Barrimont Castle is situated among the mountainous hills of northern Lyonnesse, a small fortress manned by only a few knights and a couple of hundred troops, mainly controlling the sparsely populated surrounding areas.
Ryan wasn't particularly surprised that the castle was overrun by rebellious serfs, as several of the castle's knights were currently imprisoned in the imperial capital, Brunswick.
Ryan understood what a serf rebellion meant, but he knew he had no excuse to intervene and could only watch from the sidelines for now.
Time to prepare the army and train new forces quickly!
In the northern wastelands, the Skarling tribes, thousands of barbarian warriors gathered along the coast.
They were all followers of Chaos, from basic barbarian raiders to barbarian champion warriors and chosen warriors of Chaos, a vast army crowded the shoreline, waiting for the dragon boats to arrive.
The elite three hundred of the "Crimson Guard," the king's personal guard, stood on the cliff, protecting their leader.
In the chilling winds, Egil Skarling, the "Red-Eyed" king of the Skarlings, stood on the coastal cliff, flanked by two figures.
They were his most trusted Chaos champion, Haldor, and his adopted son, also a powerful Chaos sorcerer named Chakoy.
The sorcerer, originally from Bretonnia, had come across the seas on a small fishing boat to the northern wastelands and reached the coast of the Skarlings.
This child, who had awakened to his magical talents, should have been sent to the Imperial Royal Wizard Academy or the Sorcerers' Alliance in the southern kingdoms if conditions had permitted. Otherwise, he would have been detected by the lake prophets and taken away.
Ignorant serfs, unable to send their child to learn magic, did not want him taken from them, so they placed him on a fishing boat with some food to escape his fate.
The ignorant act of the serfs did not save the child's fate; by the time the fishing boat drifted to the shores of the northern wastelands, the child had been deeply corrupted by Chaos and had become a terrifying Chaos sorcerer.
Egil saw this child as a gift from the dark gods, adopting him as his own. Over decades, this adopted son became a legendary Chaos sorcerer capable of summoning great demons.
This was the consequence of letting children with awakened magical talents grow up unchecked—they either became servants of Chaos or conduits for it.
"I will lead five thousand troops south first, Haldor, you wait here for more troops and the Chaos dwarfs to gather," Egil told his lieutenant. "Chaos Dwarf Lord Zumar will meet you here with his hellcannons."
"My king, our forces have not yet gathered, why the haste to move south? Tribal chiefs are still leading their forces here," Haldor, a towering Chaos champion clad in crimson armor, spoke to Egil.
"I can wait no longer. The will of the great gods compels me southward, and southward I must go," declared Egil, clad in Chaos armor and wielding a hellaxe, his crimson aura bursting forth: "I am the chosen champion of the Blood God."
"The divine decree of the great Blood God promises a woman in the south, in Lyonnesse of Bretonnia, on the northern islands called Landri, can bear me a son. I feel it—the Blood God's decree demands endless blood and slaughter to please him," the Chaos sorcerer Chakoy declared. "Without sufficient slaughter, skulls, and the flow of blood, the Blood God will not bless me with a true son."
Egil nodded, "So, Chakoy and I will lead five thousand south first, the remaining thirty thousand will follow later, waiting for those dwarfs from the east to join us before we move."
"Yes!" Haldor responded loudly.
Led by a hundred dragon boats, the barbarian fleet set sail, the black dragon boats carrying destruction southward.
The hundred dragon boats crossed the Claw Sea, and despite the springtime storms and hurricanes, the black fleet remained unscathed by the raging blessings of Chaos.
King Egil of the Skarlings proudly stood at the prow of the lead dragon boat, the wind, rain, and whirlpools unable to stop their advance—a blessing from the Blood God, a testament to the strength of the northerners.
"Father," called Chakoy, emerging from below decks, finding Egil standing on the deck, barely able to open his eyes against the fierce winds.
But the chosen champion of terror stood at the bow like a deity incarnate, the fierce winds and towering waves seeming insignificant before him, his Chaos brass armor adorned with spikes and rings, skulls hanging from iron rods on his back, telling of Egil's glory.
He was the terror's chosen champion, the warrior favored by the Blood God, the king who had swept across the northern wastelands and Chaos wilds for centuries.
"In no more than three days, we will cross the storm and reach the principality of Lyonnesse," Chakoy struggled to speak to Egil over the roar of the elements: "The natives of the south will not expect our dragon boat fleet to cross the storm. They will be caught off guard."
Chakoy expected his foster father to be pleased with this news.
However, Egil said nothing, the chosen champion of the Blood God concealing his visage within his brass helmet. His towering helmet was adorned with the eight-pillared symbol of terror, and from within, only a pair of pale eyes glowed a bloody red.
"Father?" Chakoy's hood was blown away, revealing his severely mutated face. The Chaos sorcerer's visage was covered in tumors, with an extra horn sprouting from his head and a bloody hole in the middle of his forehead, where a white eyeball peered out.
"The destruction of the south has been decreed," Egil said calmly, his voice resonant as a mountain, stirring the soul: "The southern people have forsaken the redemption of the gods and the true civilization. Only by believing in the true four gods of the north can they have a chance at redemption. Therefore, their fate is only destruction. I will bring true civilization and faith."
"Now, I have come, and the cowardly southerners will be destroyed, only blood and glory will endure."
...
Lyonnesse Principality, the town of Landri.
This is located in the northwest of Lyonnesse, along its lengthy coastline, a region rich with islands and abundant resources, heavily populated. Many residents live here, surviving off the abundant seafood, which ensures that their days are relatively comfortable. As such, the locals almost daily pray devoutly to the Lady of the Lake for protection from the tumultuous seas and from the northern barbarian raiders.
