Turns out, battles with more than ten thousand soldiers didn’t end just because of a shocking loss, especially when both armies were made of veterans—or at least people with months of experience on the battlefield.
Oliver had hoped that the astonishment of seeing the much-vaunted cavalry vaporized would have been enough to send General Locke’s men fleeing for their lives. Unfortunately, either the man himself had an iron grip over their state of mind—something that couldn’t actually be ruled out, given that he was known to be a competent commander with a long experience—or the loyalists were so sure they’d die if they scattered that they jointly decided to keep fighting to have a chance.
Cutting down his fifth enemy, Oliver strained to believe the second option. In the end, it didn’t really matter, as the result was the same, but having to mow down men who would potentially surrender without their commander’s influence tasted bitter.
“Hyah!” One of the few mounted knights left shouted, swinging his sword down in what should have been a decapitating strike, which that was met with a seemingly impossible blow from below. Oliver’s skill with the basic set of buffing spells required of a Paladin allowed him to outmaneuver almost anyone—especially those limited by being on a horse without the benefit of a company of fellows to scatter the infantry.
Sir Leonard had been right to insist he master the basics before moving on to fancier skills. Despite the increase in power most people experienced as they fought repeated battles, they still behaved as if their opponents would react like ordinary people. That was not what would happen, and being able to deal with the difference was the hallmark of a true fighter.
Oliver abruptly pivoted again, letting a spear pass harmlessly by his side, only to use the same momentum to push his sword through the warhorse’s protection.
Mana sparked momentarily as the tip of his sword faced the enchantment until the spell broke down, overwhelmed, and the beast collapsed, missing its posterior leg.
Oliver didn’t bother fending off the rifleman aiming his way, trusting in the additional protections Lady Franklin had placed on his armor after she learned he was Sir Leonard’s squire.
Another step forward, and he was next to the struggling knight, who was desperately trying to push the dying horse off his leg. The damage wasn’t enough to kill him, and Oliver doubted the bone had even broken, given that he could feel a Journeyman’s aura from him, but his movements were hampered enough that he could do nothing to shield from his [Thrust].
Leaving behind the dead man, Oliver didn’t push beyond the front line, instead preferring to lend support where the revolutionaries were having the most trouble. While he would have liked to lose himself in the fighting, the incredible amount of protective charms and equipment he wore meant he could be a real game changer everywhere he went, and he wouldn’t feel right if his selfish decision meant good people died.
Especially since [Resurrection] wasn’t a perfect spell. Most people could be returned to life, yes, but even Sir Leonard wasn’t omnipotent, as much as he looked the part most of the time.
All in all, the battle was going well. Treon’s army wasn’t giving up anytime soon, but they were firmly on the backfoot now that their surprise had been turned around.
The air was thick with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the distant, thunderous roar of artillery. From where he was, in the thick of the fighting, Oliver couldn’t see it. Still, he knew from the planning sessions that General Dortmund had placed a Corp of riflemen guarding the moving carriages at the southern edge of the battle, meant to prevent any possible encirclement or last-minute support from the south.
Ahead, beyond the melee, a massive duel caught his attention. General Doomspear, the Revolution’s newest Master, was locked in a deadly dance with an enemy soldier, though calling his opponent a soldier was reductive. The visible aura of power around him marked him as a high-ranking knight, perhaps even Locke’s right-hand man.
Oliver was too far to get a good idea of the specifics, but he was confident it was at least an Expert and likely a Master. It had to be to dare face a man of Gareth Doomspear’s status.
Slowly, the men around him started paying more attention to the clash as the energies became impossible to ignore. Lightning arced through the sky, illuminating the battlefield in stark, electric blue flashes. Each bolt cracked the ground, sending scores of enemy soldiers flying, their bodies charred and smoking.
The enemy knight countered with gusts of wind that howled through the battlefield like a furious storm, prevented from battering the revolutionary soldiers only by the Mage Corps’ hasty barriers.
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He conjured powerful air slashes, each one rending the earth and slicing through anything unfortunate enough to be in their path. The sheer might of their attacks created a maelstrom of destruction. The middle of the battlefield quickly emptied as men fled from certain death.
Having personally witnessed Doomspear’s training to recover his control, Oliver was acutely aware of how close each of those bolts came to annihilating a good chunk of the frontline. And yet, despite the lightning being powerful enough to shake the earth, it only ever hit the intended target or the enemies behind it.
The royalist’s magic was less flashy but still powerful enough that Oliver wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it. Now that there weren’t knights bearing down on him, he could take a moment to analyze the duel, and the disparity in raw power quickly became evident.
I don’t know if he’s a particularly weak Master or a monstrously strong Expert, but he’s somehow bridging the gap in raw strength with his skill. He only uses enough mana to push the General back or force him into a difficult situation. That he’s doing so using air magic is even crazier.
