I'm not a Witcher anymore.

Chapter 175 Bloodshed

"Qaničeritler (bloodthirsty beast)!"

A piercing and desperate roar in Cumanese exploded behind the fallen Cuman centurion.

That was his younger brother, a young Cuman cavalryman.

Watching his brother being stabbed through the stomach by an ally without warning, the immense grief and fear overwhelmed him and completely destroyed the last shred of reason in his mind.

In his eyes, and in the eyes of dozens of Cumans who witnessed the scene, it was no longer a misunderstanding.

The Lords' Alliance killed their centurion.

Right in front of them, like slaughtering a sheep, they stabbed an unsuspecting Cuman to death in a pool of blood.

This is enough.

Anger overwhelmed military discipline and even the awe of Sigismund's authority at that moment.

"Bizni barçamizniöltürürler! Bu it ullar1 bile uruşuñuz (They want to kill us all!"

(Let's fight these bastards!)

The cold glint of Zheng's curved blade as it was drawn from its sheath became the final straw that broke the camel's back.

The young Cuman cavalryman let out a beast-like roar, his scimitar, filled with hatred, slashing fiercely at the Lord's Alliance soldier who was about to sheathe his spear.

The unique recurved blade sliced ​​through a tricky arc, instantly slicing open the opponent's unprotected neck. Hot blood sprayed all over his face, but it only intensified the ferocity in his eyes.

This strike, in the eyes of the Lord Alliance soldiers whose nerves were on edge, was undoubtedly the most powerful and irrefutable evidence of the mutiny.

"They've rebelled! They've really rebelled!!"

The sergeant major of the lord's alliance, staring at his men lying in pools of blood, instantly turned bloodshot. His hoarse throat forced out the most brutal command: "These ungrateful wolves! I knew they couldn't be trusted! Attack! Kill everyone breathing in front of you, except our own men!!"

The explosion was like two opposing torrents colliding violently. The previously barely maintained defensive line collapsed instantly, turning into a chaotic and disastrous battle.

No one tried to explain anymore, and no one could understand what the other was yelling about.

The language barrier became the most fatal catalyst at this moment. The "why" shouted by the Cumans was heard by the Lords' Alliance as the horn of attack.

What the Lords' Alliance were shouting about "suppressing the rebellion" was heard by the Cumans as "kill all these foreigners."

Fear and hatred formed a perfect closed loop at this moment.

The brazier, originally used for lighting, was kicked over, and scalding grease was spilled onto the dry grass and tents. Flames instantly shot up several meters high, illuminating this chaotic scene as bright as day.

Screams, the clang of metal on metal, the sound of bones shattering, and the dull thud of a sharp blade piercing flesh intertwined to create an absurd and terrifying symphony.

The entire camp instantly transformed into a giant meat grinder, with flames soaring into the sky and turning half the night sky blood red. Soldiers from different factions hacked and slashed at each other in the darkness and fire, using every means to kill their former comrades.

But even in this purgatory of sanity, not everyone was blinded by fear and bloodlust.

"Stop! All of you, stop!"

A knight from the Lords' Alliance used his shield to smash through a young, bloodthirsty squire.

Instead of wielding his sword to kill, he risked being accidentally injured and rushed to the front line of the battle between the two armies.

His expensive plate armor was covered in scratches, but he paid no attention to them. He simply opened the visor that was obstructing his view, revealing an anxious yet dignified face.

"Idiots! You bunch of idiots!!"

The knight grabbed a soldier beside him who was about to thrust his spear, pointed at the disheveled, terrified Cumans opposite him, and roared at the top of his lungs, "Open your eyes and see clearly! This is not a sneak attack! This is a misunderstanding!!"

His voice, hoarse and strained from the extreme effort, sounded so weak amidst the clanging of metal on the battlefield, yet carried a deafening power: "Put down your weapons! Retreat!"

On the other side of the battle line, the same shouts were also being heard.

"Toqtañiz! (Stop!)"

A Kuman veteran with a scar across his face was clinging tightly to two of his tribesmen who were trying to rush forward to fight.

Although his sharp, hawk-like eyes were also filled with the fury of betrayal, he was even more aware of the current situation.

