateful look, nodded hard, and threw himself back into the brutal melee.
As Nolan moved through the battlefield, he counted silently in his mind.
Three hundred seconds.
Five hundred.
The rhythm of the battle had to remain in his control. When he reached six hundred, a sharp glint flashed in his eyes. He shouted toward Hank, who was cutting a swath through the enemy nearby, “Captain Hank! It’s time!”
Hank paused mid-strike. He glanced at Nolan, and without the slightest hesitation, understood. He had counted to six hundred as well. He gave a sharp nod. “Command of the formation—transfer to Klose!” Then he raised the bone whistle hanging at his neck and blew.
Pfftt—! The shrill sound pierced the battlefield.
Gripping his sword with both hands, Hank lifted it high. Muscles bulged, veins standing out beneath his armor.
“For Elfin!!”
With a thunderous roar, he swung. A blood-red crescent of sword energy tore free from the blade, ripping through the air.
Boom!
The arc slammed into the dense ranks of skeletons with unstoppable force. In an instant, a wide swath of the undead was crushed, reduced to a storm of pulverized bone as if swept aside by an invisible giant hand.
Blood Lion’s Fang.
Within the kingdom’s army, only officers who had distinguished themselves with great merit were qualified to learn such advanced sword techniques. Swordsmanship was the art of wielding a blade; sword techniques were the execution of its forms.
Watching that familiar arc of crimson light, Nolan felt a quiet stir in his heart. As beautiful as ever, and as powerful. It was a pity that in his previous life, with the fall of the Elfin Kingdom, this technique—tempered by generations of warriors—had been lost entirely. Now, with a single strike, it carved out a temporary vacuum over a dozen meters wide in the otherwise impenetrable undead ranks.
“Go!”
Hank let out a low shout and charged toward the opening. Nolan followed close behind. The two sprinted at full speed, on the verge of breaking through the skeletons’ encirclement.
At that moment, a desperate shout came from behind Nolan, “Adjutant Nolan!!”
He turned toward the voice. Klose was there, swinging his arm with all his strength, hurling his family’s enchanted sword, its blade faintly glowing, straight toward him.
Nolan reached out and caught it cleanly by the hilt.
【Darkpiercer】
【Quality: Faint Glow】
【Attack: 15–22】
【Enchantment: Sharpness +1】
【Klose’s family heirloom, showing almost no signs of use.】
Seeing Nolan catch it, Klose drew his backup standard sword and rushed to fill the line, shouting with everything he had, “Take it! It’s more useful in your hands than mine! You deserve it more than I do!”
Gone was the cowardice and arrogance from before. In its place burned a resolve and fervor unlike anything he had ever shown.
“If I die here, tell my father this: Klose stood and embraced glory!!”
Nolan tightened his grip on the sword, feeling the cold steel and the familiar hum of magic. He didn’t indulge in sentiment. Instead, he turned back and shouted to the noble youth who had completely transformed, “No! I’ve got no interest in delivering messages for some noble lord! If you’ve got something to say, survive—and tell him yourself!”
With that, he and Hank burst fully through the skeleton lines.
Not far ahead, two strong warhorses charged out from the direction of the city gate. Both men were skilled riders. Without slowing, they seized the reins, stepped into the stirrups, and vaulted cleanly onto the saddles in one fluid motion.
“Hyah!”
With a snap of the reins, they galloped westward toward the forest, leaving the chaotic battlefield and the sea of skeletons far behind.
Amid the pounding rhythm of hooves, Nolan cast one last glance back.
The gap carved by Blood Lion’s Fang had already been swallowed as the undead closed ranks again. And there stood Klose—at the very front of the formation, sword raised high, shouting to the soldiers behind him, leading them in desperate battle.
***
Far behind the undead ranks, the great corpse-lich had long noticed Hank and Nolan—those two particularly troublesome thorns. When he saw them mount their horses and flee without looking back, he let out an ugly, rasping laugh.
“So much for thinking these human wretches were any different. In the end, just cowards who break under pressure and flee the battlefield. Humans are all the same—cling to life, no better than the rest of the trash before them.”
He waved his bone staff, signaling the corpse-lich mages to prepare. It was time to crush what remained of the enemy with sorcery.
Yet deep within the forest, beyond the reach of his mage’s sight, Hank and Nolan reined in their horses.
From the shadows among the trees, a cavalry unit emerged silently. At its head stood Little Donnie.
Lowering his voice, he reported, “Captain Hank! Adjutant Nolan! The special mobile unit—thirty riders—assembled as ordered!”
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