At this point, the tide of the battle suddenly shifted. More than three thousand well-equipped professional soldiers under Barnett's command defected all at once, and the resulting impact was unexpectedly enormous—the right wing of Count Felix's army teetered on the edge of collapse. The flanks were shielded by battle axe cavalry and patrol cavalry, while the central line was held by a resilient formation of Viking warriors and Viking soldiers. At the rear, Nordic archers and crossbow-wielding militiamen provided minimal long-range support. And at the very back, surrounded by two units of one hundred battlefield templars and twenty guardsmen knights, stood Barnett himself.
In the first volley, under the combined assault of arrows, crossbows, and throwing axes hurled by Viking warriors and soldiers, several hundred conscripted peasant soldiers on Felix's right wing were killed instantly. Then, amid the roars of the Viking warriors and the frenzied shouts of the templars—"Jehovah!!!"—the peasant soldiers on the right wing crumbled like butter cut by a dinner knife. Their formation shattered in an instant, and they scattered in every direction. The commander of the right wing, a noble under Count Felix stationed closest to Barnett, was beheaded by a dozen Viking warriors working together.
"That shameless mongrel, that bastard, that son of Satan..." Count Felix cursed Barnett furiously in his heart. Then he drew his longsword, pointed it skyward, and shouted with all his might: "My lords! Life or death, glory or ruin—it all depends on this day! God bless the brave! Kill! Kill these bastards!" In this one short sentence, he invoked the threat of death, the lure of riches, and religious zeal all at once—evidence of Count Felix's formidable rhetorical skills. Instantly, the hundreds of Viking warriors around him were roused by his words, their morale surging, and they charged furiously toward the crumbling right wing.
At this moment, the entire battlefield was thrown into chaos. On the left flank, Felix's cavalry finally realized their strategic blunder. They dismounted and formed small formations with the knights and retainers around them. Thanks to their superior numbers and combat capabilities, they temporarily stabilized the left wing, leading to a momentary stalemate. In the center, the main forces of both sides fought with reckless abandon, bodies piling up several layers thick. Soldiers from both armies continued to slaughter each other amidst mountains of corpses and oceans of blood, seemingly forgetting everything else around them, with only the enemy before them in their eyes.
On the right wing, however, Barnett's troops advanced in an overwhelming fashion, completely suppressing Felix's forces. At the same time, the troops deployed by Olaf III on the left flank were engaged in a head-on clash with Felix's remaining cavalry. Under the guidance of their commanders, neither side had yet gained the upper hand.
Seeing that the right flank was on the verge of collapse, Count Felix personally led his last remaining force—over five hundred Viking warriors—charging toward the right wing.
This was the first time that Barnett and his army had encountered an enemy truly worthy of being called an opponent.
It was also the first time that Barnett's forces suffered significant casualties. Though Felix's troops numbered only one-fifth of Barnett's, their combat strength was extraordinarily fierce. Every man was clad in heavy chainmail and armed with battle axes and eagle shields. Their combat prowess surpassed even Barnett's Viking warriors. When Barnett's warriors struck with their hand axes, they could barely make a shallow cut into the enemy's heavy chainmail. Unless they landed a blow to the neck or head, their attacks caused little harm. On the other hand, Felix's Viking warriors wielded double-bladed battle axes that could easily cleave through Barnett's armor. In this uneven exchange, the situation on the right flank gradually stabilized.
"Damn it."
Barnett hesitated again and again, but ultimately refrained from sending his personal guard into the front lines. After all, the previous battle was against only a few dozen elite soldiers, with the rest being low-quality troops who posed no threat to his guards. Today, however, he faced hundreds of elite Viking warriors. A single misstep could lead to devastating losses for his guard—and potentially even his own death, should he fall under a single axe strike.
"Spread out. Encircle." With this simple command from Barnett, the front line was left to two of his strongest units—a total of six hundred Viking warriors—to fight to the death against the enemy. Meanwhile, the remaining six squads, totaling eighteen hundred Viking soldiers, swiftly cleared out the surrounding conscripted peasants, then maneuvered around to surround Felix's forces from four directions. Just like that, the enemy was completely encircled, their maneuvering space being squeezed tighter and tighter.
With the enemy fully surrounded by Barnett's forces, things began to look grim for Felix's army…
Break out? But how? They were encircled on all sides, and Barnett's encircling units were layered in three or even four concentric rings. Breaking out seemed near impossible. If this had been the era of firearms centuries later, concentrating firepower might have opened a path. But here, on a medieval battlefield of cold steel, with soldiers packed shoulder to shoulder, breaking through was a fantasy.
Left with no other option, Felix's troops barely managed to form a circular defensive formation, and only then could they barely hold on. But in doing so, they lost the last vestige of mobility. From here on, defeat was inevitable.
Once the encirclement was complete, Barnett ordered two hundred Nordic archers to draw flaming arrows and fire them with a piercing whistle at the Viking warriors trapped in the center. The crossbow militia aimed their weapons at a 45-degree angle toward the sky, firing blindly in a high arc at the surrounded enemy. This method of attack did little actual damage to the enemy—at most, it sapped some morale and caused minor localized chaos. Felix's Viking warriors all wore horned helmets and chainmail armor forged from solid iron. They had little to fear from arrows.
