Cataphracts, surviving in a world full of mods

"That's about it. We've pushed to the limit of formal combat, and our reconnaissance efforts have more than doubled. The scouts have suffered considerable losses and gains in the past two days, and we've basically pinpointed the enemy's location."

Another scout passed by, but the head he was carrying had a braid that reached his shoulders, and a bow he had just acquired was hanging on his saddle... This was a Kiel from the north, who were also tasked with being scouts for the enemy.

Tersolius glanced deeply at the blood-stained chainmail and helmet, his expression darkening slightly. He walked past the soldiers who were saluting him, reached out and took the chainmail that was still hanging on the saddle as a trophy of war.

"Sure enough, it's from the Central Mine."

With just a slight turn, he confirmed his guess—there was a small metal plaque on the chest of the chainmail, secured to it by a ring through a hole, bearing a string of numbers and the craftsman's name. It was still clearly visible without any wear, obviously a fine piece of armor from the Central Mine.

There was even some of the protective oil still on it, as if it had just been taken out of a box in a warehouse. It provided solid protection for the wearer's entire upper body and upper arms without affecting flexibility in the slightest.

"Perhaps we need to consider more possibilities."

Talina nodded solemnly as well, while Tersolius tossed the chainmail to the scout who had captured it—such a well-preserved trophy could be exchanged for a bounty or given to someone who needed a new suit of armor.

Night had fallen, but the plain nestled against the mountains remained brightly lit...

Chapter 479 The King's Head (5)

"The reaction was much more intense than I had imagined."

The tall general calmly offered his comments. His warhorse, agitated and excited by the atmosphere of war, pounded the earth with its massive hooves like heavy hammers, making the soil even denser. Its heavy breathing scattered fallen leaves. The advancing steel vehicles around him continued to repeat the same action, ensuring that the land would remain hard and difficult to cultivate for the next few months.

“I think you should have expected this, my lord. His Majesty the King doesn’t have many options left, especially after Lady Luck has mocked him time and time again. His hastily assembled army is destined to be in turmoil… This place is completely different from the Empire. Their armies don’t have the unwavering honor and determination of a legion.”

An old man with a long wooden cane stood beside him. In order to keep up with the pace of the group, this untrained old man was now sitting somewhat awkwardly on a warhorse, his right hand tightly gripping the saddle, as if afraid of being thrown off.

“If we continue to delay, he will lose even the slightest power to resist. Although His Majesty the King has been cornered, he still made the right choice. It’s just that his failure was destined from the beginning.”

"That's true."

Natamus laughed as he stood up from his horse, using only his two feet in the stirrups to maintain his balance and increase his field of vision, gazing into the distance.

Amidst the scraping sound of his armor plates, his gaze stretched into the distance, continuing forward along the densely forested hills and slopes, until the forests became increasingly sparse, and gentle clearings and slopes began to appear more frequently... until a dark mass of colorful steel and robes crashed into him.

There, banners stretched like a continuous cloud, and all the armies that the King of Salanod could muster were gathered here. The sharpness of spears and halberds formed a dangerous jungle, and various emblems on shields displayed the glory of their masters. Boots and hooves trampled the place into a mess, and lords brandished their longswords to command their soldiers. The smell of horse manure, human sweat, and other complex odors mingled together, easily detectable from miles away.

This was undoubtedly a large army; they had almost covered that vast area of ​​land, where they had set up a strong camp and were waiting for the enemy to tire themselves out. Although the walls, moats, and watchtowers were not very well-organized, they were still formidable and could make the attackers pay a heavy price.

This was not the kind of fortification used only for defense. This army was clearly unwilling to hold its ground and had already formed ranks to wait for the imperial army to come and fight. The dense array of archers was ready to drive away any light cavalry that came to harass them.

For this reason, Nathamus did not even send his cavalry to try... because he knew very well what light cavalry with average protection would encounter in the face of such a formation. The infantry archers and crossbowmen, under the cover of the infantry, could easily inflict casualties on them. At most, they could only harass them on the edge. Attacking such a tight formation was like dancing on the edge of a knife for them.

