The outcome of this war was decided here.
At the moment the two armies of transcendent warriors collided, even their hardened armor began to dent.
Blood sprayed from ruptured wounds; life fell beneath the edge of the blade.
The barbarians had little in the way of intellect. Like beasts, the sight and smell of blood only stirred their bloodlust further, swelling the muscles in their arms.
Ryan's soldiers, too, did not retreat. They fought with wild fury amidst the bloodshed.
The Blessing of the Deer Spirit granted not just supernatural strength but also a conviction to protect. These were Ryan's sworn guardians—and now, their lord stood behind them.
Fewer than four hundred men were engaged here, yet this battlefield became the most brutal and savage scene of the entire war.
Clang!!!
Metal-edged wooden shields clashed with massive axes. Brand's eyes were bloodshot, like a roaring stag. He smashed forward with his shield, deflecting the axe, and in the same instant, slashed out with his blade.
Stag's Shield, Heroic Spear, Agile Step—three knightly techniques exploded simultaneously. The fearsome power struck Ash's body. The armor imbued with magical runes dented deeply on impact, the runes themselves cracking and losing much of their effect.
The sound of bones breaking sent Ash into a frenzy. Roaring, he threw aside the massive axe—which had become difficult to wield after the shock numbed his arm—and swung a massive fist toward Brand's face.
He was simply too massive. His descending punch held the power of a warhammer. This was, after all, a barbarian with peak Silver Knight strength.
The force pierced Brand's shield. Even knight techniques had their limits. The terrifying impact left Brand's entire arm limp and useless.
With the shield no longer blocking Ash's view, the barbarian bellowed and smashed his fist down again.
Brand, unable to lift his shield, gave up his longsword. Instead, he ducked and rolled sideways at the last second.
Ash was too tall. And because of his height, his reach left a blind spot—his strike couldn't land on lower targets easily. He bent over to swing downward.
Brand seized the opportunity. As Ash bent forward, Brand rolled to his flank and pulled out a dagger from his boot—a blade made from a giant stag's horn.
The dagger was unbelievably sharp. Ash's armor, weakened after losing its magical reinforcement, was no match. The dagger sank into his waist with no resistance.
Ash howled in pain. He flailed, trying to swat Brand away, but Brand raised his left arm—regaining some strength—and blocked it with his shield.
Using the impact, Brand slammed the shield downward, and with his right hand, punched Ash's arm to knock him back. He then snatched up his fallen longsword from the ground.
At that moment, Ash yanked the dagger out of his waist. Though the pain drove him berserk, the blood loss had weakened him. He had no time to react before Brand's sword came slashing toward him.
"Kill!!!"
Brand roared as the knight's blade tore across Ash's neck. His massive head flew into the air, blood gushing like a fountain, soaking Brand in crimson and making him look like a demon from hell.
That's the nature of life-or-death combat—no prolonged exchange, only split-second judgment. Victory and death are decided in a moment.
Death takes only a second. Even a Silver Knight can't survive without a head.
A nearby axe swung toward him, but fellow knights raised their shields to protect Brand. Now that the two peak Silver-level warriors were no longer locked in combat, other soldiers dared approach. At least now, they wouldn't be instantly killed by the stray force of those titanic blows.
"Kill!"
The slaughter lasted two full hours. Neither side's transcendent troops gave an inch. But in the end, the barbarian force was annihilated.
As for Artel—he fled the moment the last barbarian fell. A few soldiers ran with him. When it came to fleeing for their lives, every noble was a seasoned expert.
Yet Ryan looked across the battlefield, where nearly two thousand soldiers knelt—and knew that he had won even more.
He walked across the blood-drenched battlefield, met by eyes filled with both terror and awe.
His mithril armor was spattered with gore. He had personally joined the latter half of the battle, slaying barbarians himself. For a lord, nothing was more inspiring than such action. It was likely what had hastened the enemy's collapse.
"This was war. You once belonged to another noble. But in this war, I am the victor. From now on—you are my slaves."
"In war, you are my spoils!"
Ryan's voice echoed across the field. His soldiers immediately began corralling the kneeling prisoners. And to Ryan's declaration, the captives showed no reaction.
It was only natural. They had never had any right to loyalty. They were slaves or peasant conscripts.
Only the few soldiers who had sworn allegiance to Count Weiss were beyond Ryan's claim—those would need to be ransomed or executed if captured.
But those men had all fled with Artel. None remained.
So now, this was not only a battle—it was also an act of population plunder. These people would now belong to Ryan and the Frozen Soil Territory.
"Have the slaves clean the battlefield. The rest—rest for two hours."
Having given all his orders, Ryan's expression did not lighten. Victory had come at a steep price.
First, his transcendent army—those 178 knight-retainers—had fought the barbarians. Sixty-nine were killed, and the rest were all wounded. Thirteen were completely incapacitated. If not for Brand and Ryan's intervention, the number would have kept rising.
Ryan's heart ached. These were his most elite warriors.
Worse still were the five hundred temporary berserkers—the soldiers he had granted the Blessing of the Deer Spirit. Empowered and fanatically inspired, they had led the charge into the enemy army and bathed the others in killing momentum, turning the tide against a vastly superior force.
Their sacrifice was proof of the crushing victory.
But now only around 210 of them remained.
Most of the fallen had died because their bodies couldn't properly control the sudden strength, or because the blessing's side effects—like hunger and blood depletion—left them vulnerable mid-fight.
The remaining 800 troops fared better. Baron Hutton's 500 lost about 100 men, while Ryan's 300 regular infantry suffered just over 30 casualties—fighting safely behind the berserkers in a sweeping advance.
But even so—who wouldn't feel heartache at such losses?
"Count Weiss…"
Old grudges and new blood alike—Ryan would not forget the debt owed by Count Weiss.
And Baron Barnes.
Ryan was never one to forgive lightly.