Richard stood motionless, his eyes betraying no emotion, as the bandits scattered before him, the fluttering of their retreating forms almost lost amidst the tumult of the battle.
His gaze, icy and unwavering, followed their flight. With a slight shake of his head, he lowered his crossbow and, in a single fluid motion, raised his arm.
At once, the First Guard responded—a synchronized movement, their hands moved in unison toward their weapons, eyes alight with anticipation.
A heartbeat later, Richard's arm swung downward with unyielding conviction. His voice rang out like a clarion call, "Charge!"
"Yah!" The cry echoed, a resounding battle-cry as the First Guard surged forward, their horses pounding the earth, hooves like thunder upon the sodden ground, pursuing the fleeing bandits.
The massacre began in an instant, swift and brutal...
Leading the charge, Tuku, the bloodlust blazing in his eyes, surged forward, his face flushed with zeal. A grin, twisted and cruel, tugged at his lips as he hefted his great knight's sword. He swung it high with a roar, and his blade descended, swift as a storm.
Thunk!
The sword cleaved through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch, sending the severed head spiraling through the air like a grotesque trophy, its trajectory arcing before it collided with the earth.
A geyser of blood erupted from the decapitated body, crimson spraying in all directions, a terrible fountain that painted the battlefield. The blood gushed forth in torrents, splashing against the earth, a vivid testimony to the savagery of the charge. The body shuddered, convulsed, and collapsed, the stream of blood flowing unchecked from its gaping neck.
Tuku's smile grew wider still, cold and unfeeling, revealing sharp teeth as he wheeled his steed around, sword raised to claim his next victim.
Meanwhile, Hughes, ever precise, thrust his longsword into the heart of a bandit with chilling efficiency. His blade sank deep, twisting to rupture the heart, ending the thief's existence in an instant. He withdrew his sword, allowing the dying man to stumble back, his face contorted in an agonized grimace, before falling silent, his life snuffed out with a final, desperate exhalation.
Wiping the blood off his sword with a strand of horsehair, Hughes's gaze sharp as he assessed the battlefield, seeking his next target. His movements were smooth, methodical—each step a masterstroke.
To the left, Red Eye's gaze was fixed on a panicked bandit fleeing a hundred meters ahead. Taking a deep breath, he spurred his horse, closing the distance.
In mere seconds, he caught up to the bandit, raising his sword in preparation but refraining from striking just yet. It wasn't until he passed the fleeing thief that he quickly turned and slashed backward. The blade sliced through the bandit's throat, sending a spray of blood erupting forth. The proximity of the attack stained Red Eye's clothing, albeit he paid it no mind; his sole concern was utilizing the most efficient means to end a life.
As the dead body collapsed, Red Eye exhaled loudly, instinctively pressing a hand against his abdomen. The painful wound inflicted on him by Richard the previous day had not fully healed. Thus, he needed to limit his movements to avoid tearing the stitching. Nonetheless, he could not let an injury render him incapable of fighting—such weakness was intolerable, especially within the ranks of the First Guard.
Taking another deep breath, he tightened his abdominal muscles to mitigate the pain, then swiftly urged his horse forward, spotting another target up ahead…
To Red Eye's left, Philip was also engaged in the fray. Philip was of average height, shorter than the burly Tuku by half a head, yet he didn't lack for mass—indeed, he was the heftiest of the brigade, a veritable weight bearer among the guards.
His excess weight puffed him out, expanding until the iron armor he wore appeared comically oversized, resembling a barrel rather than a human form.
His three chins shook with each movement, raising concern that he might topple over from his excess weight. His rounded face was bloated, giving him an appearance more comical than fearsome.
However, at that moment, this portly figure, weighing over two hundred pounds, displayed a ferocity matching that of any other present. The iron chain flail gripped in his hands struck fear into any who cast their eyes upon it. Resembling an oversized nunchaku, it consisted of an iron-shod wooden handle affixed with three spiked iron balls, each weighing five or six pounds.
As Philip raised his weapon to strike a bandit, the iron chain stretched taut, a clear sign of impending doom as the spiked balls swung forward like cannonballs to the bandit's "soft" flesh.
With a resounding crack, the bandit's spine shattered, his shoulders and neck collapsing inward in grotesque fashion.
The thief fell face-first to the ground, coughing up blood—though alive, he was rendered utterly incapacitated.
At this moment, Philip withdrew the chain flail, stained with bone and tissue, soaring past the fallen bandit. After covering ten or so meters, he leisurely turned his horse around to assess the bloodied thief once more.
Furrowing his brow, Philip scratched his head, saying, "Still breathing?"
"Guess so." With that, he dismounted with a thud, approached the bandit, and hefted the flail to deliver a final, crushing blow to the thief's head.
"Bang, bang, bang…"
With each strike, red and white splattered, some seeping onto Philip's pant leg. After a moment, he glanced down at his trousers, panting lightly, then remounted, muttering, "Disgusting," as he charged toward another foe...
To Philip's left, the seasoned veteran Matt continued his grim endeavor. Though he was the eldest in the First Guard, it was misleading to characterize him as old; years of hardship etched wrinkles into his face, making him appear a decade or two beyond his actual age, resulting in the moniker "Old Matt."
Yet this title bore another connotation—it denoted his wealth of experience and adeptness at dispatching foes. Where others in the First Guard resorted to brute force, his approach was refined, akin to that of a fencing master. He compensated for age-related declines in strength and stamina with deft technique.
Watching the fleeing bandits, Matt rode silently, without taunts or shouts. Only the soft claps of hooves and his own breath mingled with the tumult of battle and the pouring rain. When he drew near the thief, he suddenly drew his blade.
His sword was considerably lighter than Tuku's knightly greatsword, even lighter than an ordinary longsword—almost as substantial as a foil used in competition, it darted through the air without a sound.
With a gentle pierce, he aimed for the bandit's left shoulder.
It was only then that the fleeing bandit realized someone was behind him. Reacting instinctively to the sharp pain, he jerked back, turning to glance behind in terror. In that instant, his neck was left vulnerably exposed.
Matt lifted his sword high, harnessing the speed of his galloping steed. The blade sliced cleanly across the bandit's neck, and with a deft flick, he withdrew it with minimal effort expended. The thief, realizing the gravity of his plight, let out a horrified scream before crumpling to the ground, blood instantly staining the earth crimson.
Ignoring the dying bandit's struggles, Matt turned his attention to the remaining thieves.
Before him, the rest of the First Guard mirrored his actions, engaged in their own brutal slaughters.
The massacre escalated, and the number of bandits dwindled rapidly...