Victor's defeat signaled the collapse of the remaining elite forces' morale. One by one, the Varda knights fell at the hands of the villagers who fought without mercy.
"I am the Sword of Varda!" Frederick roared, swinging his greatsword. "Come and face me, peasant!"
Keyown stood before him holding a sword he usually used for hunting. He looked weary, possessing the face of a man who would rather be finishing his tea than fighting. "You move like a turtle in that tin can." Keyown remarked flatly.
Frederick, the commander known as the strongest knight in Varda, was locked in a fierce duel with Keyown. Both were high-level swordmasters. Frederick attacked with pure strength capable of splitting boulders, while Keyown met him with a technique that was fluid yet lethal.
Though the village dominated, Frederick proved why he was called the second strongest. He charged, every step cracking the earth. His blade swung in a wide arc, the air pressure alone was enough to crush a normal man's lungs. He began to dominate the fight.
Keyown did not retreat. Instead, he stepped into the commander's strike range. With a movement as fluid as water, Keyown tilted his head a single inch to the left. The greatsword whistled past his ear. Keyown reacted instantly as a blade swung toward him.
Clang!
Keyown's sword parried the commander's blade. It was a light tap, but Frederick felt his entire arm go numb. He swung again, a vertical slash. Every time Frederick attacked, Keyown was somewhere else, yet always within arm's reach.
"Stop dancing!" Frederick screamed, his pride stinging more than his fatigue. He gathered all his mana into one final, desperate thrust.
Keyown sighed. "Fine. Let's finish this."
Keyown's posture shifted. His aura changed from a tired farmer into a sharp blade of pure killing intent. He gripped his sword with both hands and performed a lightning-fast horizontal draw.
There was no flash of light. No explosion. Only a thin black line appeared in the air. Frederick's chest plate split perfectly, leaving a deep wound that gushed blood. He fell to his knees, staring at Keyown's sword in disbelief. "This technique... it's the legendary technique of... impossible..."
Before he could finish his sentence, Keyown had already sheathed his sword. Frederick collapsed, losing consciousness forever. The Sword of Varda had been slain by Keyown.
The battle had reached its climax. After the fall of Victor and Frederick, the remnants of the Varda knights began to scatter. However, amidst the chaos, Marquis Sylvestre still stood with his greatsword. Rage over the death of his son and his trusted commanders had caused him to lose his mind. He attacked Keywiln blindly, forcing a death duel in the middle of the smoldering battlefield.
Keywiln met every assault with extraordinary technique. Every clash of swords showed combat experience refined over decades. But as time passed, reality began to set in.
Keywiln was panting. His breath grew short and heavy. Though his technique remained perfect and impenetrable, his age was an unavoidable obstacle. His stamina and speed had declined significantly compared to his prime when he was a feared legend. Every parry now drained more energy, and sweat began to drench the wrinkles on his stern face.
Marquis Sylvestre, realizing his opponent was slowing down, saw a fatal opening. He took a deep breath, gathered his remaining strength, and prepared a killing blow aimed straight at the village chief's neck.
"Die, you old man!" Sylvestre roared.
But before his sword could strike Keywiln, the atmosphere suddenly shifted. The people of Noive would not stand by and watch their leader in danger. Three villagers appeared suddenly from the side. With perfect coordination, they released earth-binding magic that instantly locked Sylvestre's legs, while two others launched simultaneous spear thrusts at the Marquis's shoulder and leg.
Zep! Zep!
The sudden attack caused Sylvestre's swing to miss wildly. The Marquis fell to his knees on the blood-soaked earth. His body was now riddled with severe wounds from the synchronized strike.
"You... you are cowards!" Sylvestre hissed, spitting fresh blood. He glared at the villagers with eyes full of hatred and disbelief. "Do you have no shame, attacking a man in the middle of a duel?!"
A villager stepped forward, looked down at him, and met the Marquis's gaze with cold, flat eyes.
"Cowards?" the villager said emotionlessly. "This is a battlefield! Your enemy doesn't care about your silly duel. We are not knights hungry for empty honor or recognition from a king. We are simply people trying to stay alive and protect our families. To you, this is about honor. To us, this is about survival."
In his critical state, the dying Marquis remembered his father's words from when he was a child, a warning he had long dismissed.
His father had said: "Sylvestre, if you ever inherit my title, I ask only one thing: never disturb this one place!"
"What place is that, father?" a young, curious Sylvestre had asked.
"That place is called Noive Village! If you attack that village, you will surely be destroyed by them until nothing remains!"
"Is the village that strong?" he had asked with an innocent face.
"Yes, the people there are very powerful. It is said that during the war against the Fellims Kingdom, King Javiere achieved a great victory because of the people in that village! They are heroes who chose to live in peace."
Marquis Sylvestre now lay prostrate on the ground, staring at the darkening sky, his body broken. He turned his head slowly and saw his two trusted commanders lying dead nearby. It was all over.
He looked at the sky one last time and whispered: "Father, you were right and I made a fatal mistake... Forgive me, father!"
Regret always comes too late. In his dying moments, Marquis Sylvestre breathed his last on the soil of Noive, a place he should never have touched.
Silence slowly returned to Noive Village. The smoke of residual magic still lingered, and the acrid scent of blood filled the air. The war was over. There were no cheers of victory, only expressions of exhaustion and relief on the faces of the villagers.
Keywiln immediately gave instructions. "Treat the wounded! Make sure no injury is left unattended."
Mira and the other healers moved quickly. Though there were no fatalities from the village side, several had suffered serious wounds. However, thanks to high-level healing magic coordination, they were all back on their feet in a short time.
"What should we do with these bodies, father?" Keyown asked, gesturing to the piles of Varda soldiers.
Keywiln looked at the corpses of Marquis Sylvestre and his son. "Collect them all! We will deal with them accordingly. Tomorrow, I and a few others will head toward the Varda territory."
Following the chief's command, the villagers began to work together, gathering the remains of the defeated army and the wreckage of the destroyed wagons, storing them all within a spatial magic bag.