"Shields up!"
"Spear, thrust!"
"Swords, advance!"
…
On the hill at the mouth of the valley, Samwell's voice was already hoarse.
But his expression was growing more relaxed by the moment.
The battle had raged long enough for the green recruits to be reborn in blood, and Samwell now felt a solid faith in his own hard-earned military tactics: in battles dominated by melee weapons, the best weapons were disciplined formations, strict order, and unwavering cohesion.
The slope littered with wildling corpses testified to this theory.
Samwell could sense the enemy's momentum crumbling. Their assaults were weakening, and it wouldn't be long before the wildlings lost heart entirely, abandoning any thought of renewing their attacks on the hill.
Even without Todd Flowers launching an ambush from behind, Samwell was confident his recruits could hold the valley's entrance.
Seeing the mass of wildlings packed into the narrow pass below, Samwell idly wished for a few archers on hand.
If he could rain down volleys into those tightly clustered ranks, the enemy's morale would collapse completely.
Of course, that was just a dream for now. Training archers was no small task—four months was hardly enough. Besides, archers were a costly investment.
Perhaps, he mused, once his future stronghold grew prosperous.
And what about cavalry you ask? Thats even more expensive…
"Attack!"
A bellow, like thunder exploding at close range, ripped Samwell from his thoughts. He whirled just in time to see one of his shield-bearers flung back like a broken kite, tumbling through the air before hitting the ground, chest caved in as blood gushed from his mouth.
What just happened?
To his horror, Samwell saw a hulking wildling warrior burst through the shield line, wielding a greatsword with terrifying might. A necklace of tiger fangs gleamed menacingly across his chest.
"Stop him!"
With a mighty swing, Chika shattered another shield, shards flying in all directions, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the commander on the hill.
"Die!"
With a roar like a charging tiger, Chika barreled towards Samwell.
In a heartbeat, Samwell realized he couldn't dodge in time. He braced himself, gripping his sword with all his strength to block the blow.
Clang!
The clash rang out, and Samwell's sword flew from his hand. The impact hurled him backwards like he'd been struck by a battering ram, pain searing through his chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
If not for his chainmail, that blow would have split him open right then and there.
Even before he could catch his breath, Chika was upon him again, bringing his sword down with merciless precision.
The reek of death hit Samwell's face like a foul wind, chilling him to his core.
With a final burst of effort, he scrambled, hands and knees clawing at the ground like a lizard to dodge aside.
Thud—
Chika's greatsword cleaved into the earth, kicking up dirt and stones that left shallow cuts across Samwell's face.
Only by inches had he kept his head.
Struggling to rise, Samwell found his limbs leaden and numb.
Chika advanced again.
"Protect Lord Caesar!" the soldiers finally cried, rushing forward to block the wildling.
Gulping in precious breaths, Samwell noticed the iron taste of blood filling his mouth.
What a terrifying warrior!
And what brutal strength!
Even with months of grueling training and the golden-tailed shrimp supplements, Samwell's own strength was well above average, now reaching a 1.32 rating.
Yet against this fearsome wildling, it had been nothing!
Inwardly, Samwell guessed that Chika's strength was likely over 3—perhaps much higher.
"Second squad, advance! Hold the line! Third squad, encircle that wildling!"
With his breath finally steady, Samwell barked out orders.
This was the advantage of having reserves. The breached line was swiftly restored.
No matter how powerful Chika was, surrounded by dozens of spears and shields, there wasn't much he could do.
In war, individual prowess was limited.
Samwell admitted it had been a close call.
This wildling possessed fearsome strength and deadly timing. Had he succeeded in killing Samwell, it might have turned the tide.
But fortune had just barely stayed on Samwell's side.
Now, encircled by over a dozen soldiers, Chika could only lunge and stumble, bleeding from multiple wounds.
In a final, desperate bid, the caged Chika threw his sword at Samwell with all his might.
"Die!"
But Samwell, watching the wildling's every move, quickly grabbed a wooden shield from a nearby soldier and braced himself.
Thud!
The sword punched through the shield, though Samwell's chainmail absorbed the rest. Still, the sheer force sent him stumbling three steps back, nearly dropping him on his backside.
Swallowing the blood that surged into his mouth, Samwell staggered to his feet and shouted, "Kill him!"
"Kill!"
Seeing the wildling unarmed, the soldiers charged forward.
"Roar!"
Chika bellowed, appearing ready to charge once more at Samwell.
The soldiers closed ranks, determined to protect their lord at all costs.
But to their surprise, Chika suddenly pivoted and bolted toward the valley entrance.
A warrior so fierce, now fleeing? It caught the soldiers off guard, and the wildling managed to break free.
"Don't pursue! Hold the line!" Samwell ordered.
Though he longed to see that wildling slain, he knew preserving the defense took priority.
Besides, the wildling was gravely wounded and no longer a threat.
Chika's reckless breakthrough had caused momentary chaos among the defenders, but this proved to be his last flash of strength.
The wildlings could no longer threaten the line on the hill.
And Samwell could hear sounds of fierce fighting echoing from outside the valley.
Todd had finally returned with his men.
A cheer erupted within the camp as morale soared.
Across the valley, the wildlings' energy waned.
They tried to rally and attack several more times, but the defenders on the hill held firm, an impenetrable fortress.
With the front blocked and an attack coming from the rear, the wildlings—trapped within the valley—began to panic, fear creeping over them.
Finally, the first light of dawn pierced the darkness, illuminating the ravaged valley. The sight before them was a vision of hell—
From the valley mouth to the defensive line, the entire hundred-foot slope was blanketed with wildling corpses. Amid the carnage, a few wounded wildlings still gasped for breath, their agonized cries begging for release.
Blood soaked the ground, turning it a deep, dark red. The stench hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
This apocalyptic scene broke the last vestiges of wildling morale.
Their ranks collapsed.
No longer could they muster any meaningful resistance. Some fled, others wept uncontrollably, and still others sat in shock, as though paralyzed by terror.
Samwell seized the moment, his voice booming over the valley:
"Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you'll live!"
The soldiers pushed forward, shouting in unison:
"Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you'll live!"
"Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you'll live!"
...
(End of Chapter)