Redbeard Yotsero undoubtedly challenged his extremely formidable opponent, attempting to resolve his nation's near-extinction crisis with a decisive battle, making a final stand while his assembled army was still mobilizable.

This was a rather risky move, almost like throwing caution to the wind... but it was also a desperate attempt, the price he had to pay to maintain this army. In the past, when the entire kingdom was in his hands, he could make a fortune through trade tariffs. The inexhaustible supply of high-quality timber here was enough to allow him to live a life of luxury that many kings envied, not to mention the enormous wealth brought by the trade ports adjacent to the empire.

But now, with the war underway, the trade routes between the West and the Empire have been completely cut off. He has also lost vast tracts of the most important and fertile land. The national treasury is already overflowing. His fierce army, which he has maintained for many years, and the mercenaries who came for money cannot tolerate the slightest humiliation or delay. The prestige and credibility he has accumulated have long been exhausted. Without real money to be paid out, why should these unruly soldiers obey his orders?

So he had no choice but to engage in battle, and a decisive battle with a large army... If he could win, that would be even better... Even if he couldn't eliminate this invading army, he could at least buy more time. If he lost, then it would all be over... The dead would naturally not continue to ask him for money, and they could still fight for him before they died.

Now, this massive army is entrenched on the plains before us, awaiting the onslaught of the empire's swords and armor.

This seemed like a golden opportunity. Once this massive army was defeated, he could turn this place into a horrific slaughterhouse with his tens of thousands of swift cavalry, waging a bloody annihilation war that would leave corpses strewn everywhere and crows filling the sky.

In this way, the fertile lands surrounding Salanod would be completely indefensible, allowing for continued encroachment until the land was completely conquered...

But Natamus had other plans.

"What do you think? Can you fight?"

He turned to look at the old man beside him and asked him this question, to which the old man returned the question with a half-smile:

"Haven't you already made your decision? Is it really necessary for me to go through all this trouble?"

"I want to hear what you have to say, and see if we're on the same page."

The old man nodded, placed his long wooden cane across the horse's back, and tapped it lightly with his fingers.

"Then I shall dare to offer my humble opinion—we should indeed engage in a decisive battle with them, otherwise we cannot completely defeat the enemy, but not now."

Why?

Natamus continued to ask questions with great interest, while the old man paused briefly to consider his words:

"The reason is simple, sir. Our enemy is eager for battle right now and is willing to fight us at all costs. At this time, their will and morale are at their peak. Even if we win the battle now, we will inevitably suffer heavy losses... But this morale is destined not to last long. Their soldiers have already become restless and impatient after the previous encounters."

"Their resentment towards the king and the previous conflicts have not disappeared; they have only been temporarily masked by the encouragement of temporary benefits... Once they cannot quickly engage in battle with us, their morale will rapidly decline, these conflicts will re-emerge, and they will become chaotic. That will be the right time to fight them."

"As for now, all we need to do is send cavalry to block the roads, disrupt traffic, and kill the messengers. Let them wait there; all they will get in the end is death."

Natamus laughed loudly. Although he didn't say anything more, he already understood. He stroked his beard and smiled. Meanwhile, the sound of rapid hoofbeats began to echo on the surrounding roads, and billowing dust swirled in the sky like countless yellow snakes... The cavalry had begun to move, and they had obviously received orders long ago.

Now, their prey, exhausted and wounded, is utterly enraged and bursts forth from the jungle. It's time to prepare to strangle it...

........................

A sheep with its neck cut off is struggling in the mud. The blood flowing out is not transparent at all, but a heavy, sticky red, almost suffocating people, as if it is dancing a strange dance.

Amidst the thick stench of blood, the soldier stepped forward, grabbed the ram's horns, dragged the increasingly weak animal over, pierced its hind hoof joints with an iron hook, and hung it upside down on a nearby tree trunk, preparing to skin and butcher it.

The process was quite quick; soon, still-beating fresh meat was thrown into a wooden basin nearby, and everyone around was all smiles, eagerly anticipating the delicious meal they would be able to enjoy later.

