It was dusk. The routed troops of the Rockmen were fleeing in disarray, herded from all directions by the Holy Cross army.

The blood-red sunset painted the sky, its glare uncomfortably sharp.

The spring breeze, though soft, carried a lingering chill.

The clinking of iron armor echoed through the battlefield.

A noble officer, mounted on a warhorse, found a vantage point to observe the field.

Even a scattered force of one or two thousand Rockmen was no small contribution to one’s merits.

The Rockmen’s banners, few and far between, flapped weakly in the spring wind.

The routed soldiers, from various origins, were a chaotic mix, even less disciplined than peasant levies.

The only pity was that this victory couldn’t be claimed alone.

Drawn by the routed troops, the Holy Cross army had gathered in numbers double that of the Rockmen.

Nearby, allies had already started beating their war drums impatiently.

The pounding drumbeats echoed loudly, grating on the nerves.

Knights on horseback barked orders, driving their troops forward.

Although the soldiers, weary from the day’s march, were fatigued, the promise of imminent victory and extra rations spurred them on with a renewed sense of morale.

“We must attack as well. We can’t let them claim all the glory!”

The noble officer ordered his knights to beat their own war drums.

In an instant, commanders from several forces grew restless, all urging their armies to advance.

But in the shadows of the forest behind the routed troops, hidden from sight, a small cavalry unit was conducting their final preparations.

Under the tight blockade of the Holy Cross Kingdom, large-scale ambushes were virtually impossible.

Grand Duke Fernandes was no fool; he could easily detect the mobilization of large armies.

However, a few hundred elite knights could stealthily slip through the blockade, evading the scouts’ gaze.

Layer by layer, they donned their armor: a thin undergarment, a chainmail inner layer, and finally, pitch-black heavy plate armor.

With the help of their squires, the elite knights meticulously suited up.

Even their warhorses were draped in thick barding.

Then, the squires and knights alike adjusted their own half-plate armor.

The crimson rays of sunlight filtering through the forest leaves reflected brilliantly off their polished armor.

The elite knights lowered their visors and mounted their warhorses.

At the tip of the formation, the heavy cavalry formed the spearhead, followed by knights and squires at the rear.

“Verut, don’t be nervous. Stay behind me, and don’t be afraid,” the burly knight, known as Bull, rumbled reassuringly.

This was Verut’s first experience with a cavalry charge.

Squires weren’t here to play or polish resumes—they were trained to fight on the battlefield.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Survival was a matter of fate. If one died, few would mourn, no matter their talent.

The only path was to survive and return victorious.

Verut was indeed nervous. Facing the battlefield for the first time, he couldn’t hide his unease.

In the previous barbarian invasion, he had participated, but only as a distant commander, sheltered by family knights.

Without experiencing the shock of a cavalry charge firsthand, how could one develop the courage to break through anything?

Over the past thirty years, the lives of Northern knights had become precious, and so had their combat prowess declined.

Taking a deep breath, Verut tried to recall his training but found himself overwhelmed, nodding mechanically in response.

Seeing this, Bull didn’t press further, for the cavalry had begun to pick up speed.

The warhorses started with a slow trot, gradually stretching their muscles.

Muscle memory honed through rigorous training took over as the knights instinctively fell into formation.

All the tension and anxiety faded beneath the rhythmic pounding of hooves.

The heavy cavalry’s iron-shod hooves struck the ground with a muffled rumble, louder than the war drums, more urgent than a rainstorm.

Hearing the sound, the advancing Holy Cross forces initially mistook it for intensified drumbeats.

But a noble officer, experienced in facing cavalry charges, recognized the ominous sound.

Then, against the blinding sunset, they saw the glint of light.

They froze for a full seven or eight seconds. When the noble officer finally realized the cold truth, his face turned ashen.

“Cavalry... Knights... A cavalry charge!”

His panicked shout cracked, betraying the terror flooding his heart.

In reality, the situation was even graver than he imagined.

This was the ultimate force of the age: heavy cavalry.

Heavy cavalry were not invincible, nor did they guarantee victory. They were heavily constrained in their use.

But once heavy cavalry charged, there was little that could stop them—except lives.

Unfortunately, the lives present weren’t nearly enough to fill the gaps left in the wake of the cavalry’s advance.

With a deafening roar, the heavy cavalry slammed into the ranks.

Every knight gripped their solid iron lance tightly, skewering as many as three to five men at a time like a string of beads.

Only elite knights possessed the strength to wield such heavy weapons with precision.

By the time the heavy cavalry tore through the formation, the Holy Cross army had already crumbled.

The path left behind was littered with blood and gore, as if trampled under a grinding wheel.

Few soldiers remained standing; most were either dead or frozen in shock.

Even the lucky survivors stood paralyzed, having witnessed the carnage.

Verut followed in the charge, swinging his weapon mechanically.

Under the knights’ orders, he helped clean up the remaining soldiers.

By the time the heavy cavalry regrouped, a second charge was unnecessary. The Holy Cross army had completely collapsed.

“No prisoners. No prisoners. Be they nobles or common soldiers, kill them all!”

The knights coldly issued their orders, disregarding the risk of further resistance.

What they needed were the severed heads and blood of their enemies—to ignite their own bloodlust.

Revenge was not just a slogan; it was a bloody reality.

The disciplined army needed a dose of violence and carnage to fuel their fury.

For the first time, Verut had participated in a full-scale battle, up close and personal. The impact was profound.

His eyes gleamed with newfound determination. Though his posture wasn’t as rigid as before, his presence had changed completely.

The stiffness of his earlier stance was gone, replaced by a natural composure and the bearing of a true warrior.

The other squires were the same. Only through direct experience could one truly understand.

Although some comrades had fallen, those who survived were transformed.

Northern knights, Northern knights—what were knights of the North in the training grounds?

Blood, glory, and the fear of enemies forged the legendary name of the Northern knights.

The revival of their honor started here.