On the city walls, all the knights and vassals were covered in cold sweat, their faces rigid.
From a young age, the serfs and nobles of Brittany were taught story after story about the battles of the Bretonnian knights, among which the tales of the Grail Knights were most popular and well-known.
As they grew older, the noble children would dress up as knights, jousting with soft-tipped lances, shouting the name of the Lady of the Lake as they reenacted the great deeds of the past. Deep faith in the Lady of the Lake was ingrained in their hearts, and everyone dreamed of walking the path of the Grail, earning the Lady's favor, and ultimately becoming a glorious Grail Knight to fulfill their life's dream.
In the hearts of the Bretonnians, the Grail Knights were living saints, their stories and legends widespread. Even children in the most remote villages could recite the knightly tales.
To the people, the Grail Knights were the embodiment of chivalry. In times of helplessness, they invoked the names of known Grail Knights as if praying to the gods for protection.
Now, with the myth shattered—even the mightiest Grail Knight Commander Yules falling to Egil—every Bretonnian felt something break within them.
It was the sound of long-held beliefs and convictions shattering.
"Lord Yules..." Calard, Annara, and the knights from Kurona who had come with Yules cried out in grief, tears streaming down their faces.
Darlheid, Aldreld, and the remaining knights of the Duchy of Leonaise stood silent, their expressions blank. Darlheid opened his mouth but could find no words.
"I..." As he began to speak, the duke felt tears well up.
He wanted to cry, but his status as a duke meant he had to maintain his composure, so the tears simply ran down the lines at the corners of his eyes. Darlheid cried not just for Yules, but for Leonaise itself.
Egil silenced the barbarians' wild celebrations. Holding Yules's severed head in his hand, he carefully wiped the dust from it. The chosen champion of terror had won the duel, but his heart was filled with many emotions. Yules had been a worthy opponent, and Egil felt a pang of regret for his passing.
Yet the King of Scarlins quickly recovered from his emotions, mounting Yules's head on a spike on his armor. He then raised his battle axe towards Darlheid on the city walls, demanding the return of his woman and son.
"People of Brittany! I respect your fallen champion! The word of the King of Scarlins is never false. Now, return my woman and my son to me! Otherwise, we will kill every man, woman, and child, smash your stone castles, and reduce every village to rubble!" Egil shouted towards the inner keep: "In respect and memory of your champion, I will give you one day to regroup! Tomorrow at noon, when the sun is highest, Scarlins will launch the final assault!"
Darlheid remained silent, hesitating for a full thirty seconds. Looking at the barbarian army steadily approaching the inner keep, he wanted to immediately order the death of Elizabeth and the child within her. However, he knew he could not; the reason he had spared Elizabeth's life was because he still held a final bargaining chip.
Now, like a gambler who had lost everything, he had nothing left, but he must ensure respect for the oath to the Grail Knight, for Yules had agreed, and he must fulfill it.
This was a respect for oaths. Having agreed to the duel, they must respect its outcome.
The woman named Hengest was placed in an iron cage and brought out of the keep.
Egil, seeing the woman's belly showing her advanced pregnancy, smiled contentedly. The joy he felt made the victory of the duel seem less significant.
Unknown to others, Egil too had reached his limit under Yules's assault. The chosen champion of terror, in a way, did not wish to attack the final keep by force, but hoped to honor and respect Yules, a worthy opponent, through this act.
The chosen champion of terror adhered to the honor of terror, willing to keep his word, but only towards worthy opponents. Unlike many champions of chaos who acted wantonly, Egil deeply understood that the honor of terror must not be tainted. Keeping promises was often just a means, but Egil chose to magnify this practice to let mortals understand the power and glory of terror.
Thus, he accorded Yules basic respect and initiated the champion's duel. If he had died in the duel, it would only prove he was unworthy of being the chosen champion of terror.
Now, Egil was about to welcome his first son.
At night, in
Egil's tent, all the Scarlins awaited eagerly as the cries of a newborn echoed through the night sky.
