"Your Majesty! Enemy forces have appeared at the rear!"
"...The rear? How on earth? Who are they?"
"Without their military banners, it's difficult to identify..."
"No banners? How many troops would charge without banners?"
The adjutant hesitated at Count Etoile's question. While it was proper protocol to report enemy troop movements, the number was almost embarrassingly small.
"Sixty... Your Majesty. All cavalry, and from what we've observed, they appear to be knights."
"Sixty? Did you say sixty, not six thousand or six hundred?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Ha, hahaha, HAHAHAHAHA!!"
Etoile slapped his knee, bursting into laughter. Either Guillaume had failed, or Jean Beltuva had failed—one of the two.
From somewhere beyond his marching route, a small number of nobles must have sensed Saint Matilenne's crisis and hastily brought only cavalry to her aid.
How foolish. Such meager numbers couldn't possibly make a difference.
They probably intended to boast to the royal family after the battle, once the rebellion was suppressed. A clever little scheme. A provincial baron's attempt to extend influence into central politics, perhaps.
But these lowly provincial nobles remained in their humble positions precisely because they couldn't read the tide of events. Etoile continued laughing as he spoke.
"Let's go see for ourselves."
Etoile left the command tent and mounted his horse. His adjutant and knights formed a protective circle around him.
In the distance, he could see the small figures of cavalry charging against the breaking dawn. Between him and those riders stood numerous soldiers with weapons at the ready.
"This is perfect—we can weed out the disloyal who oppose my royal authority. Give these men proper funerals. They are, after all, old-fashioned patriots meeting their end."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
With the adjutant's nod, about two hundred cavalry waiting at the rear launched forward. Such insignificant numbers would be wiped out in a single clash.
The parasites clinging to the aging royal family and state would be extinguished like candles, and his reign would rise like the sun.
Etoile watched with delight as these final vermin of the country made their desperate move.
And at last, their vanguard began to clash with his knights.
They call a skilled cavalry rider and horse "one body." When the rider's movements and the horse's responses are in perfect harmony, the time to reach gallop speed is drastically reduced.
They move in the intended direction and run exactly as desired. Often, intelligent horses act even before their riders command them.
A sufficiently skilled rider knows how to "persuade" their mount: The one on your back is the most powerful being in this world, so you need not fear—you can charge forward safely.
These timid beasts are frightened by the mere act of charging toward enemy lines, making this persuasion essential.
But the Annihilation Squad doesn't "persuade." Instead, Ivan preferred to prove it.
-CRACK!!
No time even to scream. The collision between two cavalry charging at full speed toward each other was that instantaneous.
Even with more time, it wouldn't have been different. The impact was too massive for human flesh and organs to withstand. With lungs bursting before they could exhale, the cavalryman's death was silent.
-CLAAANG—!!
Each time his sword flashed in the sunlight, another rider tumbled roughly to the ground. Fallen riders collided with those following behind. In the chaos, men and horses were reduced to finely minced heaps of flesh.
He charged forward, trampling everything in his path.
"Run."
Ivan whispered softly into his horse's ear. He lowered his posture deeply, gripping the saddle with only the strength of his legs while swinging both arms.
To his left, he climbed up a lance during the charge and seized it by force. His horse stumbled momentarily, nearly twisting its leg under the immense pressure.
But it didn't stop. The horse completely trusted its rider—or perhaps feared him enough.
Ivan's left arm gripped the lance shaft and tore the opposing rider from his mount. The rider rose into the air with a dazed expression.
An adult male in full armor easily weighs over 150kg. Factor in acceleration, and the impact force concentrated at a single point is even greater.
He withstood this with one hand and lifted the man from his horse. In this surreal moment of suspension, the nameless knight was thrown with a look of shock.
-CRACK!!
The dismounted knight was crushed under the hooves of following riders. Ivan didn't even spare him a glance as he swung his left arm.
-CLANG, SPLAT—!!