Perhaps due to the Lady's protection, Landri has always been peaceful and uneventful.
Today, as usual, fishermen were praying on the beach to the Lady of the Lake.
Normally, knights do not permit serfs to worship the Lady of the Lake; serfs typically adhere to other deities of the Old World like the merciful goddess Shallya, the war god Ulric, the god of death Morr, the sea god Manann, the earth mother Rhya, the god of wisdom and justice Verena, the god of war Myrmidia, or the three great deities of the southern imperial cult: the god of justice, the god of life, and the god of magic.
However, the deep-rooted faith in the Lady of the Lake in Bretonnia meant that people were keen to recite the sacred name of the goddess, and the knights were not overly keen to stop the serfs from worshiping their own lady.
This was also true on the island of Landri, where the locals preferred to believe that it was the Lady of the Lake who ensured their safe return from the storms and waves.
At the beach, several fishermen were kneeling in prayer: "Praise the Lady! Thank you for granting us safety."
An elderly fisherman was leading the prayers, his sun-darkened skin wrinkled from years at sea. He glanced up at the sky with a worried look.
This year's harvest had not been good; the island had hardly produced any decent crops, and while Landri was a prosperous island, the serfs' meals were still mostly fish, with black bread only at dinner.
Fortunately, the serfs were not starving, and life was still bearable.
A storm had been raging over the sea these past few days, preventing the fishermen from going out. They prayed and complained about the bad weather, preparing to return to their homes in the fishing village to spend the day by the warmth of their hearths and busy with various chores.
But just then, on the horizon at the edge of the sea, several dark spots appeared.
"Hey, what's that?" The serfs looked curiously at the dots.
The elderly fisherman also gazed at the distant dots with a puzzled look, a bad premonition rising within him.
The few dots turned into a dozen, then twenty, then more. As time passed, the fishermen realized they were ships.
"How strange, to sail in such stormy weather?" one serf muttered, "What does this mean? Maybe the storm isn't that strong. Should we try to go out too? Catch what we can."
"Hey, you." Another serf scoffed, "Those are large ships, top-class vessels, not your repeatedly repaired old fishing boat. Look, those ships are big and sturdy, definitely able to withstand the storm."
The serfs continued to watch curiously.
The dots drew nearer, gradually revealing their full form.
These were several black dragon boats, their figureheads large dragon heads and skeletons, the vast sails marked with black octagonal arrays,
appearing and disappearing in the storm.
The elderly fisherman stared incredulously at the black markings on the sails, rubbing his eyes hard.
The markings remained black.
"We're... we're doomed," the elderly fisherman's knees buckled, nearly collapsing on the beach, a nearby serf quickly supported him: "Old Wood, what's wrong?"
"The end... the end has come, our end has come," the old fisherman's face was a mix of sadness, anger, resignation, but above all, deep fear: "The northerners, the stars of disaster from the north have come, destruction descends, all will wither, those are the raiding fleet of the northern barbarians, they've come to Landri, we're... finished!"
"The northern barbarians' raiding fleet?" The serfs were shocked, hastily grabbing the old fisherman: "Impossible, isn't there a storm in the north? How could the northern barbarians' raiding fleet come here?"
"No, this is definitely the northern barbarians' fleet, I'm not mistaken," the old fisherman's face was filled with fear, a deep fear that penetrated to the bone, his complexion pale, his body trembling and covered in cold sweat: "I'm not mistaken, because I've lived through it."
"When I was eight, one morning, my father went out to fish, but unlike usual, he left in the morning and returned just before noon. He was terrified, he shoved me into the cellar under our house and instructed me not to come out no matter what I heard."
"All day, I heard countless sounds, those terrible screams, cries for help, the sound of flames burning... When the reinforcements pulled me from the cellar, what I saw was a wasteland, houses burning in fierce fires, the entire village turned into hell, everyone was killed, heads piled as high as mountains, my father was torn in half, my mother was impaled with a stake... I was the only survivor of the village."
"That was the handiwork of the northern barbarians, that was the sigil of Chaos, I'm not mistaken, I definitely am not. They didn't forget me, they just didn't take my life, left me here to scrape by, and now they've come back, to collect interest. We're... finished."
The serfs were so frightened they were pale. They looked at each other, gathered their belongings, and ran.
Only the old fisherman remained quietly kneeling on the beach.
The dragon boats approached, under the octagonal sigil of Chaos and the eight-pillared holy sigil of the Blood God, the hundred dragon boats of the Skarlings tribe gradually neared the beach, where the figures of fishermen fleeing in terror could be seen everywhere.
As the first dragon boat landed on the beach, hundreds of bloodthirsty Skarlings warriors roared as they disembarked, striding towards the fleeing fishermen.
King Egil "Red-Eye" of the Skarlings stepped down from the largest dragon boat, each step resounding, then drew his hellaxe and split a kneeling, pleading old fisherman in two: "Such is the cowardice of southerners, only they would beg for mercy."
"Pass my command, every southerner who dares resist us will be given an honorable death by our axes and swords, every one who surrenders, who gives up resistance, will be impaled by a stake! Kill everything living you see, offer their skulls and blood to the great Blood God!"
"Oh! Oh!" The barbarian warriors and raiders responded to Egil's orders with madness, brutally killing everything living they saw, seizing everything they saw.
In the distance, the village was immediately overwhelmed by fire and smoke, its meager garrison and slight resistance quickly dissipating.
"Let these decayed and backward southerners experience the superiority of us northerners! A blood sacrifice to the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne! For blood and glory! For terror!"
"For terror!!!"
On this day, a dozen villages along the coast of Landri were reduced to ruins, thousands of Bretonnians slaughtered, no one spared.
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