"Killlll!"
The cry tore itself from raw throats and burst into the open sky.
It was not a command so much as an explosion of hatred, fear, and desperation. The sound rolled up the slopes of the Lango Highlands and shattered against the rocks, echoing again and again as if the mountain itself were roaring back.
The two forces collided.
The slave soldiers charged uphill in a loose, uneven mass. Their formation had long since broken during the forced march, and now they ran on trembling legs, leather armor slapping against ribs, breath burning in their chests. Sweat streamed into their eyes. Some stumbled. Others screamed simply to drown out their own terror.
The Rebel Army did not retreat.
They had no shields. No heavy armor. Many wore little more than patched cloth and battered leather. Yet as the enemy closed in, they surged forward instead of bracing themselves.
Men leapt from higher ground, boots leaving stone as blades came down in savage arcs. Knives plunged into shoulders and throats. Swords hacked at exposed necks and wrists.
The first impact was violent and intimate.
Steel bit into flesh with sickening resistance. Bones cracked. Blood burst outward in hot sprays that splattered faces and soaked sleeves. A slave soldier took a blade across the mouth and fell backward with a gargling scream, teeth scattering across the rocks. Another tried to raise his spear, only for a rebel to slam into him bodily, driving a knife again and again into his side until his legs gave out.
The smell of blood rose instantly, thick and metallic.
The Rebel Army fought like men possessed.
They roared as they struck, voices hoarse and breaking, as if each cry tore something loose from their chests. This was not disciplined warfare. This was years of rage unleashed in a single, brutal moment.
For freedom.
That word burned behind their eyes.
A rebel took a spear through the thigh and screamed as he fell, but even on the ground he slashed upward, cutting open the belly of the man who had wounded him. Another was knocked flat by the weight of a charging slave, only to jam his blade into the attacker's throat while choking on dirt and blood.
The slaves wavered.
They had expected resistance. Pain. Death.
They had not expected this.
These were not soldiers who fought for coin or command. These were men who had already accepted death and chosen to swing their blades anyway.
Fear rippled through the slave ranks like fire through dry grass.
Weapons fell from numb fingers. Eyes darted wildly. One man dropped to his knees, hands raised, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.
"I surrender," he cried. "I surrender!"
Another followed. Then another.
Within moments, the charge collapsed entirely.
Some slaves fled downhill, screaming. Others threw themselves flat against the ground. A few stood frozen, staring at the carnage as if their minds had broken.
The hillside fell eerily quiet, broken only by labored breathing and the wet sounds of dying men.
Kress stood amid it all, his blade dripping red.
His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes were sharp as they swept across the battlefield. He took in the surrendered slaves, the fallen rebels, the bodies sprawled at unnatural angles.
"Take their weapons and leather armor," he said. His voice was calm, but firm. "Send them to the rear."
Beside him, Damien turned sharply. His jaw tightened, and he took a half step closer, lowering his voice.
"Kress, we cannot accept them. Not now. What if there are spies among them?"
Kress turned his head and looked at Damien directly. His eyes were steady, without hesitation or doubt.
"Confiscate their weapons and leather armor," he repeated. "Post guards. Watch them closely."
Damien clenched his fists. "You know what this means. If even one of them betrays us…"
Kress cut him off with a small shake of his head. He sheathed his sword with a soft click and folded his arms.
"We fight for freedom," he said. "If we cannot show the path, then we are no different from those we oppose. Someone must take the first step. If not us, then who?"
His tone left no room for argument.
Damien studied Kress's face for a long moment, then finally looked away. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he nodded once.
"Very well," he said quietly.
Kress did not speak again. He turned his gaze back to the battlefield, expression unreadable.
In truth, he had already made his decision. These people could not simply be driven away to starve, nor slaughtered like animals. If they were to die, it would be later, by choice or by betrayal. Until then, they would be given a chance.
The first charge ended so quickly that it left both sides stunned.
Below the slope, Elville stared upward in disbelief.
For a moment, confusion crossed his face. Then his features twisted, the color draining from his cheeks before rushing back in an ugly flush of red.
"Traitors," he shouted, his voice shrill with fury. "A pack of traitors!"
He clenched the golden whip in his hand, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened. Veins stood out along his neck.
