The last cavalryman still clinging to life twisted around in his saddle, thrusting his spear wildly at the closing
Lorist grabbed the errant spear before his eyes and yanked it free in a single tug. Then, under the terrified and desperate gaze of the cavalryman, he brought his sword crashing down. "Aaargh—!" The man screamed as his left hand and left leg were severed clean off. He toppled from his horse and hit the ground.
Lorist closed in on another cavalryman. This one had already discarded his spear. He could only watch helplessly as Lorist caught up and drove a spear through his chest, the point emerging from his back.
Shaking the corpse from his spear, six more fugitives remained ahead. But the distant camp had already reacted—the gates flew open and more than a dozen cavalrymen in leather armor, spears in hand, charged out.
Another cavalryman fell behind, his mount slowing with every stride. Suddenly the horse collapsed as though its front legs had given way. It thrashed its hooves weakly in the air a few times before going still, clearly exhausted to death. The rider, however, was agile. The instant his mount hit the ground, he slipped free of the stirrups, rolled twice, and sprang to his feet, his spear still clutched tight. Seeing Lorist bearing down on horseback, the cavalryman's face twisted with ferocity. With a savage roar, he leveled his spear and charged—not at Lorist himself, but at Lorist's mount.
Lorist smiled coldly and met the thrust with his own spear. At the moment of impact, the cavalryman's face briefly lit up with triumph—his spear tip suddenly blazed with cold light, and a foot-long blade of sword gleam materialized.
*A Silver-rank expert?* Lorist recalled that during the fight at the caravan, he had spotted only two Silver-rank fighters among these cavalrymen. One had been knocked from his horse and killed; the other had fallen to
The Silver-rank cavalryman who had landed on the ground hadn't expected his sword gleam to fail to cut through his opponent's spear. Worse, a strange reverberation traveled up from Lorist's weapon, making it impossible for him to maintain his grip. His spear was launched high into the air, and before his disbelieving eyes, Lorist's spear shot forward like lightning and punched clean through his chest.
Five riders remained. Seeing the five ahead drawing ever closer to the dozen or so riders emerging from the camp, Lorist spurred his horse hard. The golden spurs at the back of his leather boots drove into the mount's flanks, drawing a pained whinny as it shot forward like a released arrow.
The five cavalrymen in the lead saw themselves about to rendezvous with the riders coming from the camp and breathed a sigh of relief. *Finally, we've escaped.* They were about to call out to the approaching riders when they noticed the shocked expressions on their faces. Something was wrong. They looked back and turned deathly pale—Lorist had already caught up from behind. His spear carved an arc through the air, whistling as it descended with a sharp *crack* onto the last cavalryman's skull. The man's brains burst outward and he tumbled from his horse without a sound.
Spear shadows flashed thick and fast. With a series of wet *thuds*, two more cavalrymen were riddled with seven or eight holes. They stiffened in their saddles for a heartbeat before toppling sideways to the ground. The two cavalrymen ahead crouched low over their mounts and drove them forward in panic. Meanwhile, the dozen or so riders charging from the camp watched their comrades cut down in the blink of an eye. Fury erupted—they charged at Lorist like enraged bulls, cursing as they came.
The first to reach him was also a Silver-rank fighter. His spear tip blazed with sword gleam as it thrust viciously toward Lorist's chest. Lorist's spear deflected the incoming weapon aside, then, with lightning speed, pierced through the man's throat. With a flick of his wrist, the spear turned blade-like and sheared the head clean off the neck.
Lorist leveled his spear and spurred his horse forward, charging straight into the dozen or so riders bearing down on him. The *clang* of clashing spears, the wet *thud* of steel piercing flesh, and screams of the dying all blended together. After a single pass, seven of the thirteen attackers had been unhorsed. Two still writhed on the ground, but the other five were dead. The remaining six cavalrymen wheeled their horses around behind Lorist and reformed their line, though every one of them had fear in his eyes. Not one dared charge first.
Seeing that the two fugitives ahead were pulling further away, Lorist galloped after them without hesitation. The six cavalrymen behind seemed to take his ignoring them as a personal affront. With angry shouts, they spurred their horses and gave chase.
Lorist remained impassive, seemingly oblivious to the pursuit growing closer behind him. Just as the first rider reached him and prepared to thrust his spear, Lorist suddenly whirled around, hooking the man with his spear and hurling him into the second rider. The second cavalryman frantically reined in. Before he could decide whether to catch his flying comrade, Lorist had already wheeled his horse around. Cold light flashed, and the man's other two companions tumbled from their saddles, one on each side.
The cavalryman's blood ran cold. He abandoned all thought of the flying figure and swerved aside—only to find a gleaming spear tip growing larger and larger before his eyes. Then he felt a chill at the bridge of his nose, and everything went dark...
Lorist wheeled back and charged into the remaining six riders. Spear thrusts and sword strikes brought them all down in short order. When he looked toward the two fugitives, they were barely a hundred meters from the camp gates. At the gates, it was chaos—forty or more riders were pouring out, heading straight for him.