On a tree stump, a soldier was counting his spoils. He took out some loose coins from a burlap sack, rubbed off the scarlet bloodstains with his fingers, and counted the women's jewelry with torn hair mixed in. He tapped the parts that looked like silver with his fingers to distinguish them, muttering calculations and complaints.

On the open ground next to them, all sorts of things were piled up—there were relatively intact and fluffy bedding, cleaned game pelts, bottles and jars piled together, and onions and cabbages in various burlap sacks... all of which were thrown into a muddy field, with a layer of black mud covering the bottom.

With a loud rumble, dark clouds gathered in the sky, immediately drawing even more complaints and grumbling...

Chapter 480 The King's Head (6)

"This is my portion!"

The sword whistled through the air, its frosty blade unstained by blood. This wasn't to rip someone's throat, but rather to intimidate the enemy, deterring them and resolving the current predicament… The reason for this situation was simple: while the loot was barely acceptable, the quantity was far from sufficient. The soldiers here were unwilling to sacrifice their own interests; they only resented not having enough to eat.

“You can tell Harry—it’ll be happy to smash your head!”

But his opponent was equally determined, his mace seemingly poised to smash down on his head, and he had even removed his shield to prepare for defense... This made things difficult for him; he could no longer be taken down in a few blows. If this stalemate continued, it wouldn't be good for him either, but he absolutely couldn't show weakness now... The army despises cowards the most, and he couldn't show even the slightest sign of weakness in this regard.

So he immediately decided to be more aggressive:

"I'll use this sword to rip your tongue out of your throat! From above your neck! I'll make an incision there and pull your tongue out like catching a fish!"

"You'd better watch out for your good teeth! Because they'll all be gone in a minute, and you'll only be able to find them in the mud."

What started as a mere attempt to intimidate the other person escalated into a furious outburst, growing increasingly vicious and venomous. They quickly began hurling insults at the other person's mother and all the female relatives around them, racking their brains to find every offensive word and slang term. Their ignited anger burned fiercely and began to spiral out of control.

No one knew why they were arguing like this over a bronze plate, but their current agitation and the malice surging in their hearts were undeniable. The soldier holding the sword quickly turned bloodshot. The humiliating, painful, and arduous experiences he had endured during this period had severely tested his spirit, and the resentment and anger that had been building up in his heart needed an outlet.

He no longer considered whether he should go so far; he only knew he was about to see bloodshed, and a surge of rage made his temples throb. So, after another vicious insult, he ruthlessly and without warning plunged his sword into his opponent's unsuspecting calf, deftly bypassing the leg armor. He could almost feel the blade scraping against his fascia and bone, and swiftly withdrew, dodging the spiked mace his opponent swung in agony. Then, pressing his advantage, he took a step forward and used the weight at the end of his sword to strike the opponent's head, which was protected by his helmet, denting it into a shallow hole.

This had clearly gone beyond the scope of a brawl between hot-tempered soldiers in the camp; it was almost a life-or-death struggle. His opponent was already dazed from being beaten, and all he had to do next was stab him in the throat with his sword and kill him cleanly and efficiently… He did it instinctively, and because the distance was too short, he even subconsciously used the combat swordsmanship he used when he was wearing armor—gripping the middle of the sword with his left hand, which was wearing a chainmail glove, and controlling the hilt with his other hand, as if he were holding a short chisel, and fiercely chiseling at the opponent's throat.

He acted with resolute decisiveness, as if preparing to slit his wife's or lover's throat, but ultimately failed—an axe, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, struck him heavily on the side, twisting and deforming the knee brace. The ensuing excruciating pain immediately knocked him down, causing him to howl on the ground like a wild dog that had been kicked in the stomach. Only then did the attacker shout angrily:

"You bastard, do you want to kill someone here?!"

The two men who had been arguing were now lying on the ground, and neither of them were their enemies. But the chaos they had caused was now rapidly escalating... or rather, many soldiers had been waiting for this opportunity. Their rage and bloodlust had been completely ignited by the brief conflict. The sergeant captain, who had just tried to stop it all, was knocked to the ground by an attacker's shield. Before he could even put up a fight, he was kicked around and rolled about, covered in mud, sheep dung, and horse manure.

