The sky was dark, with thick clouds looming overhead. Snowflakes drifted down gently, covering the battlefield in a deceptive shroud of purity. The rebel-sweeping unit had been engaged in a brutal battle for nearly an entire day, yet victory remained elusive. Over 600 of their soldiers had perished, their bodies frozen in grotesque positions upon the bloodstained ground.
Inside the besieged camp, Arman, with a cold gleam in his eye, watched the enemy with a smirk. He had temporarily lost command earlier in the day, but now that he was back in charge, he intended to see things through with precision. His men stood behind him, mildly exhausted yet resolute, their grips tight on their weapons.
"Set that wooden cart aflame," came the order from one of Count Cobry's illegitimate sons.
Garrison troops on the enemy side quickly obeyed, hurling sacks of fuel onto the wooden cart and igniting it into a roaring inferno. Flames crackled in the snowy air, casting an eerie orange glow over the battlefield. The illegitimate sons in charge watched with satisfaction, hoping the fire would weaken the defenders further.
Arman, seeing their attempt, sneered. "Since you're going to start a fire, I will do it too. Come, men! We'll be setting up a bonfire here tonight."
His soldiers immediately set to work, adding wood to the fire and fanning the flames. It was all part of their plan. The enemy believed the fire was to their advantage, but they had underestimated the defenders' resolve.
When reports reached Count Cobry's illegitimate sons that Arman's troops were using the fire as a bonfire instead of panicking, their rage became palpable. Their faces twisted in frustration, their fingers tightening on the hilts of their swords. Then, suddenly, the first snowflakes began to fall.
"Aha! The weather's turning to our favor today! It's snowing! Let's see how they keep the fire up now!" the leader of the illegitimate sons sneered, seeing the snowfall as a sign of divine intervention.
However, inside the camp, Allen sighed deeply. He had expected this battle to be drawn out, but now it was clear that they wouldn't be able to avoid a full-scale bloodbath tonight. He glanced at his Knight unit captain Fredrick, who returned his gaze with a knowing nod.
As the bonfire finally flickered and died, the enemy forces made their next move. The sound of galloping horses echoed across the battlefield, growing louder with each passing moment. The pike cavalry had finally arrived at the entrance, their armor glinting under the dim light of the torches.
"Go in there and kill them all!" roared one of the garrison commanders.
The pike cavalry had suffered greatly throughout the day. They had been tasked with the relentless labor of breaking down the camp's defenses, only to watch in horror as their comrades were crushed beneath the falling battering ram.
Forty of them had been turned into nothing more than shredded meat, their bodies mixing with the blood-soaked snow. Their anger had reached its peak. Now that the gates were open, they had only one goal: absolute slaughter.
A company and a squad of pike cavalry—nearly 600 men—formed up and stormed into the camp with burning hatred in their eyes. The silver-ranked soldiers led the charge, knowing that the enemy had powerful knights among them. Yet, as they rode into the camp, their expectations of chaotic battle were met with something far more unsettling.
The camp was eerily silent.
Instead of the bustling sight of enemy soldiers scrambling in fear, all they saw was an open path leading straight through the center of the camp. A corridor, ten meters wide, stretched ahead of them, flanked by towering wooden walls coated in snow.
The lead soldiers slowed their charge into a cautious trot. Those at the back, unaware of the eerie silence ahead, continued pushing forward, causing the entire cavalry to be funneled into the narrow passage. Hundreds of them packed in tightly, their horses snorting in discomfort.
A few among them felt a deep unease.
"This… isn't right," muttered one of the silver-ranked soldiers.
"Check the walls. What are they made of?" demanded an officer.
Two cavalrymen prodded at the 'walls' with their pikes.
"These are wooden walls, sir."
Another soldier frowned. "Weird… they couldn't have possibly built such a long corridor in a single day…"
"Keep moving! I refuse to believe they have the materials to build something so extensive!" the commander barked, shaking off his doubts.
Unbeknownst to them, the 'walls' were actually carriages placed on their sides, bottoms facing each other to form an enclosed corridor. The idea had been proposed by Hilter, the second-in-command, a tactical mind within the camp. The setup wasn't perfectly sealed—there were small gaps—but they weren't wide enough for a soldier or horse to pass through.
A few cavalrymen tried to push against the walls, attempting to break free from the corridor, but the carriages were far too sturdy. Their larger base area made them more stable than ordinary wooden dividers. The soldiers had unwittingly walked straight into a masterful trap.
As the pike cavalry reached the end of the corridor, they saw a wooden platform ahead. Before they could react, a blinding wave of light illuminated the night.
Dozens of torches flared to life simultaneously, revealing a horrifying sight.
On the wooden platform stood a formation of black-armored soldiers, their jet-black shields and lances forming an impenetrable wall of death. Their armor gleamed menacingly under the torchlight, and behind them, even more ominous shapes emerged—12 massive ballistas, their iron-tipped bolts aimed directly at the trapped cavalry. (Image)
A wave of terror surged through the cavalry's ranks.
"It's… It's a trap! Quick… Retreat!" one soldier screamed, his voice cracking in sheer panic.
But retreat was impossible. Their own comrades, still pushing forward from the entrance, had blocked any escape route. Worse still, nearly 2000 garrison troops were marching in from behind, further sealing their fate.
Standing atop the wooden platform was Knight Captain Fredrick. His eyes gleamed with exhilaration. This was his moment to display the terrifying might of the carroballista unit.
With a sharp wave of his hand, he roared, "Release!"
The first volley of six ballistas fired, their strings snapping forward with a deafening TWANG! The massive bolts shot forward at breakneck speeds, skewering the cavalrymen like insects. Blood erupted into the air as bodies were impaled, some bolts piercing through five or six men at once before finally stopping.
A split second later, the remaining six ballistas fired, repeating the carnage. The cycle continued.
Volley after volley, the deadly missiles rained down. Screams of agony filled the night, mixing with the howling wind and the faint crackling of torches. Horses shrieked and collapsed, their riders tumbling into the growing sea of corpses.
By the time the final volley was fired, the ballista strings were worn down, their once-mighty force weakened. But the damage had been done.
Blood pooled in the snow, staining it a sickly crimson. Over 500 men lay dead or dying, their twisted remains forming a grotesque mass of shattered armor and broken spears.
Fredrick himself was momentarily stunned by the sheer destruction. The thick stench of blood filled his lungs, and for a brief moment, silence reigned.
Then, the sound of retching broke the stillness.
"Ueergh!" One of the heavy-armored soldiers vomited violently, unable to stomach the horrific sight.
Fredrick exhaled sharply. There was no time to hesitate.
"Heavy-armored troops, onward!" he commanded.
With methodical precision, the black-armored soldiers advanced. Their boots crunched over the bodies of the fallen as they moved in, lances gleaming ominously. (Image)
Fredrick, leading his Knights, stepped forward to claim what remained of the enemy. The battle was not over.
But tonight, the pike cavalry would cease to exist.