Rubbing his eyes to ensure he wasn't seeing things, George was engulfed by a sense of bewilderment. He was no spring chicken; in his many years, he had never experienced such utter confusion.
Debris flew through the air, randomly wounding the soldiers. The once-solid wall, usually visible at a glance, now seemed collapsed, gaping wide as if a public restroom, with troops clad in Western and Northern armors already briskly moving in and out. The only speed George witnessed on his side was the frantic pace at which soldiers, awakened by shock, scurried away like headless chickens.
The more disciplined vanguard troops, under the officers' organization, were gearing up in armor, looking for weapons, while the cobbled-together local soldiers had already begun a full retreat in every direction.
We're done for.
This thought encapsulated George's raw feelings at the moment. In his mind, the battle raged on, torn between mounting a resistance and turning tail to run. But the appearance of a stern-looking war commissioner, emerging from the adjacent room, determined his resolve to – at least pretend to – make a stand.
Cursing the commissioner’s damn luck for surviving the blast, George's body kicked into a performative overdrive.
There he stood, commanding from the manor doorway to the scattering soldiers, his voice infused with an intimidating skill, "Form ranks! Tighten the defense line! Deserters will be executed!"
The voice of authority, bolstered by George's war knight prowess, radiated outwards, causing the fleeing soldiers to slow their pell-mell retreat. Their expressions morphed from panic to resolve as they dashed off toward the armory to prepare for the forthcoming fierce battle.
This was the might of a war knight – not merely a solo combatant, but adept at coordinating with subordinates, leveraging numerical advantage to navigate the battlefield with minimal losses and achieve strategic goals.
Seeing the deserters change direction, a hint of satisfaction curled at George's lips. Although he wasn't much of a war knight compared to Duke Arwin, he wasn't one to shy away from a fight. The duty now was to play this losing battle just right, pleasing both sides in the process.
Unfortunately, along with George's bellow came not just his commanding presence but also his very location.
For a war knight, leading from the front lines wasn't mandatory, but retreating was out of the question. This lack of concealment meant no skulking in the shadows, and with that, George's outcry had drawn the attention of two distinctly intimidating elders.
Carnwen Stronghold had turned into a veritable melee, with nearly a hundred thousand individuals crammed within the confines of the small chokepoint and hundreds of thousands more pushing their way in, set on turning the Stronghold into a sardine can.
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Clashes erupted in every lane and dwelling, with soldiers garbed in the king's colors steadily regrouping towards the lord's manor.
Amidst the chaos, two elder men, whose ages starkly contrasted with those around them, deftly navigated the low rooftops. They had only one target in mind – George at the manor doorway.
By the time George spotted the silhouettes approaching from afar, he knew his end was nigh.
Instinctively leaning back, an invisible blade sliced through the air, devastating the manor's entrance and punching through the wall behind it, linking what was meant to be separate front and back doors.
Before George could recover, twelve slashes penned him in, with two more taking the war commissioner by surprise. The clash of the high-ranking professionals concluded in less than a second.
George, now look accompagnished by the precise figure outlined by those twelve slashes, began to feel strangely grateful that he hadn't made any sudden moves.
He had been keeping one eye on the commissioner and knew the moment his head rolled that he had finally found his long-anticipated reprieve.
The next instant, an ancient, yet lethal-bladed sword rested at his neck. The blade's position was masterfully calculated, making even a gulp risk a bloody hole.
"Don't take it too seriously, old man. Seeing how this kid's eyes kept darting at the commissioner, I knew he was plotting something," Raventa sauntered up behind Arwin, looking every bit the casual passerby.
"So I just went ahead and took care of the commissioner; problem solved, right?" Raventa's dialogue suddenly shifted from Arwin to George.
George wanted nothing more than to express his complete agreement, but nodding or speaking seemed perilously life-threatening. He resorted to imploring glances between Arwin and the sword, pleading for leniency.
The sword flashed, and Arwin sheathed it back at his waist.
"*Cough cough cough!*" George finally welcomed relief as he caught his breath and cleared his throat, feeling life seep back into his body.
“You’re right, I’ve wanted to surrender for ages," George exhaled, his tension deflating. "Thank you for sparing my life."
"You're thanking us too soon," came Raventa’s teasing tone.
"Huh?" George was baffled.
It was then that a ruckus reached him:
"Run! General George is dead!”
"We're losing, make a run for it!"
"The general's gone, what are you waiting for?"
"..."
At that moment, George felt as if a part of him died along with those cries.
Sure, Carnwen Stronghold was small, but not so small that every soldier was fixated on the lord's manor. The defending troops still felt the presence of the war knight behind them, but with that shout, their rhythm and breathing spiraled into chaos. As one person made a dash, the rest followed suit, tossing aside their armor; even the usually disciplined vanguard fled in disarray. No one cared to sense if the war knight's presence lingered.
That's how a retreat can snowball into a rout. The surrounding allied army herded the fleeing defenders together, corralling them into a tight formation.
Pressed in from all sides, one soldier took the lead in throwing his weapon to the ground.
"Clang, clang, clang..."
It was a domino effect, the sparse armaments left were cast aside one after another, and al the guards were captured by the allied forces.
Not too far away, the show had already concluded.
"Alright, you're as good as dead by any official account," Arwin said with deliberate emphasis. "If you wish to keep living in the flesh, better spill everything you know – what's spoken and unspoken."