Under the rallying cry of the fierce berserker chieftain, the other minor tribal leaders fell silent, compelled to agree to continue the assault despite their unease. Then, as the long, mournful horns of dozens of Viking warriors echoed through the woods, the tribal coalition forces hidden on both sides of the road suddenly leapt from the underbrush, howling as they charged at Barnett's army.
"Hold steady! Wait until they're in range—then fire! One volley, then fall back!"This may have been Barnett's first real battle, and only warriors like these Vikings could be called worthy opponents. But he was prepared. Raising his battle axe high, he gave his order calmly and firmly.
His personal guard knights, standing nearby, immediately lifted their visors and took out their own horns. After a signal of two long blasts and one short, they, too, were ready for battle. Meanwhile, the crossbow-wielding militia positioned on both flanks of the guard quickly pulled their triggers. A hundred bolts whistled through the air toward the onrushing enemy.
At a range of just twenty meters, crossbows unleashed terrifying power. There was hardly any need to aim—just fire in the general direction of the enemy horde. In an instant, the front ranks of the Viking warriors fell in waves. Even those clad in chainmail couldn't fully withstand the bolts. Though the armor reduced the lethality, it rarely prevented injury. Wounded, bleeding warriors in mail simply yanked the bolts from their flesh and, ignoring their pain, charged forward with renewed fury.
Still, such warriors were the minority. This first volley was highly effective—more than sixty enemy Vikings fell where they stood, never to rise again.
Following the salvo, Barnett's militia retreated to reload and prepare for a second round. But the enemy warriors, especially the axe-wielding Vikings, had already lost patience. Roaring, they surged forward, swinging their weapons down with deadly force and clashing with Barnett's men in brutal hand-to-hand combat.
Unlike the scattered assault of the tribal coalition, Barnett's Viking ranks held tight formation. With their round shields, battle axes, and chainmail, backed by their towering physiques, they formed a formidable wall of infantry. The enemy might have had superior numbers and attacked like crashing waves, but they couldn't find an opening.
Behind the frontline, many of the tribal warriors—armed only with fishing spears, crude pikes, or logging axes—charged clumsily into the fray. They might have been skilled at hunting beasts or fish, but facing a disciplined military force on a real battlefield was another matter entirely. As Barnett's axes came down, the courage they'd felt moments ago evaporated. Some even lacked the will to fight back.
In a single clash, Barnett's forces cut down over a hundred enemy warriors. A few trained Viking soldiers among them tried to resist, but they were too few and were quickly overwhelmed.
"Fire! Fire, damn you! Kill those bastards!"Seeing hundreds of their warriors fall in the first wave, the tribal coalition commanders hastily ordered their archers into action.
The enemy archers, wielding hunting bows, took positions on low hills beside the road and began shooting from elevated ground. But by now, the two armies were completely entangled in close combat. Hunting rabbits and shooting people were two very different things. Nervous and untrained, some archers could barely aim—just managing not to shoot their own feet was already a miracle. As it turned out, more than a few of their arrows ended up striking their own troops from behind.
"Damn it… Cease fire! Cease fire!"Realizing the chaos they were causing, the tribal commanders had no choice but to call off the archery assault.
The battle remained fierce, but as time passed, Barnett's forces began forming a circular defensive formation. On the outer ring were four squads of slightly bloodied Viking warriors and two squads of elite fighters. Inside that were the crossbow militias and mounted patrols. At the very center, surrounded by personal guard knights, stood Barnett himself.
On the outskirts, the tribal coalition—having lost several hundred men—was starting to falter. After repeated failed charges, they saw their fallen comrades' headless corpses scattered near Barnett's front line. Some of Barnett's Vikings were even holding their enemies' severed heads by the hair, laughing and jeering. The enemy's morale plummeted; their fighting spirit had all but vanished.
"If this keeps up, we're finished…"Watching their crumbling morale and the opposing commander's calculating gaze, the berserker chieftain clenched his jaw. Determined, he decided to make one final gamble—with everything he had left.
"With me!"With a thunderous roar, the red-haired, bearded berserker raised his massive axe and charged, leading a squad of thirty-four elite Viking warriors trained personally by him. Their axes moved in deadly arcs, cutting down Barnett's soldiers who could scarcely believe the speed at which such heavy weapons were being swung.