By all rights, having killed over a dozen cavalrymen right outside the camp should have stirred up a hornet's nest, with hundreds pouring out. Why had it taken so long for just these few dozen to appear?
Lorist galloped forward. He laid his spear across the saddle pommel, reached back with his right hand, and drew a throwing javelin. As the forty-plus cavalrymen closed in, he roared and let fly. The javelins hissed through the air in rapid succession—twenty-four of them found twenty-four throats. While the remaining twenty-plus riders were still reeling, Lorist was already among them with spear in hand. His horse wove through the enemy like a swimming dragon, his spear flashed like lightning, and one cavalryman after another was cut down. Before long, the six or seven survivors howled in terror and wheeled their horses back toward the camp...
The two remaining cavalrymen from the caravan attack had only just passed through the camp gates. The sentries at the gate were frantically trying to close them. If they hadn't been attempting to bar the entrance, Lorist might have stopped at the camp's edge and let those two beasts escape. But their effort to shut the gates gave Lorist a sudden, clear realization—this camp might well be empty. Otherwise, only a few dozen cavalrymen would not have come out. Under normal circumstances, even without horses, there should have been hundreds of soldiers flooding forth.
Once this clicked, Lorist lost all hesitation. He galloped through the gate behind the fleeing cavalrymen, unhorsing one after another, and soon reached the entrance. The sentries scrambled to grab spears propped against the wall and moved to block him, but Lorist impaled them one by one at the gate.
Inside the camp, sure enough, the vast grounds were deserted. It seemed that everyone who had come out to fight had been stationed near the gates. In the distance, the two beasts from the caravan attack had dismounted before a large command tent, supporting each other as they stumbled inside—clearly going to report to the commanding officer.
There wasn't even a single guard at the tent entrance. Lorist dismounted, tossed his spear aside, and burst inside with his sword drawn.
The command tent was large, with a smaller pavilion within. From inside came angry shouts and curses.
Lorist pushed aside the curtain and entered. The first thing he saw was the two fleeing cavalrymen prostrate on the ground, begging for mercy. *Perfect—couldn't have worked out better.* His sword flashed in rapid succession, carving both of them into limbless stumps. The two soldiers, robbed of their hands and feet, rolled on the ground in agony, begging for a quick death.
Two metallic *shings* rang out as swords were drawn. Lorist looked up to appraise the two figures who had risen to their feet.
Standing before a bed at the far end was a broad-chested brute with a face full of fleshy ridges, brown hair, and grey-black eyes. His face was twisted with menace, and he was bare-chested. Below him stood a middle-aged man in a half suit of chainmail. Both wore expressions of shock, swords raised and pointed at Lorist.
"Who—who are you? How did you get in?" The middle-aged man in chainmail seemed to have a toothache as he glanced between the two cavalrymen on the ground—barely twitching from blood loss—and Lorist. He finally snapped out of his stupor, drew a sharp breath, and spoke.
"How dare you hurt my men right in front of me! The audacity!"
Before Lorist could reply, the brown-haired brute had recovered and was beside himself with fury. With a thunderous roar, he activated his two-handed sword, and two arcs of blade energy hurtled toward Lorist.
*Ling.* Lorist's sword moved slightly, deflecting both arcs. "Gold-rank?"
"Scared now, boy? Too late for regrets. I'll do to you what you did to them. I'll teach you that stepping into my tent is walking straight into your grave!"
Lorist scoffed, his expression one of pure contempt. "Gold-rank, so what? It's not like I haven't seen one before. If you say these beasts are yours, then you're their master, aren't you? I was planning to settle accounts with you anyway—for the havoc your pack wreaked, for daring to hurt my people. Even though I've already killed them all, you as their leader bear responsibility for failing to keep them in line. So how exactly do you plan to compensate me?"
"What? You killed my people and now you want compensation? Go to hell! The absolute nerve! I'll skin you alive today!" The brown-haired brute flew into a towering rage. He kicked the brazier at Lorist with a savage foot, then followed with his sword like a rainbow, his entire body hurtling forward behind the burning coals.
*Damn it,* Lorist cursed inwardly. The brute may have looked rough and reckless, but he was cunning. On the surface he had appeared to be stomping around in a rage, but in truth he had been positioning himself next to the brazier, ready to kick it at Lorist before launching his attack. A seamless chain of moves—devious indeed. And the middle-aged man in chainmail, while the brute drew Lorist's attention, had quietly circled around behind him, planning a pincer attack. Did they really think Lorist hadn't noticed?
Red-hot coals from the brazier flew toward Lorist's face. Behind him, a sword gleam blazed to life—nearly a foot long. This unassuming middle-aged man was at the peak of Silver-rank. Ahead lay the brazier and a Gold-rank fighter, blocking any retreat; behind, the peak Silver-rank middle-aged man sealed off his escape. Lorist appeared to have no option but to absorb the blow. The brown-haired brute and the chainmail-clad man both smiled. If Lorist tried to block head-on, they had plenty of ways to toy him to death. With their years of experience fighting together, more than one Gold-rank expert had fallen to their combined scheming.
