The soldiers could hardly believe it—they were about to clash in open battle with the prince of Arlania.
Who would have thought they had the balls to fight?
But fight they would. And when the dust settled, the victors would have their prize. The thought of looting the city—its gold, its women—was enough to make the soldiers' blood boil with anticipation.
After all, as the Romlians said: If they bend the knee, help them rise. If they fight, give them steel and blood.
And steel they would receive.
"Forward, men!" The officers barked their commands, their voices cutting through the din of the marching army. "They are cowards! One push, and they'll crumble like dust!"
Shields locked. Boots pounded the earth in perfect rhythm. The battle had begun.
"Hold the line!" another officer bellowed. "Keep your shields up! March slow—march steady!"
A smirk spread across the soldiers' faces. "Since when do we fear these Arlanian rats?" someone scoffed.
The plan was simple, almost insultingly so. The enemy lacked a proper cavalry force—a crippling weakness. Their heavy riders, the dreaded clibanarii, would only have to wait for the right moment before storming the battlefield and shattering the enemy in a single, devastating charge at their flanks .
All the infantry had to do was hold.
"I'll mount your daughters while you watch from hell!" jeered one soldier, drawing laughter from his comrades.
"Your gold belongs to me!" another cackled.
The insults came like a storm, shouted at the opposing army as the Romlian ranks advanced, step by step, steel glinting under the sun. Usually, a battle would begin with an exchange of arrows and javelins, softening the enemy before the real fight began. But today was different.
Today, at the front of the Arlanian formation stood a company whom the emperor himself had sworn to destroy .
Then, it began.
The Arlanians let loose their arrows, darkening the sky with a storm of death. The projectiles whistled through the air like a thousand hissing serpents, descending mercilessly upon the advancing army.
The Romlian infantry had no choice but to press forward, shields raised, as the first wave of arrows found flesh. Screams tore through the ranks. Some men fell instantly, clutching their throats, their lifeblood soaking into the dirt. Others staggered as arrows pierced their limbs, gritting their teeth against the pain as they forced themselves onward.
There was no stopping now.
"My leg! My leg!" A soldier howled, clutching at his bleeding thigh.
"Those bastards got my shoulder!" Another man snarled, snapping the arrow lodged in his flesh, leaving the shaft buried deep. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The only men allowed to turn back were those too wounded to stand—and even then, it was only to meet the axe. Between a slow death at camp or an arrow in the gut, they all chose the arrows.
"You fuckers!" Another bellowed, his rage drowning out his pain as he forced his trembling legs forward. "I'll make sure to impale your women properly!" He bit down on the inside of his cheek, using the pain to drown out the agony in his thighs.
And then the real rain came.
Javelins. Axes. Heavy, brutal things that tore flesh apart with sickening ease. Unlike arrows, these couldn't simply be swatted away with a shield—once they found their mark, they stayed there.
"Suck on this, you bastard!" A mercenary roared as his javelin plunged through a soldier's chest, pinning him to the dirt.
"Right in the neck, ehehehe…" Another cackled as his axe buried itself into a collarbone, splitting skin and bone like firewood.
"I've got more for you! Come on!"
The mercenaries were no soldiers, but they didn't need to be. They had no discipline, no formations, no polished armor or elegant war chants—but what they did have was experience. Bloodstained, hardened, ruthless experience. They killed for gold, and today, there was plenty to be made.
By contrast, the imperial infantry was little more than a gaggle of levied peasants—untrained men yanked from their fields and thrown into battle by lords who needed bodies to fill ranks. And soon, the difference would be clear.
No more projectiles. No more distance.
The gap closed.
The Rolmian soldiers braced, forming a tight wall of shields and spears, heeding the strategy their ancestors had passed down for generations: Stay close to your companion and strike with the pointy end.
Metal clanged against metal, a deafening chorus of war as the two sides met. The imperial tactic was simple—take a step forward, stab, then step back. Keep the line. Keep the rhythm. Let the spears do the work.
But today, their enemy was no ordinary foe.
Standing in the center of the battlefield was the Order of the Betrayed—a ruthless band of mercenaries who made their fortune spilling imperial blood. They fought against the empire whenever and wherever they could, offering discounts just for the sheer pleasure of killing Romlians.
And that meant they knew exactly how to counter them.
Clad in thick armor, wielding brutal axes and heavy maces, the mercenaries sneered as they charged. Before the levies could build the momentum for their spear thrusts, the mercenaries were already upon them. There was no space to stab, no room to fall back—only chaos, blood, and death.
The battle dissolved into a savage melee.
The mercenaries moved like madmen, some even tossing their shields aside to grip an axe in each hand, hacking through flesh like butchers at a slaughterhouse. The levied peasants, who had never even seen real combat before today, crumbled beneath them—mangled, gutted, torn apart like helpless animals caught in a grinder.