At full gallop, he thrust the lance with tremendous force, impaling it like an arrow. One approaching knight had his visor penetrated by the lance shaft, his skull exploding like a bomb. Fragments of flesh scattered everywhere.
Simultaneously, he swung the sword in his right hand toward another knight's shoulder plate. The shoulder strap was precisely cut, and beneath it, the collarbone, acromion, and humerus shattered in a single blow.
The impact tore the arm off. The rider likely died without pain, losing balance and falling the moment he lost his grip on the reins.
"Trust me."
Ivan whispered continuously, shaking his dazed head to maintain his faltering concentration. The horse ran on, foaming at the mouth, giving no response.
What you should fear is neither the weapons approaching from the front, nor the cavalry, nor those countless soldiers.
It should only be the person riding on your back right now.
He imprinted this in the small mind of the beast. Whispering that under his protection, it was completely safe.
And proving it through action alone.
"What—?"
Etoile's expression hardened as he watched the knights charging in wedge formation. His cavalry was being decimated.
Though stationed at the rear, they were still knights—each a minor noble and a weapon honed on the battlefield.
These were the knights of Tilles, infamous across all nations of the alliance as the Devils of the Plains.
And they were being shattered. Literally crushed. The charge of barely sixty cavalry was certainly a futile struggle that could never reach him, and yet...
An uneasy fear pierced his heart. Like an arrow.
The final death throes of this country had released an arrow, flying straight toward him in the form of a small wedge formation of mounted figures.
"Stop them. STOP THEM—!! Cavalry! Intercept them!"
"Remain calm, Your Majesty! They are merely a handful of troops!"
The adjutant seemed more composed. This was partly due to the distance and the screen of countless soldiers between them, but also because the adjutant's perception was inferior to Count Etoile's.
He hadn't seen the face of that knight charging from the front. Perhaps the distance was too great for his vision. He probably saw only a cloud of dust rising.
But Etoile could see clearly. The figure slaughtering his knights, literally butchering them as he charged forward. Even the ice-blue gleam of his eyes burning beneath his helmet.
The helmet.
He needed to see beneath that helmet. He needed to see that face.
"Gil Bert de Etakrih... are you still alive...!?"
"Your Majesty, please remain calm! If that man were Gil Bert, he would have no reason to lead a separate detachment! Those following him are not the Eastern Knights!"
"Open your eyes and look! Who else in this country fights like him?!"
As the cavalry scattered, the plains came back into view. In his ears, Ivan heard only the wild pounding of his overheated heart.
He couldn't hear the soldiers' shouts, the horses' labored breathing, nothing. The edges of his vision had darkened. He could see only what lay directly ahead.
His sense of touch, once keen enough to read the slightest breeze, had dulled to the point where he felt only the cumbersome weight of his armor.
He was exhausted.
He was certainly on the verge of collapse. His food and drink, his remaining magical energy, the durability of his nervous system—all were depleted. If he closed his eyes, he would lose consciousness and sleep for at least ten days straight.
So, I just won't close my eyes.
Ivan stared straight ahead with bloodshot eyes as he charged forward.
'How many are left?'
He wondered how many of those who had followed him survived. Without even a moment to look back, it was hard to tell. But he estimated that half had died in the recent clash.
Even he, who had been exposed to the most attacks, couldn't escape injury.
'This is in the way.'
He chopped off the lance shaft that had pierced his abdomen diagonally. He couldn't pull it out. He didn't know how badly his internal organs were damaged, but he could die from excessive bleeding.
At this point, every drop of blood was precious. The energy and magic it contained could allow him one more swing of his arm.
Every injury quantitatively reduces combat endurance. Unforgivable. So he had to sustain only necessary injuries and charge within precisely calculated battle conditions.
His vision was blurry.
-Crunch.
He bit the inside of his cheek and quickly shook his arm to take a sip of healing potion. A stinging pain spread through his mouth. It helped him regain consciousness momentarily. Not a bad emergency treatment.
In any case, as long as he wasn't dead yet, there was no reason to stop.