"Çapmañiz! Ölümgebarasiñiz (Don't go! That's suicide!)!!"

The veteran kicked a disobedient Cuman soldier to the ground.

"Bu tuzaq! Arabizni bozarlar! Qraln1 körebiz! Sözümüzni aytabiz (This is a trap! Someone is trying to sow discord among us! We want to see His Majesty! We want to explain!)!"

He frantically waved his arms, trying to push the people around him back.

But his voice was quickly swallowed up by the even louder shouts of battle.

At that moment, the light of reason seemed to flicker for a fleeting instant in the darkness. Several soldiers who were about to swing their swords hesitated.

However, in the eyes of a true hunter, this belated awakening is nothing more than the prey's futile struggle before death.

The next moment, a very faint twang of a bowstring came from the depths of darkness.

"We need to..."

The knight's roar abruptly stopped.

An arrow, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, like an invitation casually thrown by death, pierced his throat in an instant.

A lookout tower on the edge of the Kuman camp.

The night wind howled, causing the hem of Zieg's exquisite velvet hunting suit to flutter and rustle.

He calmly looked down at the boiling inferno below.

The night wind carried the sound to his ears layer by layer.

He could distinguish the rustling of armor, the panting of wounded soldiers, the desperate shouts of officers, and the broken groans squeezed from the throats of those dying.

Sieg slowly raised the bow of Shahbaz in his hand, his movements natural, as if it were not a powerful bow capable of piercing plate armor, but a light violin.

In his view, the lords' alliance knights and officers who were trying to establish order amidst the chaos and calling for a halt were like discordant stains on this chaotic canvas.

All he had to do was gently wipe away the stains.

collapse.

The bowstring trembled slightly.

Without a deafening whoosh, the arrow slid into the night sky like the sigh of a ghost.

A Lord of the Alliance, who was waving a flag and trying to rally his troops, suddenly fell silent as an arrow pierced precisely through a gap in his helmet, silencing all the noise.

Then came the second and the third.

Zieg's hand was steady, so steady it was unsettling. Each time he released the bowstring, it seemed so casual, yet it was accompanied by the fall of a commander in the distance.

He only kills those in the Lords' Alliance who are still trying to maintain order and who are still capable of thinking.

For the lords' alliance soldiers caught in the chaos of battle, this attack from the shadows was devastating.

Although they couldn't see where the archer was hiding in the shadows, nor could they see the elegant, deep blue figure standing in the night.

However, even a veteran with a little common sense can make a fatal judgment in that split second by observing the angle and force of the arrow.

"Over there! The arrow came from the west!!"

A knight who had narrowly escaped death pointed into the darkness in the distance, towards the Cuman camp, his voice filled with despair and certainty: "It was a stray arrow! They're shooting at our commander!!"

In that direction, only the Cumans are present.

This fact is far more insignificant than any verbal explanation.

Those precise, deadly arrows served as irrefutable evidence, definitively confirming the Cumans' "deliberate rebellion."

The charges also severed the last vestige of possibility for reconciliation between the two sides.

The fences that were originally used to separate the camp area had long been flattened, and the two torrents were mixed together.

A heavy infantryman from the Lords' Alliance was tripped and fell to the ground. Before he could get up, a bloodthirsty Cuman pounced on him, frantically hacking at the gaps in his plate armor with his scimitar until the screams turned into intermittent spurting sounds of blood.

The Cuman had just stood up when three of the lord's guards, each wielding a halberd, surrounded him.

The halberds came from three directions simultaneously: one pierced his chest, one pierced his abdomen, and the last one ruthlessly broke his kneecap.

The Cuman screamed and fell to his knees, only to be kicked over by a heavy infantryman. The heavy iron boot crushed his throat, silencing any remaining curses.

The flames became the only spectators of this massacre.

The spilled grease flowed down the low-lying ditches, setting the tents ablaze.

The towering flames stretched everyone's shadows into distorted and grotesque shapes, much like the demons devouring each other in a hellish scroll.

The air was filled with a nauseating, acrid smell: the unique odor of charred flesh, burning grease, and horse manure mixed with blood.

Outside the main tent in the center of the camp, the golden-red curtains that represented the dignity of the Hungarian royal power were now riddled with holes by several stray arrows.