For many of them, this was their first battle.
For their opponents, it was just another payday.
"Help! Help!" a soldier screamed as his shield was ripped from his grip. A blade flashed in the air—then came the wet, sickening sound of steel meeting flesh.
"Mother!" Another sobbed, his courage abandoning him as his legs trembled—warm, yellow liquid spilling down his thighs, soaking into the bloodstained sand below.
The battlefield was a symphony of agony.
The cries of the dying mixed with the clash of steel, the crunch of bones shattering under maces, and the wet squelch of axes cleaving through flesh. Heads and limbs were sent flying, torn free as if they were mere twigs. Those who were knocked to the ground found no mercy—only the trampling boots of their own comrades, crushing their broken bodies into the dirt.
For every man who fell, two more surged forward to take his place. The tide of bodies was relentless, and even the fiercest mercenaries—seasoned killers who had spent their lives carving through armies—could not hold back an ocean forever.
Slowly but surely, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell.
Even as they cut men down by the dozens, the mercenaries found themselves being forced back, step by bloody step. Their axes grew heavier, their arms burned, and the gaps in their ranks widened.
They had slaughtered many—but the enemy just kept coming.
———-
''Seems like the battle is not going our way…'' muttered a man donned in royal golden armor, with the emblem of the sun depicted on his chest, the herald representing the Arlanian royal family. He surveyed the chaos with a calmness akin to a still lake, seemingly unfazed by the sight of his army being slowly pushed back . Almost as if he was watching a play.
With caramel-like skin that seemed to glow under the sun's rays, he cut a striking figure against the backdrop of sand and dust. His long blonde hair cascaded down to his neck, flowing like strands of gold in the desert breeze.
With a visage that boasted handsome features, devoid of any blemish or scar,the prince pleased the eyes of both men and women. His chiseled jawline framed a determined expression, his piercing eyes ablaze with determination and resolve as he led his men into battle for the first time.
''May the sun bless his sons and blaze on our enemies.'' he muttered as he raised his eyes towards the sky, before immediately dropping the gaze when the sun became too unbearable.
Though still in his early twenties, the prince carried himself with the confidence and authority of a seasoned leader, one of the many reason he acquired the loyalty of some nobles, which considering the kingdom he was ruling, was certainly a great feat.
One of these noble Yamier Marza, a loyal supporter of the prince , approached his liege . His armor glistened in the sunlight, adorned with the sigil of his noble house, two ravens on a red field, a symbol representing the fact that the richness of his house was built through battles alone and not deception or intrigue . Something that was greatly appreciated by the prince.
I need blades , he thought , not snakes with poison.
"My prince, the ' betrayed ' are being pushed back," he began, his voice filled with concern. "Should we go ahead with the plan? I fear they may break if this continues."
Prince Arzalat's gaze remained steadfast as he met Marza's eyes, he muttered few words, yet they still shook the man from his core
"Will you uphold your oath once again, my good man ?" he asked solemnly
With a deep bow, Marza knelt before his prince, his commitment evident in every fiber of his being. "Always my prince , in this life and the other," he vowed, his words resonating with solemn reverence.
Satisfied with Marza's response, he raised his hand
"Very well," he declared. "Take control of the two Azabs and flank the enemy from the right."
After that he immediately turned left, giving his attention to another loyal retainer,Sheri Nasaah.
Nasaah, like Marza,was a man in his late forties , unlike Nasaah though he was bald,though the lack of hairs was compensated by his long beard. His skin like that of his prince was caramel, as while most of the common populace was black in hue, the nobility instead had a light brown color , as most of them were not of Arlanian blood as much as they were cousins of their neighbors in the sultanate of Azania.
"Nasaah," he called out, his eyes fixed on his trusted commander. "Take control of one Azab and provide support to the Betrayed. Ensure that they do not break."
Without hesitation, Sheri Nasaah bowed deeply before swiftly moving forward to carry out his orders.
Meanwhile, the last remaining Azabs in reserve were given their final instructions by the prince himself - another noble was tasked with charging from the left flank, effectively sandwiching their enemies between two fierce attacks.
Everybody in that camp knew, that what they were doing was a bet. If they won, than they could finally ascend on a golden age, where the Arlanian could finally decide on how to live on their own, while if they failed than nothing would change.
All the nobles that followed Arzalat, came to see him as the man that could change the fate of their country.
He was seen as the one who could break their shackles and free them from the tight grip of the empire that held them captive. But even with this liberation, a new power would rise in its place: the mighty Azania. Despite this, many were willing to trade one for the other , for they felt a stronger sense of connection and belonging to the sultanate rather than being mere pawns in the hands of foreign oil-drinkers.
After all, it was thanks to their gold and support that they now had the chance to meet the emperor in battle, a feat that would have never come true without that help.