But the sudden reversal was something neither had anticipated. The brown-haired brute hastily aborted his thrust, but the abrupt reversal of his
The middle-aged man swatted the brazier aside with his sword, but the flying coals couldn't be stopped. Dense as rain, they pattered onto his head and face with sizzling hisses. The stench of burning hair and flesh rose simultaneously as the man leapt about in agony, dropping his sword, shrieking while slapping at the coals that had landed on his head and body.
In that instant, sword light illuminated the entire tent. Lorist rose behind the brown-haired brute like his own shadow, eerily—as though the brute's shadow had simply come to life. The burning, bouncing middle-aged man was so terrified he stood gaping, pointing wordlessly at what was behind the brute. The brute knew something was terribly wrong, but his Combat Force hadn't settled yet. He could only duck and lunge forward, hoping to reach the middle-aged man and buy himself a breather. Unfortunately, his movements were not as fast as Lorist's sword...
Three flashes of blade light. Both of the brute's arms fell away at the shoulder, and his left leg separated from his body. He crashed to the ground with a heavy *thud* and, as fate would have it, rolled to a stop behind the middle-aged man. Only now did he fully register the severity of his wounds. Unable to endure the agony, he screamed in anguish.
The middle-aged man in chainmail called out in a trembling voice: "Seventeenth brother! Seventeenth brother!"
But the brute's screams faded after a few cries as blood loss dragged him into unconsciousness. The middle-aged man snatched up the fallen sword, and its gleam blazed once more. Lorist expected a desperate final stand—instead, the sword gleam flickered twice before his face, and the middle-aged man turned tail and fled toward the exit.
*You think you can run?* Lorist gave chase. The man had just burst through the outer tent's entrance when he saw Lorist closing in. With a desperate shout, his longsword dissolved into countless phantom blades, all thrusting forward at once.
Lorist snorted softly. He had seen this kind of technique plenty of times on the academy fighting rings. Back then he had needed to put on an act and stall for time. Now there was no need for theatrics. His sword aimed for the center, driving straight through, his body slipping like a fish through the gaps between the phantom blades...
"Ugh..." The sword entered through the left chest and emerged from the back. The middle-aged man let out a startled cry, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the ground.
One strike. Lorist had needed only one. He had neither parried nor clashed—he had simply exploited the gaps in the phantom blade technique to close the distance. His single thrust killed the man outright, while the nearest phantom blade merely grazed his shoulder.
Lorist withdrew his sword and was about to walk out of the command tent when his ears twitched—there was still breathing inside. He turned back, spotted the curtain hanging behind the bed, and crept closer. Throwing it aside, he found two girls huddled together, stark naked, trembling uncontrollably. Tearstains still marked their faces, and their bodies were covered in dark bruises and purple-black marks—the unmistakable evidence of abuse.
Lorist let out a soft sigh, lowered the curtain, and searched the tent. Finding no women's clothing, he pulled two men's leather robes from a chest beside the bed. They looked reasonably clean, so he tossed them behind the curtain. Then he backed out and headed outside.
Once out of the command tent, he realized a battle was underway. It turned out that
Yuri saw Lorist come out of the command tent and hurried over.
Reining in and dismounting, he reported: "This camp looks like the main force has already left. These remaining ones must have been the garrison."
Lorist said, "Tell your men to keep a few alive. We'll interrogate them once things settle down."
Yuri flagged down a nearby light cavalryman, relayed Lorist's order to keep prisoners, and the man nodded, saluted with fist to chest, and galloped away.
Reidi and Pat rode up, their voices arriving ahead of them: "Master, there are over four hundred people locked up in the middle of the camp. Also, we found large stores of grain and fodder in the back."
"Oh." Lorist and Yuri exchanged a glance. "It seems this camp isn't temporary—it must be a permanent garrison. Yuri, send a few men with Pat to ride back. Tell Sir Shrade to bring the caravan here. We'll camp here tonight. Pat, be careful on the road."
"Understood." Pat departed with three light cavalrymen.
"Reidi, release the prisoners first. Have them stay in the area for now, then get some grain and cook them something to eat. We'll sort out the rest when Sir Shrade arrives. Yuri, take the light cavalry and sweep through the entire camp again to make sure no stragglers are left. Pay special attention to the granary and set up proper defenses—can't have someone burning our supplies."
"Understood." Reidi and Yuri departed to carry out their orders.
A severed head tumbled aside as a headless body spun and fell out of the tent. The tent wall had been ripped open—a figure darted through the gap, seized one of the light cavalry's mounts left tethered outside, vaulted into the saddle, and galloped straight for the camp gates.
*Damn—a Silver-rank had been hiding in here.* Lorist grabbed a horse outside the command tent, leaped onto it, and lashed the reins in pursuit.