Chapter Twenty: A Lone Rider Shatters the Army! The Peerless Fierce Warrior! An Extra Chapter Dedicated to Alliance Leader Luo Li and Zeberlin!
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An extra chapter of five thousand words added. Congratulations to the alliance leader, the little wealthy lady, Loli Zeibelin!
“Move out!”
Duncan spurred his horse into a furious gallop. Though no one knew the reason, they all hurried to follow.
A strong scent of blood assaulted their senses.
By the time Duncan and his party arrived, nearly a hundred bodies lay scattered across the battlefield. The exiled rebels, unable to break through the wagon formation, unwilling to retreat, had only managed to trap the enemy in the middle of the road.
The mercenary private army within the wagon formation showed no fear whatsoever.
One of their leaders even had the leisure to order his soldiers to prepare food and wine. They had been trapped here for several hours; after intense fighting, the soldiers needed to replenish their strength. Moreover, with the convoy trapped, nearby towns and estates would surely respond, and reinforcements would arrive soon. With just twenty or thirty cavalrymen coming to their aid, they could easily break and defeat these rebel remnants.
The two to three hundred exiled rebels watched helplessly as the mercenaries feasted on meat.
The nearby gaunt exiles could not help but swallow their saliva, and some sneaked towards the edges of the wagon formation, to the piles of corpses, attempting to gather spilled grain from the ground to eat.
Whizz!
A barbarian mercenary archer drew his strong bow, aimed, and shot an arrow that pierced through a rebel’s chest. Blood foamed at the mouth as the exile collapsed, barely breathing, gasping for life.
“Hahaha!”
“Those treacherous scum!”
The barbarian soldiers inside the wagon formation laughed heartily, their morale soaring.
In contrast, many of the exiled rebels looked on with pity, morale extremely low. If they had any way out, they would have fled long ago.
Their only advantage was their numbers.
But during the last assault on the wagon formation, the barbarian mercenary leader had even dared to charge with a dozen men, cutting down over thirty of them, then retreating calmly under cover from archers.
His fierce and brutal demeanor showed he did not regard them as a threat.
The exiled rebels’ leadership had been whittled down to three; one was slain by elite forest archers, another hacked to death while attempting to climb the wagon, leaving only a pale and haggard man in his thirties, dressed like a fallen soldier with distinct Gallic features.
He was already thinking of retreating, but if they fled, many would starve to death here. Most would not survive until winter.
Even if they did, without food or supplies, death was inevitable.
“Gather those with armor and follow me!”
Kvieto gritted his teeth, speaking to his comrades, “One last charge! If we wait for enemy reinforcements, there will be no chance.”
He was ready to risk everything.
If they could not break the wagon formation, they would surely perish; hiding in the deep mountains offered no salvation.
With two leaders dead, his blood boiled; he was prepared to fight to the death—everything was for survival.
At that moment, the sound of galloping hooves came from nearby. Kvieto’s expression changed to one of horror; he assumed it was enemy cavalry reinforcements arriving.
The exiled rebels, mostly serfs and slaves, were poorly armed. Even a light cavalry squad would slaughter them like chickens.
Inside the wagon formation, the barbarian mercenaries also showed joy. With cavalry reinforcements, they could charge out, slay their leader, and quickly crush the rebels.
At a nearby junction, five riders appeared.
The barbarians’ faces fell—they were clearly not reinforcements, but rather a passing group of travelers.
Five riders.
Two men, three women. One man carried a bow and sword, exuding fierce energy; another appeared rugged, like a Gaulish savage. Two of the women were strikingly beautiful, their allure apparent even from a distance.
The exiled rebels around them stirred restlessly but could not pursue, as they had no horses.
Kvieto immediately ordered his men to hold back, then sent someone to shout at the five riders to detour elsewhere.
For some reason, one of them made him uneasy. Not even the old gladiator who had taught him combat inspired such fear. Gladiatorial combat was banned in the empire, but some nobles kept gladiators for private bloodsport. Most were lowborn slaves, occasionally used for gambling.
Today, gladiators were rare, mostly secret playthings of nobles, trained slaves bred for combat.
“Stay here!”
Duncan nodded slightly to Raven Queen Triss, then rode out alone toward the battlefield.
His face cold and ruthless, like an unfeeling warrior, his presence intimidated the exiled rebels, who dared not advance but scattered sideways.
These were starving serfs and slaves with little combat capability.
If the Spartacus uprising hadn’t had gladiators, the imperial legions would have crushed it in moments.
He nocked an arrow and loosed it at a forty-five-degree angle.
Duncan did not approach the rebels too closely; the arrow flew, and a muffled grunt came from the wagon formation. A barbarian mercenary clutched his throat and collapsed.
Shock spread across the hundreds present.
