Chapter 440: This Is a War

As the warhorse beneath him and the knights flanking him gradually quickened their pace, Sir Mariland finally seemed to find that familiar feeling of the “battlefield” he knew so well.

The sound of hooves grew steadier and more thunderous, the wind howled against his helmet’s faceplate, and the knights rode on in solemn silence. They charged forward without a word, their extraordinary knightly auras radiating outward, merging into a single protective field that enveloped the entire squadron—dozens of low- and mid-ranking knights, along with one high-ranking knight. Their forms blurred beneath this shimmering veil. Invisible vortices of magical energy swirled around them, whipping the air into a fierce maelstrom that surged ahead like a living force.

Beyond the vortex, cannon fire roared incessantly. Two imposing, terrifying beams of light relentlessly sliced and gouged at the stone fortress’s walls. But inside the vortex, the knights seemed detached from everything outside. For them, the only thing that mattered was what lay ahead.

Yes—this was the battlefield Sir Mariland knew. This was the war he understood.

Yet this battlefield was different from those he’d faced before. He was no longer confronting another unstoppable knightly order, nor a line of heavy infantry and militia spearmen. In fact, there was nothing in front of him—

The nearest enemy was still beyond charging distance.

All he could see was an open plain, and above it, the “Heavenly Fire” streaking through the sky.

This gave him a strange feeling. He wasn’t used to fighting without direct contact with the enemy. But at least there was a target in his sights—a pair of strange warships anchored on the Whitewater River. The banners of House Cecil fluttered proudly above them, the emblem of the sword and plow symbolizing the nation’s oldest and most honored power. Today, that power was the enemy.

It was a bitter irony, a sorrowful truth. Yet as a knight, to challenge such a formidable foe was also a unique honor.

The knightly order’s speed pushed to its limit. Once they formed their charge formation, even the low-ranking knights’ pace surged dramatically. The entire force, charging as one, would unleash devastating power beyond imagination. Only another knightly order of equal size, strength, and speed—or the heavily armored royal guard of the Dwarven Kingdom in the far west—could hope to stop them.

Sir Mariland watched as the earth beneath the knights cracked and curled under the strain of the magical vortex. Sparks of energy danced in the air. The magic surrounding the order sharpened into a deadly arrowhead. For the first time, he felt an unprecedented confidence—

What could the Cecils possibly use to stop such a spear?

The answer came in the form of a hundred or so “Persuader-I” railguns firing in unison.

A strange, piercing whistle cut through the air as the knights charged halfway across the field. Sir Mariland snapped out of his battle trance and looked up. Pale cyan streaks of magical flame tore through the sky, hurtling toward the ground—right along the knights’ path.

He immediately realized the officer commanding the “Heavenly Fire” was also a knight, and a highly skilled one at that.

These attacks from above were timed almost perfectly to strike when the knights couldn’t dodge, with barely a fraction of a second’s margin.

“Don’t stop!” the knight shouted, his voice vibrating through the magical field enveloping the formation, reaching every ear. “Raise your shields!”

The knights lifted their protective shields and simultaneously activated their “Glory Armor” combat skill. A metallic sheen shimmered across their armor, and the magical vortex surrounding the charge took on the same protective glow.

The sky had darkened without anyone noticing. Under the gloomy light, the knightly order thundered across the open plain. The “Calibrator Beams” illuminated the sky above, while hundreds of pale cyan projectiles rained down like shooting stars, striking their ranks.

The elite knights of the Stone Fortress were not like the ragtag militia called up by Count Hosman.

They were the finest force after the Eastern Legion.

This fully charged, peak-power knightly order was nothing like the careless, scattered knights on the Shattered Ridge.

Their united formation was as solid as a fortress wall.

But even a wall—no matter how fiercely it charged—was a relic of a bygone era.

Deafening explosions erupted from all directions. The terrifying “Heavenly Fire” tore at the magical vortex around the knights. Sir Mariland saw the earth fracturing all around, huge clouds of dust and debris billowing upward, arcane sparks flashing within the rising dust. The once-perfect vortex was ripped apart. Some of the low-ranking knights at the rear barely had time to react before they vanished in the massive blasts.

Now Sir Mariland finally understood just how powerful those “Heavenly Fire” strikes against the Stone Fortress’s magical shield really were.

The magical shield must not fail! If the fortress walls were exposed to such weapons, they wouldn’t hold until the shield could reboot!

Thinking this, he instinctively urged his horse forward. The knights who had followed him for years immediately matched his pace. Though dazed and battered by the explosions, these men—raised under harsh discipline and hardened in the kingdom’s most brutal environments—held firm.

The second wave of attacks came swiftly, even more precise and deadly than the first.

This time, the assault came from the second high ground the Cecils had established.

No wonder they built a second position… it wasn’t for water supply. Its purpose was to shield the warships on the Whitewater River—

Sir Mariland’s faceplate shadowed with grim resolve.

