Chapter Seventy-Five: Impact

As the blare of a horn echoed across the distance, faint shadows began surging from the rear. At that moment, behind the army of the Crown Prince, countless flickers of fire danced through the darkness. At a single command, a barrage of fireballs was launched, plunging the once-peaceful encampment into utter chaos.

Soon after, the muffled sounds of fierce combat gradually drifted in from the rear. Hearing this, the Crown Prince’s expression changed. “What’s happening?”

A knight rode up at once. “Your Highness, our forces stationed outside the city have come under enemy surprise attack!”

“How many of them?” The Crown Prince’s gaze was grim as he questioned the knight before him.

“At least three thousand!” The knight’s tone was resolute, his voice unwavering.

A wave of shock swept through those present.

“Who could it be? Who can still muster three thousand men at this point?” another knight wondered aloud, clearly bewildered.

“This isn’t the time to worry about that!” the Crown Prince snapped, his eyes sweeping the assembly below. “Order our men outside the city to retreat within the walls at once, then close the gates. Ignore everything outside!”

The knight acknowledged the order and left, but just then, another man rushed in, anxiety written across his face.

“Your Highness! Disaster—our troops outside the city have been routed!”

“What!” The hall erupted in astonishment.

Meanwhile, Artis watched the scattered remnants of the enemy before him, leading his own guards in a relentless charge. Because the besiegers had been focused on blockading the inner city, most of those outside were the retinues of minor lords and forcibly conscripted peasants—true battle-hardened knights were few. With the endless fighting, most warriors were already exhausted, and even the lords’ will to fight had faltered. Struck by Artis’s sudden assault, the ranks buckled and broke apart.

Indeed, after Artis’s men called for surrender, a great many threw down their arms and yielded.

Thus, when the Crown Prince and his entourage ascended the city walls, this was the scene that greeted them: nearly ten thousand men locked in savage combat beneath the ramparts. Knights were struck down one after the other by warriors clad in gleaming rattan armor, and the entire front crumbled as men fled in all directions.

“This—thousands of knights—how is this possible!” someone beside the Crown Prince cried out in disbelief.

They could not tell the difference between the rattan-armored, uniformly disciplined warriors below and ordinary knights. In their eyes, these fighters were formidable, their armor both sturdy and light, and each one’s strength matched that of a knight’s squire—clearly all knights themselves.

The Crown Prince looked up. On Artis’s side, a banner was being raised.

It was a banner of green and purple, emblazoned with a great tree and a crown—utterly unfamiliar.

“What is that banner?” he questioned, unable to grasp the identity of these sudden adversaries.

“Your Highness, that standard does not belong to any of our kingdom’s nobility, but is of foreign origin,” a knight below reported.

“What!” The Crown Prince was stunned. Yet faced with the chaos below, his face turned ashen. “Send orders—close the gates and let no one in!”

“But, Your Highness, our knights are still outside!” a knight protested hesitantly.

“I said, close the gates!” The Crown Prince turned, his expression dark and forbidding.

Seeing his determination, the knight dared not delay and hurried to carry out the command.

Thus, under the desperate gazes of the warriors outside, the gates of Brook City slowly swung shut before them.

“No!”

“Your Highness, let me in!”

Despairing cries rose from outside, heavy with pleading and pain. Some among the Crown Prince’s retinue looked on with faint pity, but faced with the Prince’s steadfast figure, none dared speak out.

And so, under those hopeless eyes, the pursuers showed no mercy, mowing down the scattered remnants.

Witnessing this, many lords who had been coerced into the Crown Prince’s cause no longer hesitated—they gritted their teeth and surrendered.

“Bazel, have the surrendering men throw down their weapons and escort them to the other side!” commanded a voice. Artis surveyed the field, then lifted his gaze to the walls.

In his vision, the once-mighty stream of black-gold fortune atop the city was being suppressed, a great ancient tree manifesting to hold it down. Within, faint flashes of red and gold flickered, echoing the ancient tree.

He let out a cold laugh.

Meanwhile, within the city, shadows flitted through the streets.

A handsome young man in armor moved through a deserted alleyway. Had the Crown Prince and his brother been present, they would have recognized him at once as Kukus, the man who had once summoned priests to heal the king. No longer the elegant gentleman from before, his armor was now stained with blood, and divine power shimmered faintly about him—he was, unmistakably, a priest, and of no small rank.

He gazed ahead, and sensing from afar, he could feel a warm, grand will standing outside the city, calling out to him.

Behind him, over a hundred priests in armor followed in silence, their prayers sweeping a domain of nature that cleansed all filth from their path.

“My friends!” He turned, addressing his fellow priests. “Our god now stands at the gates. As his faithful, I trust you can all sense his presence.”

“For our god’s sake, we must give our all. We must open the gates and let his light shine upon Brook City!”

“For our god!” the priests chorused with fervor, their eyes ablaze.

As their cries rang out, faint strands of violet mist seemed to descend, bearing a mysterious power that wrapped around them.

This was Artis’s fortune, now sheltering them, merging with their own and flourishing mightily.

Kukus nodded slightly at the sight, then led his followers toward one of the city gates.

At the gate, a group of knights stood guard, having relaxed now that the enemy showed no sign of attacking. Suddenly, commotion erupted behind them.

They turned, only to be blinded by a sudden burst of radiance. Natural elements surged and coalesced into spells that rained down upon them.

Chaos engulfed the gate.

Within the city, a pure light of faith began to gather, faintly resonating with the force outside.

Seeing this, Artis understood. “The time has come!”

“Bazel!”

He called to Kukus, who stood always at his side. “Take five hundred of the guards and storm the gate at once!”

When Bazel acknowledged the order and departed, Artis turned to Bill. “Bill, lead the priests to hold the line!”

“Yes!” Bill responded.

With these orders, the battlefield shifted once more.

Behind Artis, a squadron of warriors advanced. Priests gathered in formation, assembling beneath Artis’s banner and readying their spells.

This squad emerged with an aura of steadfast ferocity, their black armor glimmering ominously, making them appear truly formidable.

These were Artis’s personal guards, handpicked for their imposing stature and resolute fate. Their training was several times more rigorous than that of other troops, and they had long since mastered battle energy. Strengthened by divine power, each was at least as skilled as a knight’s squire.

Their weapons and armor, crafted by the northern priests, were rare and reserved for the guards alone. Their very presence radiated a daunting, unyielding might.

“Guard regiment! Forward, charge!” Bazel bellowed before the city wall, his eyes steely.

With a roar, they swept across the battlefield. Any who dared bar their way were crushed without mercy, their formidable prowess on full display.

Witnessing this, the Crown Prince shivered atop the wall. “They’ve reached the level of royal guards…”

Even as this thought crossed his mind, a breathless messenger arrived. “Your Highness! Disaster—the gate has been attacked, the defending knights all slain, and the enemy now holds the entrance!”

“What!” The Crown Prince stared in disbelief.

“Your Highness, beware!” someone shouted. Before the Prince could react, darkness fell before his eyes, and he heard the faint hiss of something slicing through the air.

He dodged instinctively, battle energy flaring just in time to save him.

But all around him, wails of agony erupted as countless arrows pierced through armor.

“Arrows?”

He steadied himself, then gasped at the sight of arrows jutting from the bodies of his knights, bewildered.

In this world, battle energy had rendered arrows nearly obsolete; ordinary shafts could not pierce a knight’s defenses, let alone their armor. After all, knights were, in essence, a kind of transcendent being—albeit a nascent one—far beyond ordinary men.

But there was no time for reflection.

For at the foot of the wall, with a thunderous crash, the city gates were thrown open.