The chaotic melee between the two sides continued. The Crimson soldiers, though each a seasoned warrior proficient in fighting energy and highly coordinated, were simply too few in number. They were being visibly overwhelmed by Garrel's forces, who outnumbered them five to one. Veteran squad leaders like Kline and Dal exploited encirclement tactics and surprise attacks to inflict damage on the Crimson soldiers.
This was the Crimson soldiers' Achilles' heel. Assassination and ambush were their strengths, but in large-scale combat, these tactics were significantly less effective. Why? Because of the sheer number of opponents. On a battlefield where soldiers crowded together, who could they possibly assassinate? Every commander was surrounded by dozens of bodyguards, and even mid-level squad leaders had nearly a hundred soldiers around them. Like ants overwhelming an elephant, Crimson soldiers in previous battles had often been ground down by the sheer persistence of Garrel's rank-and-file soldiers.
For the Crimson soldiers, these Garrel troops were nothing short of a nightmare. They had witnessed their comrades skewered by coordinated spear thrusts more than once. But orders were orders, and retreat wasn't an option until they captured their target — the woman they had been tasked to seize. With grim determination, the Crimson soldiers reversed their assault, cutting a bloody path through Garrel's ranks.
As they fought, the Crimson soldiers began to realize that their enemies were not as numerous as they had initially feared. The darkness of night had exaggerated the enemy's numbers. In war, courage and strength determine victory. The Crimson soldiers had strength, and now, with their realization about enemy numbers, their courage surged back. They regrouped into small formations of three to five soldiers, fighting back-to-back as they pushed towards the direction where Angelina was fleeing — towards Young Master Soren.
Every second, soldiers fell. Screams of agony filled the air. Caesar's battalion had originally consisted of 400 infantrymen. After four years of camaraderie, despite the constant cycle of deaths and new recruits, they still recognized each other's voices. Many could identify which comrade had just fallen from the unique cadence of their dying screams. Yet Garrel's soldiers, hardened and unyielding, carried on. Under Baron Kyle's leadership, their troops were more disciplined and organized than those of other noble armies. No matter how high the casualties, there was no retreat unless the commander gave the order.
But no such order came. The squad leaders, Kline and Dal, were themselves in dire straits. After personally killing two or three Crimson soldiers, they became prime targets. Even with soldiers continually throwing themselves into the fray to assist them, their numbers were too few. Squad leaders couldn't afford to let their men die needlessly — without soldiers, their ranks meant nothing.
The situation was perilous. Skilled Crimson soldiers coordinated in small groups, focusing their attacks on Kline, Dal, and others. Without their soldiers' sacrificial defense, these leaders would have fallen long ago. Even Caesar and Jelson, who had recently begun practicing fighting energy, were each being targeted by Crimson soldiers.
Caesar, fortunately, had been diligent in his training and had honed his swordsmanship and spear skills. With fighting energy bolstered by the Red Sea Flower, he managed to hold his ground. Assisted by his subordinates Jon and Tom, Caesar barely managed to hold off his opponent. His arm shield, procured earlier with Henry's help, proved invaluable. The reinforced shield absorbed a Crimson soldier's fighting-energy-enhanced strike with only minor dents and scratches — a testament to its fine craftsmanship.
For Jelson, however, things were far worse. He lacked the Red Sea Flower, and his fighting energy reserves were meager at best. After just four or five strikes, he was drained. Forced to hide behind his soldiers, he relied on their bodies to shield him. Unlike Caesar, Jelson had been transferred from another squad and lacked loyal subordinates like Jon and Tom. His reliance on soldiers as expendable shields quickly earned him their resentment.
In contrast, Caesar had already saved several soldiers' lives by intervening in critical moments. Ordinary soldiers stood little chance against a fighter infused with fighting energy — a single swing from such a warrior was often enough to cut down anyone who stood in their way.
Both sides were taking heavy losses, but the balance of power was clear to Soren, who stood at a distance overseeing the battle. It took nearly seven or eight Garrel soldiers to take down a single Crimson soldier. Around five or six Crimson bodies littered the ground, but the number of Garrel dead was far higher. Nearly a quarter of Soren's original 200 soldiers now lay dead in the foreign mountain forest — a loss comparable to their entire assault on Phalanx City.
"What kind of people have you provoked?" Soren asked Angelina, his voice trembling with anger and frustration. If he could turn back time, he would never have gotten involved with these crimson-clad killers.
Angelina was gasping for breath. Though she was still standing, her legs could barely support her weight. Both her body and spirit had reached their limit. Pain and exhaustion consumed her. The chaotic slaughter unfolding before her was unlike anything she had ever witnessed. Previously, she had only seen small skirmishes with a dozen soldiers, and even then, she had been shocked and terrified. Now, with hundreds clashing in brutal combat, every moment of death and agony was seared into her keen magical senses. The extinguishing of life sparks and the fading of mental energy left a deep impression on her fragile psyche.
Soren's accusatory tone snapped her out of her daze. She turned to face him, her gaze sharp and clear despite her exhaustion. Soren's earlier heroics had earned her gratitude, but his current tone nearly erased that goodwill. Angelina, though young, was sharp and intelligent. Her eyes scanned Soren, and a flicker of realization crossed her face. Who was this noble? Which count's son was he?
As the beloved daughter of Garrel's king, Angelina had attended numerous royal balls. Every noble youth in the capital knew her face. But Soren, being merely a baron's son, had never been in her circles.
Without speaking, Angelina pulled out a golden token from beneath her torn white robes. The token bore the image of a woman — a face unmistakable to anyone in Garrel. It was the same face engraved on every silver buc in the kingdom, that of the first queen of Garrel.
Soren recognized the token immediately, though he failed to grasp its full significance. If his father, Baron Kyle, had been present, he would have understood.
The token was one of two unique symbols of royal succession. The king had once publicly awarded the golden king's token to his eldest son, Kensel, and the golden queen's token to his youngest daughter, Angelina. These tokens were more than mere symbols — they were declarations of royal intent.
Realizing the significance of the token, Soren's anger dissipated, replaced by a heavy sense of dread.
At that moment, a chilling aura swept across the battlefield. Leyte, clad in blood-red armor, arrived at last.
"No!" Soren gasped, recognizing the overwhelming presence of a powerful warrior — one whose aura rivaled even his teacher, Will.
Angelina felt the same oppressive aura. Exhausted and helpless, she could do nothing but await her fate.