These were cries of extreme pain, not just stirring up turmoil in the mortal realm but also causing strong echoes in the subspace. It was the power of chaos, the blessing of the Dark Gods. In the realm of chaos, everywhere was madness and disorder. In the camp of the Scarlins, all eight chaos sorcerers were turned to ash by a powerful chaos storm, with only the legendary chaos sorcerer Chakoi surviving.
Not being chaos sorcerers, the barbarian warriors also trembled in the terrible chaos storm, kneeling and chanting the names of their dark gods in prayer.
Egil's weathered face shimmered with tears as he gently cradled the newborn in his arms.
The child was robust, his eyes bright and ice-blue like his father's. In his hand, he clutched a clump of blood, his tiny fist tightly closed, symbolizing strength and the favor of the Blood God.
This was a promising young one.
Egil's eyes reddened as he tenderly stroked the baby's face. His son was too young to wield an axe or a sword, but that was okay. Egil could wait. He had a long life ahead of him.
Chaos sorcerer Chakoi finally recovered from the terrifying chaos storm, eagerly approaching Egil to announce the addition of a new member to the foster father's family. The remaining nearly twenty thousand barbarian warriors cheered loudly for the future chieftain.
Under the night sky, the Scarlins' camp was as bright as day. A grand celebration was held in the barbarians' camp, everyone reveling in the great victory. Now, the Bretonnians had lost their champion and could only cower in their castle, waiting for fate's judgment, while the barbarians feasted, breaking into food stores, attacking every shop and workshop, looting everything they saw, eating meat heartily, drinking soup in large bowls, and singing loudly.
The barbarians had every reason to celebrate; a monumental achievement had been forged with the blood and destruction of the Bretonnians. Tomorrow, they would attack the only remaining keep in Leonaise, decorating the throne of terror with Bretonnian skulls and flesh.
Egil joyfully held his son, rocking the baby in his arms for a long time before remembering the child's mother, Hengest—or Elizabeth, who lay pale-faced on a large table.
The woman looked up at Egil with pleading eyes.
She did not want to die, knowing what her future would hold, she was begging.
But Egil showed no reaction; he waved his hand, and the chaos champion Kovend entered from outside: "My king?"
Without a word, Egil pointed to the woman lying on the bed, then made a slicing gesture with his hand.
The chosen champion of terror looked at Kovend, who nodded in understanding.
The King of Scarlins, holding his baby, walked out of the tent to join the barbarians in their wild celebration.
"Sssla!" Shortly after Egil left the tent, a sound came from inside, and blood stained the coarse fabric of the tent. Egil's cold laughter continued.
It was meant to be this way. Although there had been many surprises, the outcome eventually returned to its predetermined course.
What remained was a time to celebrate the victory.
But happy times are always short-lived. After several hours of celebration, Egil heard an unusual, faint sound of horns. The horns were mighty and majestic. The barbarians, still in a daze from their frenzied celebration, many drunk, had not yet realized what was happening.
Barbarians were always like this, believers in chaos, synonymous with disorder and chaos.
Egil, too, had been muddled by the birth of his son, so much so that he had completely failed to arrange sentries. He could feel the alcohol from the two barrels of malt beer he had drunk eroding his thoughts, but the chosen champion of terror quickly overcame the power of alcohol. He realized immediately that something had changed!
"Enemy night attack! Enemy night attack! Warriors, grab your weapons, prepare for battle!" Egil issued a loud command just as the weather changed dramatically, and clouds rolled in. Then, a huge meteor burning with flames fell directly from the sky, smashing into the barbarian camp.
The meteor exploded in the Scarlins' camp, instantly killing over a hundred and fifty barbarian warriors on the spot, and a giant shockwave swept through the entire camp.
At the same time, the sound of thunderous cannon fire came from afar, several cannonballs shimmering with magical luster traced beautiful arcs in the air, falling into the barbarian camp.
The cannons roared, and the cannonballs exploded, attacking the barbarian camp. Each cannon shot killed a dozen barbarian warriors and a large barbarian tent. These were the
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