Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 859 - 93 Weapons_3

Chapter 859: Chapter 93 Weapons_3 Chapter 859: Chapter 93 Weapons_3 The illustrious Khan of Terdon now had only four people by his side.

The firemaker sipped cold water, his face ashen.

Suddenly, the firemaker sharply turned back to look at the two guards with quivers. Their eyes met, and the guards quickly lowered their heads.

The firemaker slowly turned around, silently changing his position so that each guard with a quiver was within his line of sight.

Until death truly arrived, no one knew whether they were cowards or heroes.

At least the firemaker had thought he had the courage to face Paratu, the champion, in a death duel.

But when the firemaker really saw the unstoppable blood-dripping red flag approaching, when he really saw the khan’s tent guard shattered… he was frightened.

...

Fear descended like an avalanche in a moment, and the firemaker was terrified from the depths of his heart, scared to death.

So he ran, fleeing in panic.

Although defeat was inevitable, there was no doubt that the firemaker’s desertion directly led to the complete collapse of the Terdon Tribe.

How could the Khan let his banner be taken without affecting the will of his people to fight to the death?

However, taking the banner did not make the enemy sheathe their swords, and the darkness couldn’t stop their advance. In a nightmarish flight, the firemaker’s guards disappeared one by one.

Until, at last, only five including him remained.

But in the end, he shook off the wolf, “I still won in the end,” the firemaker thought with a sense of victorious spirit.

Power can make anyone seem invincible, high above all, and the farther away one observes, the more it seems so.

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But when that aura is stripped away, leaving only a human figure, that person immediately becomes weak and vulnerable.

Emperors at their wit’s end appear as lowly as the most humble slaves, causing those who once worshipped them to doubt their own eyes. So-called heroic bearing has nothing to do with power.

With power, even the newest slaves will come to worship and swear allegiance to the death; without power, even the closest guards with quivers become unreliable.

“Let us rest our horses here,” the firemaker indirectly reaffirmed his position. “We’ll move downstream along the river at night. Crossing the river, we can return to the Terdon Tribe.”

The four guards with quivers nodded in agreement.

“You are all my closest guards. If you do not forsake me, I will reward you profoundly.”

Three guards gave thanks, though their faces showed little joy.

Only the chief guard bluntly said to the firemaker, “You need not pretend, Khan. As long as I live, I will ensure your safe return to the plains.”

These words were meant to express loyalty, but the manner of speaking was inherently a challenge to authority—the firemaker usually didn’t need to concern himself with these issues, but now they occupied his mind.

Before he could figure out how to respond, a series of horse hooves came from far along the riverbank.

The firemaker and his men immediately hid, hardly daring to breathe.

The sound of the hooves drew closer, around a dozen riders.

They sounded like plains horses, but the firemaker and his men dared not confirm, for bipeds also significantly used captured horses.

Only when the riders came closer, and it was clear they wore diagonal robes, did the firemaker and his men breathe a sigh of relief.

One of the guards with quivers softly whistled; the firemaker had no time to stop him.

The newcomers halted and whistled back in response.

Both parties confirmed identities, and hiding was no longer an option. The firemaker, with determination, stepped out of the woods.

“Which tribe do you belong to?” the firemaker called out.

“Khan?” the lead rider asked in surprise, “Is it the Khan?”

The firemaker halted, his hand on the bow, “Which tribe do you belong to?”

“I am…” the lead rider came forward, drawing near the firemaker and his men, “I am your servant from within your gates!”

The firemaker laughed madly and, drawing his curved bow, shot an arrow at the newcomer, “Traitors! You rotting flesh that not even the grass-stepping cows would eat!”

The sudden action of the fire-maker took the archers behind him by surprise.

The leading allied troops were shot off their horses on the spot, and the rest of the allies tore off their masks, shouting loudly, “Fire the signal arrows! Fire the signal arrows! Call the others! Big fish! It’s a big fish!”

A dozen or so allies swarmed up and fired arrows at the fire-makers, clearly not intending to capture him alive.

“[Herde Language] You think you can kill me?” the fire-maker roared ferociously, standing his ground, drawing his bow to return fire.

Four archers joined the fight, using their bodies as shields for the fire-maker.

Both the archers and the fire-maker were truly skilled.

The five men didn’t miss a single shot, instead, they forced the allies to retreat in disarray.

A louder roar of hoofbeats approached; this time, there were at least dozens of riders.

Seeing the fleeing allies returning, the fire-maker sensed trouble and roared, “[Herde Language] Mount up, let’s go!”

Turning around, where were the horses?

The horses had already been led away by those allies earlier.

The thundering sound of hooves grew closer, and the riders charged directly at the fire-maker.

The fire-maker drew his curved blade and roared in despair.

…

A helmet of cold water splashed on him, and the fire-maker regained consciousness.

“Awake?”

“Seems like he’s awake?”

“[Herde Language] Do you recognize me?” The speaker patted the fire-maker’s cheek, his voice mixed with hatred and mockery, “[Herde Language] Your Highness?”

The fire-maker’s head was groggy, the back of his head wet, unable to utter a word.

“[Herde Language] Can’t recognize it? I am…” The speaker lifted his hair, revealing a bald side with no ear, warmly introducing himself, “[Herde Language] Red Dog!”

Hearing the name, the fire-maker startled awake, “[Herde Language] Is this the Styx?”

“[Herde Language] No, this is the river of the great Shaman George.” Red Dog replied casually, “St. George River.”

“[Herde Language] But you died!” the fire-maker roared furiously, coughing up several clots of blood, “[Herde Language] Echegke also deceived me!”

“[Herde Language] I was supposed to be dead, but someone thought I might still be useful, so I survived,” Red Dog said slowly, drawing a dagger, “[Herde Language] See, here I am to meet you. You shouldn’t have run. If you hadn’t run, you could have died like a warrior.”

The fire-maker wanted to say more, but the other allies held him down tightly, silencing him and preventing him from struggling.

“I know what you want to say.” Red Dog spoke in a language the fire-maker couldn’t understand, “A great leader fleeing from battle dying at the hands of us, the lowest of slaves—what an appropriate way to die!”

…

At dawn, Winters returned to the battlefield.

Having pursued all night, his cavalry had fallen behind one by one. Because his warhorse had gone lame, he ultimately couldn’t personally kill the enemy chieftain.

On the way back, only one person remained by his side.

It was neither Xial nor Heinrich, but Jacob Green, the tall, thin gentleman who wanted to write an epic.

Seeing Montaigne, the Civil Guard Officer, charging forward, Jacob didn’t think twice and followed, even without a weapon.

He just wanted to be a bit closer, ever closer, driven by that fervent enthusiasm. Even though Xial and Heinrich fell behind, Jacob still followed closely behind the Civil Guard Officer’s saddle.

Sunlight pierced through the treetops, illuminating the battlefield, the corpses strewn about, the blood-solidified soil, the distorted expressions of the dead in their final moments.

Jacob Green recorded this, “…the battlefield was littered with corpses. There were Herders, and there were our own people. Montaigne, the Civil Guard Officer, tried desperately to prevent his mount from trampling on the remains. He failed, so he dismounted. At that moment, I saw him cry… Is that true? Could the killing machine known as ‘Blood Wolf’ also possess such emotions? Or is memory deceiving me… yet that moment, the helpless boy walking and crying, eyes filled with tears, left such a deep impression on me, unforgettable for a lifetime…”