Before night had completely faded, and only a faint hint of fish-belly white appeared on the eastern horizon, a dragging and noisy sound of footsteps echoed from the wilderness outside Ravenholt.
Dust billowed and banners fluttered chaotically as a large but uneven infantry force slowly advanced towards Ravenholt—these were the infantry reinforcements from Prince Pattons Fiefdom, over three thousand strong, yet they resembled a hastily assembled rabble, devoid of any discipline befitting an elite army.
Leading the team was Viscount Harry, a slightly plump, ruddy-faced middle-aged man.
He wore a brand-new, gilded heavy armor, inlaid with tiny gems that shimmered ostentatiously in the faint morning light. A decorative longsword, never stained with blood, hung at his waist. He rode a docile white horse, followed by two well-dressed servants whose sole purpose was to carry his water flask and fan him.
Harry was a viscount of a small, barren fiefdom under Prince Pattons Fiefdom, often looked down upon by the Prince. Upon hearing of the greenskin invasion of Ravenholt, he immediately poured out his entire fortune, bringing all available men—not for any other reason than to make a show before Prince Alric, seize the credit for retaking Ravenholt, and thereby seek more fiefdoms and rewards.
"Hurry up, all of you! Dawdling like this, by the time we arrive, the cavalry will have taken all the credit!" Harry shouted from horseback, his voice filled with arrogance and urgency. The troops behind him, following his command, stumbled and quickened their pace, only to become even more chaotic.
This infantry force was ridiculously diverse in its composition.
At the very front were three hundred nobles and their servants, each wearing heavy armor crafted from fine iron and plated with a thin layer of gold. They clanked loudly with every heavy, clumsy step.
Most of these nobles were Viscount Harry's confidants or minor lords from his fiefdom. They were accustomed to a life of luxury and could barely hold a sword, let alone fight on a battlefield.
They followed Harry merely to share in the glory and "gild" themselves on the battlefield. As for fighting, they didn't take it seriously; even their heavy armor had to be put on with the help of servants.
Behind the noble contingent were a thousand ordinary Soldiers.
They wore standardized leather and padded armor; the leather was rough, the padded armor yellowed. They held long spears and shields, but the shields were covered in scratches, and the spear shafts were somewhat decayed.
Most of these Soldiers were vagrants or tenant farmers from the fiefdom, forcibly conscripted. They usually only guarded the fiefdom and drove away vagrants, never having received systematic military training. Their eyes were filled with numbness and fear, their steps dragging, their formation crooked, unable to even maintain a basic line.
At the very end of the procession were over seventeen hundred able-bodied men.
These were commoners forcibly conscripted by Harry from his fiefdom to make up the numbers, including old men, young men, and even a few half-grown children.
They wore no armor, only their tattered clothes, and their "weapons" were nothing more than sharpened wooden sticks, rusty kitchen knives, and some even carried hoes and carrying poles.
These able-bodied men had never been on a battlefield, nor had they ever seen what greenskins looked like. Now, driven forward by the Soldiers, their faces were filled with terror and despair. Occasionally, someone would fall behind, only to be whipped by the Spearmen behind them, emitting painful wails.
"Your Excellency, that's Ravenholt ahead. It looks like there's a cavalry unit..." A noble confidant rode up to Harry, pointing to an open area not far ahead.
Harry squinted, looking in the direction he pointed, and saw a cavalry unit resting in disarray on the open ground.
The cavalrymen's armor was battered and covered in blood and dust, their warhorses looked exhausted, and some cavalrymen even had wounds that they were hastily bandaging. The air was thick with the smell of blood and exhaustion—these were the remaining cavalry led by Gwynn.
Seeing this, Harry's face immediately twisted into a sneer. He patted his horse's flank, sped up, and, with a few confidants, charged to the front of the cavalry unit. He looked down at Gwynn with a mocking tone: "Oh, isn't this General Kazrelbat Gwynn, the most formidable cavalry commander of our Prince Pattons Fiefdom? How did you end up in such a sorry state? Eight hundred elite cavalrymen, actually beaten to a pulp by a bunch of greenskin rabble, utterly useless!"
Gwynn was sitting on a stone, wiping his longsword. Hearing Harry's taunt, he slowly raised his head, a cold flicker of anger in his eyes.
