.
The 19th brother, clad in mail armor, drew his sword with a rasp, his face taut with panic as he edged toward the exit.
"I'll sound the alarm!" he barked, his voice cracking with urgency, breaking into a desperate run to warn the castle of the betrayal unfolding.
Before he could take three steps, a sharp whistle cut the air. An arrow, swift as death, flashed from the hall's doorway, piercing the 19th's chest with a sickening thud. The force sent him flying three meters, his body crashing to the stone floor.
He gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth, his hands clawing at the arrow as if he could undo fate. His eyes widened, then dulled, his final breath escaping in a shuddering wheeze.
Josk stepped into the hall, his green longbow taut in his hands, his bloodshot eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to burn the air.
"Marksman Josk…" the hawk-nosed man—the Eighth Master, Count Cobry's Two-Star Gold-ranked illegitimate son stammered, his voice a mix of shock and dread.
Eighth Master was the same man who had led the assault on Baron Omador's castle during Josk's wedding, he ensued a slaughter that had torn Josk's loved ones from him. The memory fueled Josk's rage, his knuckles whitening around his bow.
"Long time no see, Eighth Master," Josk growled, his voice low and venomous, each word dripping with years of pent-up hatred,"You'll pay for what you did."
The Eighth's face twisted with fear and resolve. "Hold him down!" he shouted to the half-bald 14th brother, his voice sharp with command as he lunged at Allen, his sword arcing through the air with deadly intent.
"So desperate!" Allen taunted, his voice a mocking lilt as he raised his blade, shedding the drunken act like a cloak.
The clash of steel rang out, a rapid cacophony that filled the hall, sparks flying as their swords met. Allen's movements were fluid, precise, his Five-Star Gold-rank aura—bolstered by Serena's magic overwhelming the Eighth's Two-Star strength.
The Eighth had planned to pin Allen while the 14th dealt with Josk, then overwhelm Allen together.
It was a sound strategy but it has two fundamental mistakes, his first mistake—He hadn't anticipated Allen's genius, a rare blend of superior Battle Force, flawless technique, and razor-sharp instinct.
Within moments, Allen had the Eighth on the defensive, his blade a blur that nearly slashed the man's chest. The Eighth's eyes widened, sweat beading on his brow as he struggled to parry. Not only was Allen superior in strength than him but his mastery over sword, instinct of battle and body movement was also far beyond Eighth's.
Tarkel, crouched on the floor, gaped at the ongoing duel, his mouth hanging open.
"He's… godly," he whispered, his voice trembling with awe. "Lord Styles is a swordsmanship genius!"
The Eighth, a Two-Star Gold swordsman, was floundering, forced to block and dodge as Allen pressed him relentlessly. Tarkel's fear melted into disbelief, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and terror. "He knew he could win all along…"
The 14th brother, distracted by the clash, snapped out of his stupor. Seeing Josk's gaze fixed on Allen's duel, he saw a chance to flee.
His lips curled into a sly grin as he inched backward, his steps silent, hoping to slip away unnoticed. It was the Eighth's second mistake—overestimating his brother's loyalty.
Josk's marksman instincts caught the movement instantly. With a fluid motion, he raised his bow, drawing it taut like a full moon. Three arrows flew in rapid succession, each a whisper of death.
The 14th blocked the first, grunting as it drove him back three steps, his sword trembling. The second arrow shattered his blade, the impact forcing a cough of blood from his lips.
The third found its mark, piercing his mouth with brutal precision, lifting him off his feet and pinning him to the wall like a gruesome trophy. His body twitched once, then stilled.
Watching this scene the Eighth's heart sank, panic seizing him as he saw his brother's fate. Allen's relentless assault left him no room to breathe, and now Josk's bow turned toward him, the marksman's eyes cold and unyielding.
His hands faltered, a fatal hesitation born of fear. Allen seized the moment, his blade flashing in a silver arc.
With a pained grunt, the Eighth's head parted from his shoulders, sailing through the air as a geyser of blood erupted from his neck. Allen stepped back, avoiding the crimson spray, his face calm but triumphant.
"Tarkel!" Allen's voice cut through the silence, sharp but laced with amusement. "How long you planning to hug the floor? Get up, hang these heads on the veranda, and announce to the garrison that Geldos City's ours."
Tarkel scrambled to his feet, his legs wobbly, his voice a shaky squeak. "Y-Yes, milord! Right away!" His hands trembled as he gathered the severed heads, their lifeless eyes haunting him.
