Caesar sprinted northward through the dense forest, weaving between towering trees and leaping over jagged boulders. Despite carrying someone on his back, his speed showed no sign of slowing. In this life-or-death chase, Caesar seemed to have broken through his physical limits, leaving behind only a fleeting blur.
If Caesar was the wind, then the crimson-armored Casar behind him was lightning. Unlike Caesar's steady sprint, Casar advanced with powerful, calculated leaps. Every time his boots landed on a tree branch or a boulder, he pushed off with a forceful stomp, propelling himself great distances with each jump.
Not only was Casar faster than Caesar, but his movements were also far more composed and elegant, in stark contrast to Caesar's desperate flight.
The forest began to give way to a looming mountain ahead. Its flanks were covered in verdant greenery, an anomaly amidst the yellowing leaves of autumn. Caesar had already put nearly three kilometers between himself and the chaos of the Garrel soldiers clashing with the crimson-armored warriors. Soren, Tom, Jon, and the others had become little more than specks in the distance, but the suffocating presence behind Caesar remained ever closer.
"Give up!" Casar's voice echoed sharply through the forest as he chased after Caesar. "What you're doing is pointless."
Even while maintaining his blistering pace, Casar spoke with an edge of irritation. Unlike Leyte, who was a seasoned warrior, Casar had only been promoted to a high-ranking squire less than a year ago. His foundation was still shaky, and his fighting energy reserves could not yet be squandered carelessly. As a calculating fighter, Casar always preserved enough strength for the return journey—this careful approach was the reason he'd survived so long in the Crimson Order.
Caesar didn't respond. Stopping now would be nothing short of suicide, and Caesar was no inexperienced recruit to be baited by Casar's words. Even if his escape was ultimately futile, Caesar would still fight for every second.
"Damn it!" Casar cursed under his breath and pushed himself harder.
A burst of fighting energy flared from Casar's legs, launching him forward with explosive speed. In an instant, he closed the gap to less than ten meters. The sudden surge cost him a tenth of his total energy reserves, but it brought him within striking distance.
The rush of wind from Casar's charge whipped against Caesar's ears, stinging sharply. Caesar was now just twenty meters from the mountain's peak, but it was clear that distance would no longer save him.
Behind his visor, Casar smirked. Victory was within his grasp. Soon, he would twist this little nuisance's head clean off his shoulders. And as for Princess Angelina, Casar's smirk widened at the thought—Leyte might relish the thrill of battle, but Casar's pleasures were more... specific. Angelina's radiant beauty had left an impression on him, and he intended to leave her with an unforgettable night as punishment for her escape.
However, just as Casar was basking in the anticipation of victory, Caesar suddenly jolted as if he'd seen something ahead. Despite already pushing himself to his absolute limit, Caesar somehow managed to accelerate even further.
Casar's smirk faded as he realized what lay ahead: a cliff.
Beyond the peak of the mountain, there was no gentle slope or rocky descent—just a sheer drop into an endless abyss. Below stretched a sea of treetops far in the distance, but directly beneath the cliff lay nothing but a deadly void.
Caesar understood the implications immediately. He hadn't climbed several kilometers up this mountain for nothing. At such a height, even an iron statue would be smashed to pieces upon impact.
A flicker of determination crossed Caesar's face. If he couldn't escape, he'd make sure his pursuer's victory wasn't clean. Death didn't scare Caesar—at least, not in the conventional sense. What he feared was leaving his loved ones unprotected, his comrades avenged, and Princess Angelina at the mercy of this monster.
Caesar's mind raced as he neared the edge. Four years of brutal war had shown him more death than he could count, and he'd always known his day would come. He just hadn't expected it to be so soon. Yesterday, he was a proud squad captain; today, he was prey.
Even in death, I won't let you have your way! Caesar thought resolutely.
The enemy's true target was obvious: the woman on his back, Princess Angelina. His comrades, his brothers-in-arms—he'd watched them die moments ago, slaughtered by Casar's Crimson soldiers. Some had been from Caesar's own squad.
With a final burst of speed, Caesar lunged toward the edge of the cliff.
"No!" Casar roared and surged forward, but the cliff had appeared too suddenly for him to react in time.
The two figures were separated by mere meters, but those final meters were insurmountable. Caesar leaped into the void with Angelina on his back, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—Caesar's resolute and Casar's furious.
As Caesar plummeted, he flashed a defiant smile. Casar had not followed him over the edge. The Crimson captain skidded to a halt, standing frozen at the cliff's edge. Beneath his mask, Casar's eyes burned with frustration.
If only he'd jumped after me... Caesar thought with a faint pang of regret.
But Casar would never make such a reckless move. He was a Crimson captain—powerful, influential, and deeply pragmatic. Why would he risk his life over a failed mission? Yet, the failure weighed heavily on him. The consequences of returning empty-handed to the king would not be light.
Frustrated and furious, Casar turned back toward the battle still raging below. He would find his release in bloodshed and carnage.
Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, two soldiers sent by Soren had finally located Sir Will and his cavalry. The knight had not ventured far, as dense forests were difficult terrain for mounted units.
Gripping the reins tightly, Sir Will urged his steed forward, his cavalry following in disciplined formation. These were Baron Kyle's elite soldiers—well-trained and mounted on powerful warhorses. Even among noble retinues, Kyle's cavalry had a fearsome reputation.
Sir Will was no fool. Unlike Caesar and Karl, he was well-traveled and understood the true power of magic. Even a low-ranking mage carried the weight of a magical lineage. While knights relied on their own strength, mages represented an entire legacy.
As they approached the battlefield, the air grew thick with the stench of blood and death. The distant sound of steel clashing and men screaming filled their ears. Sir Will's warhorse remained steadfast, but the other horses snorted nervously, their instincts warning of danger.
Finally, they emerged onto the scene. Leyte and Casar were in the midst of a brutal massacre. Of the original 200 Garrel soldiers, fewer than 50 remained, and even they were gravely wounded.
Sir Will's eyes narrowed in fury. This wasn't just a skirmish—it was a slaughter.
"Charge!" Sir Will roared, his voice carrying over the chaos.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!" The cavalry bellowed in unison, lowering their lances as they thundered forward.
The battlefield trembled under the force of their charge, and the Crimson soldiers turned to face this new wave of steel and vengeance.