Knight: Becoming King of the World

The three companies of Imperial Archers under Henry’s command unleashed a volley that filled the air with a piercing whistle, and the sheer volume of arrows immediately broke the terrifying momentum of the Goatmen’s charge.

Compared to the Imperial Archers, the twenty bowmen Mace had brought were practically a non-factor.

Meanwhile, Vasco deployed the four New Recruit Teams to the flanks of the formation. He personally led the Elite Senior Infantry Team as battle proctors, herding several hundred serfs to the front lines.

Philip raised his shield and shouted, "Crossbowmen, crouch and ready! Archers... loose!"

The archers loosed another volley, and this time, even more found their mark.

The distance was now too short, so the archers quickly scattered and fell back. Though their arms were Mighty and Strong, they couldn’t be wasted on melee combat—it would be too great a luxury.

Henry was already wearing two layers of armor with no time to don a third. He hefted a giant battle-ax that had once belonged to a Minotaur. The weapon looked like an executioner’s ax from the southern deserts—heavy and brutally sharp.

Fass, holding his Riding Spear, stared wide-eyed and asked, "You’re using that?"

"Of course."

Fass nodded in admiration. "You must have monstrous strength," he said with a hint of envy. "I’d be exhausted after four or five swings with an ax like that."

’It’s true what they say,’ Fass thought, ’people are built differently.’ He had heard many rumors about incredibly strong Warriors in the royal Imperial Guard, but this was the first time he had seen one with his own eyes.

While they spoke, the Goatmen at the front drew short javelins and hurled them at the Crossbowmen positioned even closer to the enemy line.

Dozens of javelins flew like a dark cloud toward the Crossbowman formation, a chilling sight.

"Damn it, shields up!"

Fass and Mace shouted at almost the same time, but it was too late.

Few of the Crossbowmen were even equipped with shields—only the veterans had that privilege. Besides, the javelins were already in the air; there was no avoiding them.

SQUELCH! THUD! THUD! THUD!

Over ten Crossbowmen were pierced through the chest, their eyes wide as they collapsed into the snow. A few other unlucky souls were struck in the face, a gruesome and horrifying sight.

A few with quick reflexes managed to raise their shields. They stared, a cold sweat breaking out on their foreheads, at the iron javelin tips that had punched through the wood right in front of their faces. They had narrowly escaped with their lives.

Philip took a quiet step back, swung the knightly sword in his hand, and yelled, "Crossbowmen, loose!"

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The two sides were only a few dozen paces apart. The battered Crossbowmen angrily raised their weapons, squeezed the triggers, and sent dozens of Goatmen tumbling to the ground.

"Fass, something’s not right," Henry said. "Why would five hundred Goatmen dare to charge our force of over three thousand?"

Henry looked at the Goatman force, which had already lost over half its numbers, and felt that this was completely irrational.

If they were Kobolds, it would make sense—they’re truly brainless. But this was different. Goatmen were the backbone of the Half-Beastman army.

Fass glanced around warily. "Alright, I’ll take my Attendants and the Cavalry to scout to the north. I’ll see if the other two noble Private Armies have been attacked."

With the two main Legions always marching ahead, Henry’s contingent hadn’t sent their Scouts out very far.

"Go ahead. There’s little danger here. Just be careful."

In the time it took Fass to depart with his Cavalry unit, the Goatman army had already slammed violently into the "embrace" of the serfs.

Although these serfs had no professional military training, the spears, hoes, and pitchforks in their hands gave them courage, bolstered by the large number of regular soldiers proctoring the battle from their flanks and rear.

The serfs’ eyes were wide, their faces contorted into grimaces. They let out incessant, meaningless howls, spittle flying from their lips.

They seemed to have lost all reason, driven into a frenzy as they swung their weapons wildly. Some wielded hoes and pitchforks, others held spears, and one had even tied a kitchen cleaver to the end of a stick—all of them looking clumsy and inept.

Some of their swings were so exaggerated that they missed their targets entirely, instead accidentally striking the serf next to them.

The scene descended into even greater chaos, but the New Recruit Teams on the flanks remained disciplined, forming a Shield Array and holding their ground.

Watching the numbers of both Goatmen and serfs dwindle rapidly, Henry couldn’t resist. He dismounted, ready to get his hands dirty.

Henry swung his giant ax and charged into the fray like a rampaging beast.

Muscles bunching, he shoved aside a trembling serf and slammed into a Goatman swinging a Wolf-toothed Short Rod with an Iron Mountain Lean, sending it flying.

The Goatmen stared at Henry in terror. ’What kind of technique was that? He looks like one of the Minotaurs from the tribes!’

They tried to surround and kill him, but before Henry’s massive ax, all their efforts were futile.

Every swing of Henry’s giant ax struck a Goatman’s vital points. Or rather, to Henry, their entire bodies were vital points—it made no difference where he hit them.

The Goatmen’s blood sprayed into the air, creating a crimson mist that mingled with the white plumes of breath in the cold.

Vasco and the other commanders of the loyalist troops exchanged bewildered glances before quickly moving to encircle the enemy and join the fight.

’This isn’t right,’ they thought. ’Is this how the Lord taught us to fight during training?’

Henry was drenched in blood. The coppery, metallic stench only spurred him on; he had no intention of stopping and continued his frenzied slaughter.

The Goatmen began to rout, scattering in all directions, but Henry had no intention of letting them go. He pursued them relentlessly, cutting down every fleeing Goatman with his giant ax.

Not to be outdone, Vasco and his men brandished their swords, aiming for the Goatmen’s legs and lower backs to snatch a few kills. ’What a frustrating way to be a soldier.’

In the end, more than thirty Goatmen fell beneath Henry’s giant ax.

Henry gasped for breath, blood dripping continuously from his armor onto the ground. The white snow, trampled and churned with blood, now looked like reddish-black soil.

Bain and his Cavalry team arrived late to the party, only to find the battle already over. He stood there, at a loss.

’Huh? Weren’t we supposed to charge them hard from the rear? We just got into position!’

Bain leaped from his horse and ran over to check Henry for injuries. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found Henry completely unscathed, save for a few missing rings on his Chain Armor.

"My lord, you can’t just—"

Henry clapped Bain on the shoulder and said with zero sincerity, "Next time. You can have the next one."

Bain could only trudge over to the carriages to find Claude and help him organize the cleanup.

Philip watched Henry from a distance, feeling dejected. ’Next time, I am definitely not commanding the archers and crossbowmen,’ he thought. ’I want to fight the Half-Beastmen head-on!’

It’s exhausting. When your boss is too powerful, the pressure on his subordinates multiplies. ’How can I prove I’m useful and not lose my job? Help, it’s an emergency!’