By the time the five heads were displayed on the veranda, Williamiles Castle erupted into chaos. Shouts of alarm echoed through the courtyard, but the panic was short-lived.
Seven or eight soldiers, fiercely loyal to Cobry, rallied to resist the pike cavalry flooding the plaza, only to fall one by one, each pierced by a single arrow from Josk's bow.
The garrison, already demoralized and half-armored, saw the heads and the bodies, and their will crumbled. Swords clattered to the ground, hands raised in surrender.
As evening draped the castle in twilight, Allen's forces secured every gate and tower, their victory complete.
In the dining hall, a simple meal of bread, cheese, and roasted fowl was laid out, a moment of respite amidst the conquest. Allen sat at the head of the table, Hilter and Elrod standing vigilantly behind him like twin pillars of loyalty.
The clink of plates and the murmur of weary voices filled the air, a stark contrast to the bloodshed of hours before.
Allen speared a piece of meat, his voice calm but authoritative. "Arman, after a one-hour rest post-dinner, I'm taking Fredrick's knight squad and Josk back to Geldos. Williamiles is yours. Keep your light cavalry scouts patrolling—don't engage the allied noble armies unless they strike first, then hit back hard. Bale and his squad stay to support you. Tarkel—" he glanced at the chubby man, who froze mid-bite—"calm the garrison. Tell them once relief arrives, they can return to Geldos to see their families. It won't be long. I'll have a messenger here within ten days."
Arman swallowed his food, his voice steady with resolve. "Milord, you can trust me. This castle's ours, and I'll keep it that way." His eyes shone with pride, the weight of command a badge he wore gladly. This was the biggest moment of his Knight career, Allen has never given such an important job to him before, it seems Allen has accepted Arman in his inner circle.
Tarkel set down a gnawed bone, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, his voice earnest despite a quiver of nerves. "Milord, I'll keep the garrison in line. No trouble on my watch, I swear it."
Allen nodded, his voice warm with approval. "Good. Both of you, I have great expectations from you two." He leaned back, his gaze distant, already plotting the return to Geldos and the final reckoning with Cobry.
...
Meanwhile, outside the walls of Geldos City, Count Cobry's camp was a cauldron of fury and desperation. The Motz Hills loomed in the distance, their strongholds a relentless gauntlet that had bled his forces dry.
The count paced before his tent, his face a mask of rage, his voice a low growl as he cursed the absent messengers. Two days had passed since he'd sent his pike cavalry to Geldos for supplies, and no word had returned.
A gnawing unease twisted in his gut, a premonition of disaster he couldn't shake.
"Eight hours to Geldos on horseback!" he snarled to his aide, his voice thick with frustration. "They should've been back by now with word of the supplies! Something's wrong—damn it, something's wrong!" His hands clenched, knuckles white, as he surveyed his dwindling forces.
Of the 2,000 farmer-soldiers rallied by his vassal nobles, nearly 500 lay dead, their bodies abandoned in the hills. The farmers, once eager for coin, now teetered on revolt, their numbers thinning with each stronghold conquered. They dawdled when ordered to march, dragging their feet until the pike cavalry's whips forced them forward.
Cobry's five cavalry companies and garrison regiment, though battered, had lost only a handful tens at most were preserving their strength. Yet the count saw the cracks forming, the resentful glances from his vassal knights, who whispered that he was sacrificing their men to weaken their houses.
"Three days of supplies left," he muttered, his voice heavy with dread. "Three damned days."
The absence of Geldos's response was a wound that festered. Had the messengers been ambushed? Betrayed? He couldn't wait any longer.
"We return to Geldos," he declared, his voice resolute but edged with fear. "The city's our lifeline."
He left the camp's meager supplies to his garrison regiment, gathering the vassal knights for a rousing speech, his voice booming with false confidence. "Hold this ground until I return! Geldos will replenish us, and we'll crush these bandits!"
The knights nodded, their eyes wary, but none dared defy him.
With five and a half companies of pike cavalry, Cobry rode for Geldos, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and foreboding.
Unbeknownst to him, Allen was already departing Williamiles, Josk and Fredrick's knight squad at his side, racing back to Geldos to fortify the city against the storm that was coming. The hills stretched between them, a silent witness to the collision of fates, as Cobry's empire crumbled and Allen's star rose.