Another slash of cutting wind forced the General away from his position and back to his initial one, where he could absorb the blow and protect the men who would have been split in two.
He didn’t seem to enjoy the underhanded trick, however, and replied with something so bright that it forced Oliver to look away, despite his numerous protections, lest he become blind. Thunder roiled over the battlefield, physically shaking soldiers inside their armor.
The next time he looked, Oliver found the two locked in direct combat and knew that the end of the duel was close. Despite the enemy knight's apparent skill and ability to last much longer than he rightly should have, the sheer disparity in power was not avoidable.
The ground below the two men’s feet cracked as Doomspear brought his weapon down, halted from cutting through his opponent only by a last-second explosion of compressed air.
What followed was too bright for Oliver to see, but he was able to confirm the General’s victory, as he was the only man standing once sight returned to him.
I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have survived that, and yet I felt… It had to be Sir Leonard. Only he could be so subtle. But why would he save him…
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The consequences of the titanic duel rapidly manifested as Treon's army began to pull away. Slowly at first, the loyalist soldiers thinned out, attempting to maintain their lines. However, the creeping realization of their precarious position spread like wildfire through their ranks. Whoever it was that just lost the duel had to be a big deal, and more than that, they must have had a significant battlefield control skill because it had much more of an effect than the destruction of Hillcrest.
Panic set in when the front-line soldiers realized they were being left behind.
Some of Treon's soldiers, faced with the inevitability of their fate, chose to fight to the death, determined to give their comrades a chance to escape. These men fought with a desperate ferocity, their eyes blazing with resolve. Oliver cut down a few such men, their resistance vigorous but ultimately futile against his abilities. They were trained soldiers, men who spent their whole lives preparing for such battles, and yet he was like an adult among children. It felt humbling.
Others, however, lost all composure and broke into a full retreat, their terror overwhelming any sense of duty or honor. The chaos of their flight created openings in the royalist lines, which the Revolutionary Army exploited ruthlessly. Oliver ignored most of the fleeing soldiers, focusing instead on ensuring the weaker parts of the frontline did not suffer excessively from their opponents' newfound desperation. When the fight looked to be over, the worst mistakes were made.
I won’t let anything stain our victory.
As if to prove him right, a few massive bolts of dark energy arced from the rear of Treon's army, aimed at killing as many revolutionaries as possible with no regard for collateral damage.
Each spell warped the air with its power, promising devastation. Before they could land, massive waves of Holy power surged up to meet them, and a choking presence filled the battlefield, disintegrating the attacks into brilliant flashes of light.
Even a mana-blind person would have realized it was the Hero’s handiwork, though they’d be understandably confused that it was his first flashy show of presence during this whole battle, while he hadn’t been shy with his power before.
Oliver knew better. His mentor had set up things so that he’d progressively be needed less and less. Of course, he was ready to face any emergency, like those massive attacks would have been, but his army had proved in a pitched battle that it could hold its own against a competently commanded enemy.
Knowing that the mage corps were somewhere behind the lines, it was possible that his intervention wouldn’t have been needed at all, but his show of power had another side effect. Those men who had kept fighting but hadn’t come to grips with their impending death broke and ran as well, signaling the end.
The Revolutionary Army pressed the advantage, overwhelming defensive lines that had held so far with great ease. Now that their spirit was broken and the commanders gone, nothing could prevent the soldiers from realizing it was over. The royalists' retreat turned into a rout.
Through all of this, Oliver continued his self-assigned duty, ensuring no harm came to the exposed flanks as his comrades gave chase, at times overextending.
Whenever he engaged, he came out the victor, ending duels and clashes like an avenging angel. Each strike was precise, and each spell meticulously aimed to maximize its impact and minimize casualties among his men.
Eventually, the fighting began to subside. The pockets of resistance that had chosen to fight to the death were overwhelmed by the Revolutionary Army's superior coordination and morale. The remaining loyalists, realizing the futility of further combat, began to surrender en masse. Weapons sank into the churned ground, and hands were raised in defeat.
Even as the violence stopped, the battlefield didn’t fall silent. The cries of the wounded and dying—especially of those who realized the magnitude of their loss—rang clearly. Men shouted, asking for surrenders or begging for the suffering to end. Horses were put down or led away in the few cases they were amenable.
As more of the new prisoners were taken, another group of soldiers started roaming through the battlefield, gathering the corpses and dividing them between revolutionaries and loyalists. The latter were placed in a lower depression, around which dozens of mages took position, looking ready to act at any moment.
They waited silently, not taking their eyes off the dead soldiers. Oliver joined their ranks, still not used to what was about to happen.
Sir Leonard arrived then, and everyone held their breath. His eyes glowed, and he lifted his arms.
The dead came back to life.