https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-314-The-Calm-Before-the-Storm-4-/13676631/
Chapter 313: Battle of Afton (3)
In just three short hours, the once 40,000-strong "First Line Defense" force had dwindled to fewer than 10,000.
The remnants were primarily elite personal troops from various Northern Regions clans—loyal retainers bound tightly to the war chariots of Northern Nobles, many of whom bore the noble status of Knight. They knew surrender would bring no mercy. In fact, it would only worsen their fate, dragging their entire clans into ruin.
Among them were over 3,000 Heavy Cavalry from the Bosk Duchy, nearly 7,000 Elite Pike and Shield Infantry, and more than 2,000 Archers.
Yet they now faced a horrifying realization: the frontlines weren’t the only threat.
The vanguard of the Kingdom of Ashen had already shattered the fragile defenses at the Mountain Pass, slipping through the flank and emerging behind them like phantoms. The once-proud force—now reduced to a mere thousand—was now completely encircled.
This was no mere battlefield miscalculation. It was a comprehensive annihilation of strategy, speed, intelligence, and military doctrine.
While the Northern Nobles still clung to dreams of defending their natural fortresses, the forces of the Kingdom of Ashen had already executed a seamless Combined Land and Air Operation, synchronized with the Nocturne Intelligence Network, to encircle them in record time. Even before the battle began, a Propaganda War had already eroded their morale.
They weren’t fighting a war.
They were being hunted in an Annihilation Campaign.
Ahead, the enemy army loomed like a storm. Behind, the glint of countless eyes—cold, hungry, and glowing with unnatural light—stared back from the shadows.
Loren Bosk’s soul cracked under the weight of despair. His gaze went blank, his head shaking slowly.
"No… it can’t be."
"This isn’t how it was supposed to happen."
"I was meant to claim victory in Radiance, then use that momentum to crush my brother and become the true heir of the Bosk Family."
His words tumbled into incoherence.
Only when his Adjutant spoke did he snap back to reality.
"Sir, what do we do?"
A deep, oppressive roar echoed from afar—the Red Dragon’s voice, thunderous and vast. Yet beneath its fury, there was a hint of mockery, a cruel amusement that only deepened Loren’s fury.
"Time’s running out."
"Ten."
"Nine."
"Sir, what do we do?"
"Damned Evil Dragon!" he spat, teeth clenched. "How dare he treat us like this! And those contemptible beasts!"
"When the war ends, I’ll slaughter every last one of them!"
As the countdown neared zero, the pressure mounted—crushing, suffocating.
Loren lost all grip on sanity, reduced to screaming curses into the wind.
Even within the formation, the elite personal armies of the Nobles—those noble-born officers who had been granted land and titles—began to break. Some fled in panic.
The soldiers themselves trembled, soaked in sweat, their battle spirit shattered.
Across the battlefield, the Great Goblins and Ogre Tribesmen were already ablaze with bloodlust. Their eyes gleamed with hunger—eager to tear into the enemy, to relish the thrill of mass slaughter, and to earn glory on the field, so they might one day become Dragon-Blooded Nobles.
Failure?
That wasn’t even a possibility.
It was just a cold joke—fit for the humor section of the Kingdom Daily.
"Four."
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"I gave you a chance. You chose not to take it."
The voice was calm—almost casual, as if speaking of a routine task.
"So… crush them."
At the Red Dragon’s final command, the entire wasteland seemed to erupt.
"CRUSH THEM!"
"FOR THE KINGDOM OF ASHEN!"
"FOR THE GREAT RED DRAGON!"
The drums of the Semi-Goatfolk pounded like a war heartbeat. The roar of the Two-Headed Dragons echoed through the air, spines bristling with fury. The war cries of the Great Goblins and Ogre Tribesmen burned like wildfire. Beneath it all, the deep, grinding rumble of Heavy Cannons rolled across the earth.
This was the chaotic symphony of military might—raw, terrifying, and overwhelming. The encircled enemy trembled beneath its weight.
In the rear, the Ogre Siege Battery stood ready. The Artillery Commander, the massive OgreDaitou, was about to order the bombardment of the enemy camp—when a hand blocked him.
"Stop," came the voice of General Dolo, the Great Goblin commander himself.
"No need to waste shells here. If it ends too quickly, there’s no fun."
"They’ve been starving for blood for far too long."
Dolo stared at the human lines, his face twisted into a feral grin.
In truth, he had more than just cruelty in mind. He wanted to save his artillery as a final trump card—keeping the Northern forces guessing, denying them any chance to prepare.
This war wasn’t a real battle.
It was training.
He hadn’t even deployed the Dragon Cavalry. Not the Two-Headed Dragon units. Just the ordinary soldiers—armed with Semi-Automatic Rifles—charged forward.
Loren stared in horror at the approaching force, sweat pouring down his face in thick drops. His expression twisted into something grotesque.
"Stop them! Stop them!"
"Move! You fools—get in front!"
But after his Adjutant’s repeated warnings, he finally regained his composure.
He began to apply the military tactics he’d studied since childhood, mentally formulating a response.
Then he saw it—his eyes widened.
The enemy wasn’t sending in cavalry or pike and shield infantry.
They were throwing their most vulnerable riflemen forward—exposing them as the first wave.
It was a deliberate act of contempt.
But it was also an opportunity.
As the commander of this war, Loren had studied the Kingdom of Ashen’s forces through magical imagery.
Those long rifles—what they called Rifles—were devastating at range.
But their weakness? They required long reloading times. During that gap, they were defenseless against charge.
And Loren had 3,000 elite Heavy Cavalry.
Enough to tear through them.
With a swift motion, he vaulted onto his horse, donning the helmet adorned with a lion’s mane.
"Summon all cavalry! Prepare for a Preparation Group Charge!"
"Archers—cover us!"
"Yes, sir!"
The messenger dashed toward the cavalry lines. The Adjutant adjusted his armor, steeling himself.
"Mock me?" Loren sneered, teeth bared. "You’ll pay for this."
He knew—after losing so many troops, victory was impossible.
But he would make them regret underestimating Loren Bosk.
He would become a legend—etched into the family genealogy, immortalized in Northern History.
"The Lion of the Bosk Family may die… but even in death, he’ll bite your arm off."
He slammed down the heavy visor of his helm, the metal clanging like a death knell.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