As if receiving a signal, the other soldiers quickly descended into chaos and began to fight. They hurled insults and kicked without mercy. Of course, most hadn't lost their minds to the point of attacking each other with weapons, but the fists and kicks, along with the stones, pots, plates, and even firewood they picked up, still left many with bloodied heads. The most unfortunate were those who fell to the ground in the chaos... They were often trampled by dozens or even hundreds of feet, never having a chance to get up, letting out barely audible cries amidst the flying mud and insults.

After the rain, colorful robes and armor were tangled in the mud. This chaos had no reason, no sense of belonging, only a pure outpouring of emotions and malice. Like a storm, it swept more and more people into it. Those who beat others, those who were beaten, and those who were simply caught in the crossfire were all mixed up in a mess. Stones flying everywhere left dirty mud stains on the tents. The unlucky ones who were beaten and bleeding fell headfirst into the mud, staining the damp, sticky black mud with a bloody red.

No one knows what they're doing it for, maybe for nothing...maybe just because they don't want anything at all.

The chaos in this camp lasted for quite some time, until high-ranking officers and nobles finally managed to quell it with considerable effort... During this period, more than 100 people died in this pointless conflict, and no one could say for sure how the chaos started or who started it... They were either caught in the crossfire or took the opportunity to retaliate against people they already disliked, simply getting involved in the chaos in a muddle, and then either being beaten or beating others.

After this farce, at least someone remembered not to knock over the braziers in the camp, which prevented the place from being completely destroyed. However, the aftermath was enough to give the local nobles a major headache.

........................

The extinguished wood had completely turned into charcoal, its structure now loose and porous, easily crumbling at the slightest force. Collapsed beams smashed into the walls, piling the rammed earth inside into small hills on the ground. Scattered chicken feathers were particularly dense at the gate, as eager raiders had plucked the chickens before even stepping out, intending to roast them in the oven later. Broken plates and bowls were scattered everywhere in the yard. Even an apple tree that had already borne fruit was caught in the crossfire, its leaves turning yellow and withering in the terrible heat, and most of the apples had already fallen off.

A bruised hand emerged from the straw of the woodshed, long since motionless. A dog, its chest ripped open by a sharp blade, lay curled up in the mud, its flesh white and attracting blood-sucking flies. In the still-smoldering pile of firewood, withered, curled-up black limbs faced the sky…

Everything here seemed lifeless, with only crows perching on the treetops. Wisps of white smoke drifted from the ashes, and insects crawled and gnawed at the corpses… This was a village recently “visited” by the army, leaving only ruins and destruction. Everything of value had been looted, and everything that could satisfy desires had long since suffered… And this was the reward Yotesero offered to his army, in exchange for these men who made a living by killing continuing to serve him. As for the villages and towns destroyed in the process? —That was the price he had to pay, the price for the continuation of the country. Or rather, if his power and kingdom were destroyed, then those villages and towns would have no value to him.

Of course, the cities inhabited by wealthy and respectable merchants received a different kind of leniency—they could pay a sum of money to avoid the disaster, and the satisfied army would pass by the city without hesitation, leaving behind only a mess and trembling survivors, and continue onward to the designated battlefield to fight the imperial army.

It's like cutting off a piece of his own flesh to feed hungry hounds. He needs these hounds to fight off the beasts in the jungle that want to skin him alive, and this price is necessary... He can no longer sell his land, otherwise even if he wins the final victory, he will not be qualified to be king again. But the people on the land are an abundant and renewable resource, and they are unlikely to pose a threat to his crown.

He needed this. He couldn't imagine the consequences of losing this crown. His past recklessness and bloodshed were supported by power and swords, and he wanted to protect these two things like a tree protects its roots... From the beginning, he understood what he couldn't give up and what he could sacrifice. So when he had to make certain decisions, although he hesitated, he ultimately wouldn't back down, even if his nerves burned like fire and his heart felt like it was being gnawed by rats...