"Second rank of Viking warriors and Viking soldiers, prepare throwing axes." Barnett chuckled lightly and issued his next order.
Barnett's eighteen hundred Viking warriors and soldiers had all been equipped with throwing axes and had upgraded their throwing skills, each granted three axes. They had used one axe to kill Felix's cavalry in the forest, and another during the charge against Felix's right wing. Thus, each man had one throwing axe remaining.
So, under the despairing gaze of Felix's Viking warriors, over a thousand throwing axes came whirling through the air like a swarm of locusts.
"Raise your shields!!!" Felix roared with all his strength. The value of the tightly packed formation now revealed itself. The Viking warriors packed in the center only needed to raise their shields over their heads to achieve over an 80% chance of blocking the incoming axes.
"Damn it, I actually forgot about the shields." Barnett muttered in frustration and mild self-reproach. Shields—such simple things to manufacture—proved incredibly useful at critical moments.
Even so, some of the more cunningly thrown axes found their way through the cracks between the raised shields. Given the short reaction time, it was impossible for the Viking warriors to mount a seamless defense. Muffled grunts rang out as several fell, though it was unclear how many had died.
The fighting continued, both sides pushing their offense and defense to the limit. By now, both Olaf III and Count Felix had taken to the front lines themselves. As a result, both armies had effectively lost their command structures.
This made no difference to Barnett, who had operated independently from the beginning. Olaf III didn't care either—his command ability was close to nonexistent, preferring to simply charge and kill whatever enemy he saw.
Count Felix, however, found himself in a completely passive position. Thankfully, he had appointed several sub-commanders beforehand. Because of this, even though the battlefield had devolved into scattered, individual skirmishes, a rudimentary command structure remained in place.
The battle remained deadlocked.
The battle continued to unfold.
The fighting blazed ever more fiercely.
In the high latitudes of the Scandinavian Peninsula, daylight hours in May are still not very long. By now, five or six hours have passed since the battle began—around five or six in the afternoon—and the sky is nearly dark. Most of the warriors, having fought courageously for five or six hours, are utterly exhausted. In this era, almost no one eats enough vegetables; vitamin A deficiency is rampant, and night blindness is common. As soon as darkness falls, they are effectively blind, unable to discern anything around them.
Under normal circumstances, when night is closing in, the commanders on both sides would have ordered a withdrawal. Yet at this moment, both leaderships have run into trouble. Olaf III, red‐faced with bloodlust, swings his wheel-axe overhead without tiring after hours of combat—his stamina is truly astonishing. Count Felix, on the other hand, wants to pull back but simply cannot. Barnett's soldiers are system-engineered; they don't suffer from vitamin A deficiency or night blindness. At night, their vision is every bit as good as a twenty-first-century person without night-blindness—and tonight's moon is outrageously large and full. How could they fail to see the enemy? Borrowing the words of an ancient Chinese military text, Barnett's army enjoys "heaven's timing, earth's advantage, and man's harmony"—truly, such a force is destined for ultimate victory.
Thus, Count Felix's defensive line finally began to crack. No matter how fierce Felix's Viking warriors are, they cannot fight what they cannot see. All they can do is swing their axes wildly by feel. After so many hours of battle, their bodies and minds are teetering on the brink of collapse. In just a short span of time, nearly two hundred of Felix's Viking warriors fell—more than had died in all the previous fighting combined.
At that very moment, a shout rose from not far off: "Olaf III is dead! Surrender now!!" The cry spread and multiplied, drawing nearer with each echo. Olaf's army—already spent—heard the rumor. Apart from a handful of die-hard warriors still loyal to Olaf III, the rest—be they conscripted peasants or professional soldiers—dropped their weapons and fled in utter chaos, like headless flies.
"What?! Olaf III is dead?!" Barnett froze at the cry. He didn't particularly mourn his convenient liege—frankly, he wouldn't have minded if Olaf had died at any point—but just not now! Barnett fished out his monocular and scanned the field. Of course he couldn't spot Olaf's corpse, but the sight of Olaf's army in rout was painfully clear.
"Damn it." Victory was within his grasp, and yet this absurd turn of events nearly drove Barnett mad. He saw bewilderment and hesitation writ large on his men's faces. If Felix's army regrouped, Barnett's three thousand men might eke out a safe retreat—but what then? Spend a year or more of his life rebuilding his forces just to stand up to Felix? Barnett could not accept that.
His mind whirled. The advantage of being a time-traveler surfaced: strategies and battle reports from countless wars flashed through his memory. In no time, he conceived a plan:
"Quick! Join me in shouting that Count Felix is dead!" Barnett hissed to his knight‐guards.
"Huh? But he isn't dead yet, is he?" one guard asked in confusion.
"Shut up! He'll die soon enough. A little sooner or later makes no difference!" Barnett snapped, his voice edged with hysteria as he barked at his guards.