His armor was covered in scratches, and he had an arrow wound on his arm. His face was pale, yet still showed the resilience of a Soldier: "Viscount Harry, the greenskins are cunning and fierce, with strong defenses, and they are adept at ambushes. Our army encountered an ambush, which is why we suffered heavy losses. If you have the ability, go retake Ravenholt yourself; there's no need for your sarcasm here."
"Ambush?" Harry scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "I think you're just afraid to fight and making excuses! A bunch of savage greenskins, nothing but brutes who only know how to charge head-on, managed to utterly defeat you? You've disgraced Prince Pattons Fiefdom!"
He paused, deliberately raising his voice so that the surrounding infantry could hear: "Listen up, brothers! Today, I, the Viscount, will show you what true combat power is! Once I break through Ravenholt and slay the greenskin chieftain, we'll all receive rewards from the Prince!"
The nobles behind him echoed his words, shouting, "Viscount is mighty!" But the ordinary Soldiers and able-bodied men kept their heads down, their eyes numb, showing no fighting spirit whatsoever.
Gwynn looked at Harry's arrogant demeanor, filled with disdain and worry.
He knew clearly that Harry's force, though seemingly numerous, was actually vulnerable. Not to mention breaking through Ravenholt, they probably couldn't even withstand the greenskins' first charge. He couldn't help but warn: "Viscount Harry, the greenskins are not to be trifled with. They have ample troops and strong defenses. You'd best proceed cautiously and not attack rashly."
"Cautious?" Harry sneered, his eyes full of arrogance. "Gwynn, you're just scared from fighting, which is why you're boosting the morale of others and dampening your own! I have an army of three thousand; can I not conquer a small town? You just stand here and watch, and see how I, the Viscount, slaughter those greenskin rabble!"
With that, Harry ignored Gwynn, turned to his infantry, and shouted: "My command! All troops assemble, surround Ravenholt! Noble Guards in front, Soldiers in the middle, able-bodied men in the rear. We must encircle Ravenholt so tightly that not a single greenskin can escape!"
"Yes, Your Excellency!" the nobles responded in unison, their voices loud but hollow.
Then, they led their servants, clumsily advancing towards Ravenholt's walls. The clanking of heavy armor, the shouts of servants, and the idle chatter of nobles intertwined, devoid of any battlefield solemnity.
A thousand ordinary Soldiers followed closely, forming crooked lines, their long spears swaying. Some Soldiers even secretly conversed, their eyes occasionally glancing at the city wall, filled with fear.
As for the able-bodied men, they were driven by the Spearmen with their long spears, stumbling along at the very end, trembling, not even daring to look up at the city wall.
Soon, this infantry force of over three thousand men spread out beneath the walls of Ravenholt, forming a loose encirclement.
However, this encirclement was full of holes; the Noble Guards were only concerned with showing off their heavy armor and had made no defensive preparations; the Soldiers' ranks were chaotic, pushing and shoving; the able-bodied men were huddled together, trembling, and would undoubtedly collapse instantly upon impact.
Harry sat on horseback, looking at the "encirclement" before him, a triumphant smile on his face.
He believed that by simply surrounding Ravenholt, the greenskins would surrender, and he would easily claim the credit.
He turned to Gwynn, mocking loudly: "Gwynn, do you see? This is my strength, the Viscount's! When the city gate is breached, don't forget that I, the Viscount, helped you get your revenge!"
Gwynn said nothing, merely frowning deeply, his eyes filled with worry.
He stared intently at Ravenholt's city gate, a sense of foreboding in his heart—the greenskins would never surrender so easily; they must be planning something.
Indeed, just as Harry's infantry was still chaotically adjusting their formation and preparing to set up siege ladders, Ravenholt's city gate slowly creaked open.
This scene stunned all the infantry.
Harry's triumphant smile instantly froze, his eyes filled with disbelief—he thought the greenskins would hold out, but he never expected them to open the city gate voluntarily. Were they planning to surrender?
"Hahahaha! It seems these greenskin rabble are scared!" Harry reacted, immediately bursting into laughter, and shouted to the troops behind him, "Brothers, charge! Break through the city gate, plunder the greenskins' wealth, slay the greenskin Chieftain, and all the credit will be ours!"
The nobles echoed his words, brandishing their longswords, wanting to rush forward, but their heavy armor weighed them down, their steps still clumsy.
The ordinary Soldiers hesitated, afraid to advance, their eyes filled with fear.
The able-bodied men were so scared they retreated repeatedly, only to be forcibly driven forward by the Soldiers.
