Chapter 71: The Battle Begins

“Fire!”

Zenon’s cold command struck down like a ruthless conductor’s baton.
Once again, the night sky of the Silva Plains was ripped apart by the roar of magic cannons.

But this time, the target was not the central units.
It was the eastern and western wings of the Imperial Army.
Lead and iron rained down with precise, merciless accuracy on the defensive positions that Marshal Gaius was desperately trying to rebuild.

“Gahhh!”

“Just like the southern wing! Retreat!”

The morale of the Imperial soldiers, already shattered by the annihilation of the Black Thirteen Saints, collapsed completely.
Their formations disintegrated entirely.
The defensive lines were easily torn apart.

Into the gap that had opened, Hector’s Arkwright Army surged like a black tsunami.
At the forefront rode lightly armored cavalry wielding muskets, skillfully firing from horseback, cutting down Imperial soldiers trying to resist.
Behind them, infantry brandishing bayonets poured in, slicing deeper into the chaotic enemy lines.
Their movements were mechanical, devoid of emotion.
No unnecessary battle cries.
Only the relentless neutralization of their foes.

“Impossible…! The wings are collapsing! Send reinforcements to the center! Hurry!”

Marshal Gaius’s angry voice roared from the Imperial command post.
But it was already too late.
The speed of the Arkwright Army’s advance far exceeded his expectations.
They had penetrated deeply from both wings, perfectly isolating the Imperial central units.

In front: the immovable Kingdom Army main force, like a turtle.
On the flanks: the unpredictable Arkwright Army.
And at the rear: there was no retreat.
The Imperial central force—around fifteen thousand soldiers—was trapped completely in the massive snare that was the Silva Plains.

All of this was witnessed in tense silence by the Kingdom knights and Prince Alphonse, waiting at the main camp.

“…Unbelievable.”

A knight commander whispered, his voice trembling.

“Is this…war? It’s like a hunt. We are the wolves, and the Imperial Army are the trapped rats…”

Fear was reflected in their eyes.
The Arkwright Army’s utterly alien and extraordinarily efficient combat style was the antithesis of the chivalric ideals they had cherished.
A cold, calculated system of slaughter.

But Alphonse felt differently.
In his eyes was not fear, but another emotion.
It was a mix of awe and dread at Zenon’s terrifying skill in preparing the stage on which they were about to stand.

(…So this is how he fights.)
Alphonse bit his lip.
(He removes emotion, pursuing only the outcome of victory… While I prattle on about ideals, he has thought through the method to win on this real battlefield.)
He had no choice but to admit it.
Zenon was not simply a cold-blooded man.
He was protecting this country in his own way.
A way completely different from his own.

At that moment, a voice rang through the magical communication device they were wearing.

“…Marshal Gerhardt, can you hear me?”

Zenon’s calm voice.

“The stage is set… now we wait for the protagonist to appear.”

Marshal Gerhardt’s aged eyes widened sharply.

“All units!”

His hoarse but powerful voice resounded through the Kingdom Knights’ main body.

“The time has come! Now we show the glory of the Kingdom of Berstein Knights!”

He drew his long-beloved sword from its scabbard.
Pointing it straight at the completely isolated and flustered Imperial central units.

“Follow meeeeee!!”

“““Woooooooh!!”””

Ten thousand knights and soldiers roared, shaking the ground.
A soul-shattering cry that unleashed pent-up anger, humiliation, and the pride of knighthood.

The Kingdom Knights’ final and greatest charge had begun.
A wave of steel sweeping across the horizon.
A magnificent finale unfolding atop the perfectly orchestrated stage prepared by Zenon.

The Imperial soldiers had completely lost the will to fight.
From the flanks came inexplicable bullets.
From the front, a charge of knights who seemed like berserk warriors rushing to death.
There was no escape left.

The decisive battle had begun.
No—more accurately, it had already been decided.
What unfolded now was merely the final chapter of the grand story of victory, written by the cold, calculating hand of Zenon.
And within that story,
a prince quietly drew his sword, ready to find his own role in the battle.