The barbarian leader panicked, quickly raising a shield for protection. The exiled rebels murmured in surprise—Duncan’s action was clearly friendly, not hostile. Even Kvieto looked on with astonishment, unable to believe the lone rider nocked another arrow and shot again.
— The dead-returning mounted arrow!
Another mercenary in the wagon formation was killed instantly with a headshot.
The wagon formation was no city wall; gaps between wagons allowed archers to peek out, but as soon as they drew their bows, a sharp arrow would explode their skulls.
“A sharpshooter?!”
The barbarian mercenaries’ morale shifted from high to shaken.
Two arrows, two heads.
Even the barbarians’ elite forest archers couldn’t do that; only the legendary Hunnic eagle shooters were said to possess such deadly skill. (Each Hunnic tribe had only one or two).
The exiled rebels stirred restlessly but dared not interfere with Duncan’s mounted archery.
From a god’s-eye view, all the exiled rebels’ markers shifted from yellow neutral to blue.
— The dead-returning mounted arrow!
A barbarian mercenary peeked out between the wagons, only to be instantly shot through the helmet in a deadly, precise shot.
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Truly a divine marksman!
No one dared to expose themselves anymore; the barbarian mercenaries retreated within their wagons, while the exiled rebels’ morale soared.
If the enemy wouldn’t show themselves, Duncan had other means.
He rode to a ragged boy of about fifteen or sixteen, a slave marked by branding, his tattered clothes revealing whip scars across his back. The boy held a crude short spear, trembling as he looked up at Duncan.
“Give it to me.” Duncan’s tone brooked no refusal.
The blue-marked slave boy handed over the spear without hesitation.
Duncan weighed it briefly, then shouted forward, “Clear the way!”
He spurred his horse into a burst of speed, causing the exiled rebels around to scatter, then took a deep breath and hurled the short spear like a javelin.
A scream rose from inside the wagon formation.
Duncan’s spear pierced through a barbarian mercenary packed inside.
Four kills!
The exiled rebels had stormed the wagon formation multiple times without killing many, but Duncan circled once on horseback and slew four instantly. The barbarian mercenaries’ morale wavered, and the nearby exiled rebels gazed at him in wonder, afraid even to meet his eyes.
“Left and right, follow my orders!”
Duncan’s shout thundered like a clap of lightning, making Kvieto shudder.
He had no doubt that this incredible warrior could kill at will—his existence reminded Kvieto of the heroes of myth or the legendary warriors celebrated in barbarian tales.
With one shout, nearly a third of the exiled rebels turned green on the god’s-eye view. The slave boy trailed instinctively at Duncan’s side.
— Exiled rebels (undisciplined) (low morale) (poorly equipped) [Farmer militia]!
Who was this divine being?!
Kvieto’s mind was in chaos. The lone rider entered the fray and began aiding them, his martial prowess astonishing, turning the tide and restoring the rebels’ morale, unsettling the barbarian mercenaries.
Hooves thundered.
The exiled rebels scattered left and right as Duncan rode through the crowd and approached Kvieto, making his comrades tense.
“You are their leader?”
A low, commanding voice made Kvieto struggle to breathe.
Who was this man?
Kvieto clenched his teeth and met his gaze, and in that moment, he felt as if he saw heads rolling and blood flooding the ground.
How many had this man killed?
Kvieto barely held out before stepping back under that merciless gaze, lowering his head in submission. “Yes, sir.”
Duncan’s voice was deep, “Listen to my orders!”
“Lead your men to assault the wagon formation from the right; the others split into two groups to attack front and rear.”
“Do you understand?!”
With a roar, Kvieto trembled but responded, “Yes, officer!”
In an instant, all the exiled rebels turned green on the god’s-eye view. Seeing their leader obey, his men also picked up weapons and shields.
Nearby, four riders watched in stunned silence.
Severus’ eyes were wide as copper coins; the witch Anya’s cheeks flushed as she trembled in the saddle, gripping her legs tightly. Raven Queen Triss, though familiar with Duncan’s marvels, was also struck silent, her beautiful eyes shining with divine light.
Within minutes, the exiled rebels seemed to become Duncan’s followers, obeying his orders to encircle the wagon formation from three sides—a pincer attack.
Though no one knew why Duncan gave this command, the undisciplined rebels complied, messy but determined. They regrouped and launched a strong assault from three directions, except one side was left untouched.
The wagon formation quickly fell into disorder.
Kvieto was confused; he merely led his men to storm the formation again, as before, but the enemy’s resistance was weaker, barely daring to fight hand-to-hand.
Soon, some climbed over the wagons and engaged in close combat.
Who was this man?
Where was he? Why did he obey his orders?
Kvieto hacked a barbarian mercenary to the ground but still felt dazed.
Then cheers erupted.
