Inside the carriage, Misha trembled with terror, yet she mustered her courage, quietly lifted the curtain, and peered outside to see what was happening.
Across the chaotic battlefield, acrid gunpowder smoke drifted everywhere. Soldiers of the two realms slashed and grappled with one another; lives were snuffed out at every moment, cheap as roadside weeds.
Yet a sight of pure despair unfolded right before her eyes.
Old John clutched a spear, standing trembling in place. Never in his life had he witnessed slaughter so terrifying.
Behind him was a soldier with a hideous scowl, eyes bloodshot with battle-frenzy.
"Old John—!"
Misha poked her head out in desperate haste, wanting to warn him, but it was already too late.
*Schlick—!*
A blood-stained spear punched straight through his chest, crimson blood gushing from the wound.
In his final moments, Old John did not look back at the enemy who had ended his life. Instead, he turned his head slowly toward the carriage where Misha was hidden, straining with the last of his strength to raise a finger to his lips—urging her to stay silent.
"No..."
A cry escaped Misha's lips, her eyes reddening with tears.
Yet she quickly realized the danger of giving herself away. Clamping both hands tightly over her mouth, she curled trembling inside the carriage, letting tears stream unchecked down her cheeks.
Yet Old John's death was merely a trifling speck on the battlefield—scarcely an event at all to either side in the conflict.
The tide of battle had grown unmistakably clear. Surrounded by thousands of armored cavalrymen, fewer and fewer hobgoblin soldiers remained on their feet. Without a cohesive formation, they could no longer withstand charge after charge from the riders.
Outnumbered nearly ten to one, even with superior equipment and combat prowess, the kingdom's escort stood no chance of turning the tide.
The guards beside Hart had all been slain; he was now encircled by nearly a hundred soldiers.
Drenched in blood, he roared with heart-wrenching fury, like a wild beast trapped by hunters.
"Die, all of you!"
"You filthy humans!"
"I am of the noble dragonblood nobility, a count of the Kingdom of Cinders!"
Hart's eyes were blood-red. The scales on his face flared open slightly, and plumes of white steam rose from all over his body.
"Vile minion of the wicked dragon! Charge! Avenge our brethren!" the knight commander shouted in fury.
Several soldiers behind Hart thrust their spears tentatively forward, only for the points to strike as if against solid steel, deflected by the hardened scales across his back.
"Hahahaha, useless!"
"This is the power bestowed upon me by His Majesty!"
Laughing with mad abandon, he tore apart the soldier before him with razor-sharp claws, then tore off another soldier's arm with his bare teeth.
Like a killing machine, he ruthlessly harvested the soldiers' lives.
*Roaaar—!*
With a majestic draconic roar, Hart's entire body shuddered violently.
His expression twisted into a savage sneer as he spat blast after blast of searing flame, turning his surroundings into a sea of fire. Even the bravest soldiers fell back in panic, terrified of being swallowed by the blazing inferno.
Hart had single-handedly slaughtered over a hundred elite soldiers. Yet every last hobgoblin soldier had already fallen, leaving him alone to struggle in vain.
The knight commander shouted with bloodshot eyes, "He must die! Avenge our comrades!"
Finally, several robed wizards thrust their staves forward in unison. As a bizarre freezing gale descended upon him, Hart's movements grew increasingly sluggish, and a layer of frost crept over his face.
Immediately, a swarm of soldiers rushed in, multiple spears thrusting at once to pierce Hart's still-warm heart.
And thus fell Count Hart, dragonblood count of the Kingdom of Cinders and leader of the Free Trade Caravan. His death marked the definitive end of the battle—and the total annihilation of this formidable caravan.
...
At the crest of the hillside.
Clad in armor, Grand Duke Leo sat astride a tall black warhorse. Looking down upon the smoke-choked, devastation-strewn battlefield, not a trace of triumph shone in his eyes.
"Your Grace, the enemy has been wiped out to the last man. A total of two hundred and seventy-five killed."
Amidst the hurried clatter of hooves, the knight commander, freshly returned from the front line, rode up to report.
Grand Duke Leo's brow furrowed slightly. "And our casualties?"
The knight commander lowered his head, hesitated for a moment, and said, "Our forces suffered... a total of one thousand two hundred and thirty-four killed and wounded."
Grand Duke Leo's expression hardened into grim gravity. He could not help but sigh. "This was merely the escort of a trade caravan—not even regular troops of the Kingdom of Cinders. Caught completely off guard and encircled, they still inflicted a casualty ratio like this..."
"A truly terrifying army."
Beside him, Trischka added, "And they continue to grow stronger. This was already the best opportunity we could hope to find. If they were allowed another ten years to develop, the consequences would be unimaginable."
Grand Duke Leo said calmly, "Matters having reached this point, we have no retreat. Full-scale war between the Northlands and the Kingdom of Cinders is about to begin. Justice and evil must see a final reckoning, and we—we shall be the ultimate victors."
Trischka looked toward the sky, confusion and uncertainty clouding his eyes. Even so, he said:
"We will, Your Grace... We will."
The caravan's wagons were still burning fiercely. During the battle, Hart had ordered all cargo torched so the enemy wouldn't gain a single scrap, but the wizards of Bosque had already begun scrambling to extinguish the flames.
Yet no one noticed that amidst the smoky chaos of the battlefield, a small, gaunt girl crawled slowly through the heaps of corpses, quietly slipping away from this terrifying hell.
"Old John..."
In the shadows behind the boulders, Misha wiped away her tears. Clenching her teeth, her eyes burned with hatred.
The girl tightened her grip on the worn leather whip in her hand—something she had risked her life to retrieve from Old John's corpse. It was the last memento he had left her; everything else of his had already been reduced to ashes by the soldiers of Bosque.
*I will avenge you. I swear it.*
So she vowed in her heart.
...
Several days later, news that the Principality of Bosque had ambushed the "Free Trade Caravan" spread across the Northlands, throwing people everywhere into panic. But soon, the development of events far exceeded their expectations.
Officially dubbing the incident the "Battle of Magur," the Principality of Bosque publicized the victory extensively, hailing it as the beginning of evil's demise.
Immediately following this, the Principality of Bosque, alongside other northern nations such as the Principality of Carter and the Principality of Fano, jointly issued the Stravburg Accord, proclaiming to the entire Great Anzetta Waste the establishment of the "Anti-Red Dragon Alliance" and formally declaring war on the Kingdom of Cinders.
At once, all of Anzeta was thrown into an uproar, and the atmosphere everywhere grew fraught with tension.
Almost everyone knew:
The sky over the Great Anzetta Waste was about to change.
Chapter 300