Efficient command, strict discipline, superior individual skill far beyond ordinary noble levies, and tactics that combined long-range firepower with steady advances—plus espionage, intelligence, assassination, and sabotage—

This was the Cecil way of war. Or rather, the way of Gawain Cecil himself.

By comparison, the “most brilliant” plan he’d heard in the Stone Fortress’s war council was poisoning the Whitewater River…

A sudden thought flashed through Sir Mariland’s mind: perhaps the Stone Fortress had already fallen long ago, even before the southern forces breached its gates.

He was only maintaining the last shred of his family’s honor.

From the second high ground, Sir Philip watched the magical vortex swirling across the plain.

It had dimmed by at least half but still maintained its charging momentum. For a “country knight” like him, this vortex embodied a knightly spirit that seemed to exist only in books.

Yet he had no choice but to keep ordering the cannon fire, chipping away at the vortex bit by bit—because the ceasefire order had not yet come, and the two calibrator rainbow cannons on the Whitewater River still needed support from the second high ground.

He estimated the charge’s speed, calculated the lead time and firing angles, then ordered the third salvo.

The magical vortex finally flickered out, though scattered sparks of protective aura still drifted forward through the smoke.

“Reload! Angle eight! Prepare—”

Suddenly, the magical comm device beside him lit up. A nearby soldier activated it, and a holographic image of Gawain appeared.

“Cease fire.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The young knight bowed his head in acknowledgment. Though his face betrayed no emotion, he felt a genuine relief.

He knew the order was because the enemy was now close to the riverbank. At this range, continued fire from the second high ground risked hitting their own warships—or at least disrupting the focus of the calibrator beams. Still, the relief was real.

This was the last shred of dignity left to the knights of the old era.

The falling flames and explosions finally ceased. But the knightly order that had charged out with him was now reduced to less than twenty percent of its original strength.

And those survivors were nearly combat ineffective.

Their speed dropped sharply. Wounded and drained of magic, knights fell one by one, some collapsing from sheer exhaustion. Even Sir Mariland, guarded in the center of the formation, felt the weight of fatigue. Yet he lifted his head to gaze upon the two massive warships looming just ahead, and the two terrifying beams of light pouring from their decks.

The charge was over. It had been a charge without an enemy in close quarters. The knights had met no one in battle, yet had lost eighty percent of their number. Still, they had achieved their goal.

But as Sir Mariland spurred his horse forward, preparing to unleash his magic to destroy the warships, a figure appeared in his vision.

In that instant, he knew all was lost—Gawain Cecil himself stood on the warship, not in the command center on shore.

An oppressive aura radiated from the ship’s prow, chilling even the magic of a low-tier supernatural being to a halt. Sir Mariland’s warhorse, though itself a half-blood magical creature, trembled and stopped. The knight had no choice but to dismount and step onto the river’s surface.

The water beneath his feet stilled like glass. Step by step, he advanced, watching as the warship’s deck opened a series of hatches. Magical devices slid out along rails, aiming directly at him.

But they did not activate.

Sir Mariland resolved to make one final effort for the oath he had sworn. He stopped at a suitable distance, drew his longsword, and tilted it slightly toward the legendary founding duke.

“I challenge you!” he declared, voice ringing out. “I stake my life and my family’s honor. In exchange, you will withdraw your forces!”

Gawain simply regarded the man who had braved cannon fire to reach him. After a long pause, he spoke: “Your life and your family’s honor?”

“If I fail, you may take my life. My family and lands will belong to you, and my descendants will serve you for generations. I, Mariland Onar, swear this duel is sacred and will not be broken,” the knight shouted. “In return, I beg you to retreat today and promise not to attack the Stone Fortress again for three years!”

Three years… Within three years, the turmoil in this kingdom should settle. Whether the Eastlands or the royal house emerges victorious, by then there will be a new, unified dynasty ready to face the rising Cecil family…

More importantly, he would fulfill his vow—to hold the Rock Fortress.

Gawain stared at the knight who had just challenged him to a duel. After a long pause, he finally broke the silence. “I accept your challenge. But the assault will not end.”

Sir Mariland looked at Gawain in shock, as if struggling to comprehend. “…Why?”

“I accept your challenge because you are a worthy knight. As the founder of the Ansu Knights, I recognize and respect you.” Gawain drew the Pathfinder sword; a fierce magical flame began to swirl along its black blade. Then, leaping from the ship’s prow, he landed on the river’s surface before Sir Mariland. “But the assault will not end because…”

A deadly, overwhelming pressure slammed into them. Sir Mariland hastily summoned all his magic, channeling it into his longsword and raising it to block the Pathfinder’s powerful strike.

The black blade, wreathed in flames, pressed heavily against the knight’s sword. Gawain locked eyes with him and spoke slowly, each word deliberate:

“Child, this is war.”

(End of chapter)