This was the third team of messengers sent to request aid from neighboring countries, yet he still hadn't received a definite answer… Those cursed hearts and claws were either coveting more, or simply afraid of clashing swords with the Empire, but he knew they would come sooner or later. Even with constant wrangling and procrastination, they would eventually be forced here by circumstances, but they wouldn't be there as allies offering support as before…

Destruction, like a giant serpent swimming under the ice, followed him relentlessly, while he desperately tried to keep himself from falling, all the while guarding against those so-called allies with ulterior motives, forcibly keeping this mess going... in order to find that sliver of opportunity, one that he didn't even know if it even existed.

Chapter 481 The King's Head (7)

The scorching sun bleached the soil until it turned white and cracked, spreading its light evenly across every inch of land and relentlessly inflicting heat on those who defied it, causing leaves to curl and stones to scorch.

Inside a beautiful tent, the king with red hair and beard was fast asleep—he had only fallen into a deep sleep when the morning light appeared, having had a sleepless night before, pacing back and forth in the tent with his sword in hand, frightening the servants around him so much that they dared not even breathe. Now that he was asleep, they finally had a chance to relax.

The silk-made soft bed is suspended from iron frames on both sides. It looks flimsy and delicate, but it is strong enough to support the weight of two strong men. Moreover, it is well-ventilated, so even in the hottest season, you won't wake up covered in sweat and with a dry mouth.

But now, the trusted servants standing beside him could see with their own eyes that the king's face was turning pale, large beads of sweat were constantly seeping from his forehead, wetting his hair and soaking the pillow, his fingers were still clenching irritably, and he was muttering something incoherently, but his tone was fierce and sharp, making people's hair stand on end.

This situation was obviously quite strange—there were four or five basins filled with clear well water in the tent, and they were replaced every once in a while. There was a large tree with lush branches on the top of the tent. Even the servants thought it was comfortable and pleasant. How could a sleeping person be sweating profusely for no reason?

In this situation, as a servant, he should have woken the king…in fact, he almost did so immediately. But then, remembering the king's increasingly unpredictable, volatile, and cruel temper, he hesitated.

He wasn't sure what he would be treated after waking the king... The worst-case scenario would probably be that he'd end up swinging on the flagpole like those other unlucky guys... So was it worth taking the risk?

So after a brief hesitation, he unhesitatingly chose to pretend he hadn't seen it... or rather, hoped someone else would take the risk and become the scapegoat who might end up hanging. When he cautiously raised his eyes, he found that the others were also exchanging almost the same glances—and then, almost simultaneously, they lowered their heads in unspoken understanding.

After all, they are just a group of servants... Being a servant is hard enough as it is, why bring more risks upon yourself? It's better not to be so attentive.

………………

The ground was whitish and scorching hot. Stepping on it, one could feel the dry soil turning into dust. The dust seeped into the gaps between his bare feet, bringing a hot, soft, hot sensation, like hot water. Then it quickly dried up, making his lips dry as well.

He didn't know where he was, only that as soon as he opened his eyes he was scorched by the sun. The plain in front of him stretched as far as the eye could see, but it was completely cracked and dry. There was not a trace of moisture in the ground. The hot ground reflected the heat, baking him along with the sun in the sky, making his skin dry all over.

So while his doubts were still lingering, his instincts quickly took over. His body was desperately craving moisture, causing his lips to crack and peel, and his nose to become difficult to breathe in. Every cell inside was yearning for something to moisturize it.

He started walking forward, but he had no direction and couldn't tell which way to go. He was just trying his luck, finding a goal for himself with an unclear future.

He walked for an unknown amount of time, and his thoughts became increasingly muddled and chaotic. His ideas became unpredictable, and his body swayed as if the scorching sun had boiled his brain and thoughts together. Thinking had become extremely difficult, and his body was now completely controlled by instinct.

A wave of dampness quickly amplified this instinct, and he could barely feel how he was running forward. He only knew that when he came to his senses, he had already fallen headfirst into the damp mud pit, greedily sucking up the murky, dirty water that had accumulated in the mud.

The awful earthy and foul smell churned in his throat, but his body rejoiced at the arrival of the water, making him almost recklessly pour it into his stomach until he felt a bloating pain and could no longer swallow a drop. Only then did he collapse, exhausted, into the mud.