But at this moment, a deafening roar suddenly erupted from within the city gate—it was the greenskins' unique arrogant howl, filled with bloodthirsty excitement and a wild aura, "WAAAGH! Kill these human rabble! WAAAGH!"
Immediately after, countless green figures surged out from the city gate, like an uncontrolled green torrent, charging fiercely towards Harry's infantry! Leading them was Glen, the Orc Big Guys known as the "Watchdog." He wielded a giant axe like a door plank, his black iron heavy armor stained with blood, his muscular arms covered in hideous scars, his eyes fierce, and a cruel smile on his lips. He charged at the forefront towards the infantry.
Behind Glen were hundreds of Orc Boyz, wearing light leather armor, wielding warpstone-inlaid battle axes and long spears, howling like hungry beasts, frantically pouncing on the infantry.
Behind the Orc Boyz were Goblin Archers and Spearmen, who ran while drawing their bows, their poisoned arrows raining down like black droplets on the infantry.
The greenskins' charge was disorderly yet exuded a primal and savage power. Their roars shook the heavens, and the dust beneath their feet flew into the sky. The bloodthirsty aura instantly permeated the entire battlefield.
Harry's triumphant smile instantly vanished without a trace, replaced by deep fear.
He never expected that the greenskins would not only not surrender but would instead send out such a large force to charge! He trembled all over, unable to speak, instinctively wanting to turn his horse and flee.
"Your... Your Excellency, the greenskins are charging! Quick... quickly order a defense!" A noble confidant said, his face pale with fright, trembling.
But Harry, at this moment, had already lost his composure, terrified by the greenskins' ferocity. How could he give orders? He merely gripped the reins tightly, his legs shaking, and his white horse also retreated repeatedly, frightened by the greenskins' roars.
Those nobles, who had initially been thinking of snatching credit, were now scared out of their wits by the charging greenskins. They dropped their weapons and tried to flee, but their heavy armor prevented them from running fast, so they stumbled and fell to the ground, emitting terrified wails.
The ordinary Soldiers were even more terrified, scattering in disarray. They dropped their long spears and shields, turned and ran, and the formation instantly dissolved into chaos.
The able-bodied men were scared out of their wits, fleeing in all directions. Some even dropped their wooden sticks, lay on the ground, hands covering their heads, trembling, not even having the courage to escape.
Gwynn sat on the stone, watching the charging greenskins and the crumbling infantry, a hint of despair flashing in his eyes.
He knew that Harry's rabble could not withstand the greenskins' charge, and a bloody massacre was about to unfold outside Ravenholt.
Glen swung his giant axe, cleaving down a fleeing noble. The heavy armor was split open like paper, and blood mixed with internal organs gushed out.
He grinned, revealing sharp fangs, and roared: "Kill them! Leave no one! WAAAGH!"
The Orc Boyz followed suit, swinging their battle axes and long spears, frantically harvesting human lives.
One Orc Boyz cleaved an ordinary Soldier in half with his axe, blood gushing out; another Orc Boyz pierced a able-bodied man's chest with a long spear. The able-bodied man screamed and fell, instantly trampled into a bloody mess by the greenskins behind him.
The Goblin Archers' arrow rain continuously fell, and countless infantrymen were hit and fell, some struck in vital points and dying on the spot; others were shot in the shoulder or leg, lying on the ground, emitting shrill screams, awaiting the arrival of death.
The battlefield instantly plunged into chaos. The roars of the greenskins, the screams of humans, the clash of weapons, and the clanking of heavy armor falling to the ground intertwined, forming a tragic elegy.
Dust filled the sky, blood splattered everywhere. Harry's three thousand infantry, under the greenskins' furious charge, were like fragile paper, utterly vulnerable.
Harry remained slumped on his horse, trembling with fear, looking at the tragic scene before him, unable to utter a single word.
He finally understood that his so-called "making a show" and "credit" were nothing but an illusory fantasy.
The army he had brought, having poured out his entire fortune, was being savagely slaughtered by the greenskins, and he himself was about to become another casualty under the greenskins' blades.
Gwynn slowly stood up, gripping his longsword, his eyes filled with cold killing intent and helplessness.
He knew he couldn't stand by and watch them die, even if this force was a rabble, even if his own cavalry had suffered heavy losses, he had to act—otherwise, the entire reputation of Prince Pattons Fiefdom would be ruined by Harry's arrogance and foolishness.