"How…? How can they be so fast with such heavy axes?" Barnett muttered, stunned.
These elite enemies tore a hole right through Barnett's lines.
"Damn it—hold the line!" Barnett shouted.
He had no reserves. His crossbow militias were near useless in melee. If they were pushed forward to plug the breach, they'd collapse in minutes. And if they turned and ran, the entire battle would fall apart.
His forces were barely holding on.
The enemy elites fought on par with Barnett's own Viking warriors, and the berserker leading them was in a league of his own. His massive axe moved with terrifying precision and power. He had already slain seven or eight of Barnett's soldiers. Even those with shields couldn't stop him—the axe would simply cleave through shield and limb alike. No one could match him.
"Charge! Attack! Kill them all!"Sensing Barnett's formation wavering, the other tribal leaders shouted in unison, launching a new wave of assault.
"Damn it."Barnett gritted his teeth. He had no choice—he had to unleash his personal guard.
With a cold snort, he ripped off his visor and barked to his guards, "Charge!"
At once, twenty knights did the same—tossing aside their visors, drawing their heavy flanged maces, raising their kite shields, and spurring their warhorses forward. These steel-clad monsters let out a single battle cry and thundered into the fray.
"Kill him! End him, and this battle ends with it!"
The red-haired berserker—who was still effortlessly slaying multiple Viking soldiers at once—finally noticed the oncoming steel cavalry. But to him, their gleaming armor was just for show, probably silver-plated and easy to shatter with a single blow. After all, with the iron-smithing tech of his era, such polished, impervious armor simply shouldn't exist. So he ignored the knights and kept fighting.
This mistaken confidence would seal their defeat.
Once the personal guard entered the fray, they were like tanks among infantry. They carved a path straight through the front lines. Enemy axes bounced off their armor, and in return, their spiked maces crushed skulls. Blood and bone splattered the ground like a vision from hell.
With these iron-clad behemoths stabilizing the line, Barnett's army regrouped. The enemy had no crossbows or muskets—nothing that could penetrate such armor. Their crude weapons, forged with early-era techniques, stood no chance against armor of Renaissance quality.
When the berserker's axe bounced harmlessly off one knight's chest, and he saw his own warriors' heads explode under the crushing maces, he finally realized: these were no ordinary soldiers. These were monsters. His troops were paralyzed in fear. Barnett's knights didn't even roar or bellow—they simply advanced slowly, calmly, their horses trotting casually through the battlefield as if they were out on a stroll.
The coalition army's morale shattered.
"Monsters!!""They're going to kill us all!""Help! God, help us!"
Seeing the one-sided slaughter, the red-haired berserker finally understood. They had lost. Utterly, completely.
But so what? A warrior's fate is to die on the battlefield. To die in bed surrounded by family was not a Viking's dream.
"Hahahahaha!"While the rest fled, the berserker charged. His axe became a blur of silver as he tore through Barnett's soldiers. "Damn it! I may not kill those knights, but I can still kill the rest of you!"
Then he spotted Barnett—riding his warhorse, towering above the battlefield.
"Kill him! That bastard!"He knew this man was the commander. Even if he died, he would die taking down the enemy leader.
Barnett's warriors noticed and rushed to defend him, roaring as they blocked the berserker's path. They wore the same armor, carried the same axes, shouted in the same tones—but they were no match. The red-haired warrior cut them down, one after another.
One of Barnett's personal guard saw the berserker charging and immediately broke formation. No more casual trotting—he spurred his mount and closed the gap in seconds, swinging his spiked mace straight at the berserker's head.
But for the first time, the steel knight met his match.
The berserker dodged, rolled forward, and brought his axe down—not at the knight's chest, but at his horse's legs.
With a cry, the warhorse collapsed. The knight tumbled from the saddle. The berserker lunged, swinging at the knight's exposed neck. One blow. Two. Arterial blood sprayed in his face. The knight convulsed once, twice… then lay still.
Finally, Barnett noticed him.
There, drenched in blood—his own and his enemies'—which had frozen into crimson ice, stood the red-haired warrior, dyed completely red.
"Impressive," Barnett murmured, ignoring the losses around him.
Then his lips curled into a chilling smile.
"Kill him."
By now, dozens of crossbowmen had quietly gathered around him...