Looking up, Kvieto saw an arrow whistle through the air, striking down a barbarian soldier wearing an iron helmet—the enemy leader.
The enemy began to rout, several fierce mercenaries grabbed horses and tried to flee through the unguarded side.
Their flight threw the entire mercenary unit into chaos.
Three sides of the wagon formation fell.
The remaining enemies retreated toward the gap but were cut down by scattered blades.
“Are we about to win?” Kvieto’s mind was even more muddled.
These barbarian mercenaries were well equipped, their weapons and armor nearly matching the empire’s field army. Previous assaults had failed despite outnumbering the enemy several times, causing heavy rebel casualties and leaving many dead.
But now, nearly half the enemy was cut down, and the survivors’ morale collapsed; they formed defensive ranks, some trying to break through and escape. The initial horse thieves were already hundreds of meters away.
Duncan did not order pursuit.
There were no riders among the exiled rebels to chase them.
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Duncan continued shooting from outside the battle at a steady pace—one arrow, one kill. Every time he nocked an arrow, cheers erupted, and the exiled rebels’ morale soared higher.
At some point, Duncan had acquired a spear. He spurred his horse forward, charging into the enemy ranks.
— A cavalry lance thrust!
Sparks flew as he broke the formation alone!
Duncan’s spear pierced through an enemy’s body!
Then, this nearly 150-pound barbarian soldier was hoisted single-handedly by Duncan, who clamped the spear shaft under his armpit, veins bulging on his arm, and with a thunderous shout, lifted the corpse above his horse’s head!
The warhorse neighed loudly!
A deathly silence fell over the battlefield.
Duncan’s spear cracked under the weight and strain; as he dropped the body, the shaft bent and splintered—the spear was nearly broken.
Suddenly, a thunderous roar of cheering broke out!
The barbarian exiled rebels howled wildly to the sky, some pounding their chests in frenzy, roaring as they charged forward to cut down the terrified enemies who had lost all will to fight.
Barbarian rebels flanked Duncan’s sides like ancient Roman chiefs’ guards. Drawing the sword Oathkeeper, he cleaved through enemy shields.
Blood spurted!
The enemy’s defensive formations shattered instantly.
By the time Kvieto caught up and paused to catch his breath, exiled rebels were already hauling grain and lighting fires to cook.
“No.”
“Where am I? Who am I?”
Kvieto’s head buzzed; earlier, when he felled a barbarian mercenary, a shield strike had bruised his skull. Though he’d blocked much of the blow, he still felt dizzy.
Among the crowd, Duncan expressionlessly ordered the exiles to clear the battlefield and start cooking, ensuring these starving rebels had a proper meal.
It had taken barely ten minutes.
Raven Queen Triss and her group watched Duncan single-handedly break the enemy, intimidate the rebel leader, command the flanks, encircle the wagon formation, and strike a crushing blow that ended the battle.
Severus stared wide-eyed, the witch Anya blushed deeply, shivering in her saddle, clutching her legs.
Raven Queen Triss trembled slightly, her gaze fixed on Duncan, speechless for a long time.
“Have I been usurped?”
Kvieto’s mind finally cleared. The exiled rebels’ eyes were full of reverence and awe toward this man, and even his own men followed him closely, like a general’s personal guard.
He must have been usurped.
Kvieto had the habit of decapitating enemies, but now he saw no need.
The crowd parted, and the man rode forward, stopping before Kvieto.
Their eyes met.
Instinctively, Kvieto snapped to attention, ready for inspection.
The man nodded slightly, his voice grave: “Go eat.”
“After eating, bring the supplies back.”
Kvieto answered with full vigor, “Yes.”
Only when the man rode away did Kvieto exhale deeply, unsure why he felt no urge to resist—nor dared to.
Who was this mysterious figure?
In barely ten minutes, he had seized command, led the exiled rebels to victory, and inspired their awe as if he were a god.
Yet Kvieto was somewhat afraid—too fearsome.
The three hundred exiled rebels had slain only a dozen enemies; the rest had fallen to this man.
At the crossroads, Duncan rode calmly, unhurried, nodding slightly to Raven Queen Triss and softly saying, “The towns are unsafe.”
“We won’t enter the city. We’ll take another route to Britain.”
He glanced at the exiles and said, “They know the area and can help us contact the fleet.”
Raven Queen Triss, astute as ever, immediately understood.
She swept her gaze over the exiles and quietly said, “Your call.”
Duncan intended to recruit them.
Severus looked thoughtful, while witch Anya’s beautiful eyes never left him, but Duncan barely glanced at her, focusing instead on Triss and soon directing the exiles to haul supplies.
Raven Queen Triss casually glanced at Anya, expression unreadable, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
Among the crowd, though no one knew who the man was, he was now the leader of these exiles!
This was a chaotic era.
Strength ruled supreme!
………………
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