"I will execute them," he screamed. "I will nail them to crosses and leave them under the sun until they rot!"
Spittle flew from his mouth as he ranted, eyes wild with rage.
Behind him, rows of slave soldiers stood in silence. Many stared at the ground. Others exchanged uneasy glances. The words washed over them, but something had shifted in their eyes. Fear was still there, but it was no longer alone.
Taylor watched the scene with a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. He did not interrupt. He did not attempt to calm Elville or offer counsel.
Instead, he slowly turned his head and met the eyes of a few men nearby. Trusted brothers, men who had followed him for years.
He gave them a subtle nod.
At once, they leaned closer together, murmuring quietly. One by one, they slipped away to summon their personal guards, soldiers loyal not to Elville, but to them.
Taylor looked back toward the highlands, his expression dark.
He had never seen a man as foolish as Elville.
Sending slave soldiers to attack the Rebel Army was one thing. But to do so without allowing them rest after a long march, without food, without proper equipment, was sheer madness. Elville truly believed war was no different from overseeing the construction of a palace, where laborers could be driven endlessly without consequence.
Elville raised the golden whip high and snapped it through the air with a sharp crack.
"Move!" he bellowed. "We have twenty thousand men. Charge in waves. Grind them down if you must. They will fall eventually!"
Even now, he refused to commit the garrison.
Many of the officers stationed there were his people. He relied on them to maintain control, to ensure that even if chaos erupted, it would be contained.
Among the slaves, resentment simmered.
Hands tightened around spear shafts. Teeth clenched. But still, no one openly resisted.
With a collective shout, they surged forward once more, running uphill with all the strength left in their weary bodies.
For some, a different thought had taken root.
If they were forced to charge anyway, then it was better to charge with purpose. Better to rush forward, surrender, and join the Rebel Army.
They had nothing. No property, no families, no future worth protecting.
What was there left to lose?
Better to gamble on a single chance than die beneath a whip.
This idea spread quickly, passing from glance to glance, from breathless whisper to whispered oath.
When the next wave surged forward, there was no roar of fury.
Instead, the slave soldiers ran as though possessed, eyes burning, legs pumping with reckless desperation.
Above them, on the high ground, Kress's expression changed.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. His gaze swept across the slope, and his heart sank.
"Something is wrong," he muttered.
Then he raised his voice, sharp and commanding.
"Call groups three and four," he shouted. "Now. Stay ready."
From his vantage point, it looked as though thousands of bodies were pouring uphill at once, like a swarm of locusts bursting from the earth.
The first few dozen reached the Rebel Army in moments.
The rebels stepped forward instinctively, weapons raised, muscles coiled to strike.
But instead of attacking, the slave soldiers threw their spears aside. Metal clattered against stone. They raised empty hands, faces twisted with fear and pleading.
They tried to kneel.
They did not have the space.
Those behind them, also intent on surrender, crashed into their backs, pushing them forward in a chaotic press of bodies.
For an instant, Kress froze.
Then understanding flashed in his eyes.
"Let them through," he roared. "Open the line. Surround them."
The Rebel Army moved at once, disciplined despite the confusion. They widened their formation, pulling back just enough to allow the flood to pour through.
Slave soldiers stumbled onto the plateau, gasping for breath. The moment they had room, they dropped to their knees, hands raised above their heads.
"We surrender," voices cried out, overlapping and frantic. "Please do not kill us. We will join you. We do not want to die."
The sound of weapons hitting the ground echoed again and again.
Within moments, a wide swath of the encirclement was filled with kneeling figures.
Kress stared, stunned.
Then a fierce grin broke across his face.
"Damien," he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Take their weapons and armor. Give them to our brothers."
Damien blinked, then nodded, a spark of excitement flashing in his eyes.
Leather armor was not iron, but it was far better than cloth. The spears abandoned by the slaves were solid, with straight wooden shafts and sharp iron heads.
Most of the Rebel Army carried little more than wooden weapons. With these spears, their strength would double.
Behind the first wave, more slave soldiers reached the plateau.
They stopped short, confusion plain on their faces.
Their brothers were kneeling.
For a heartbeat, they hesitated.
Then one dropped his spear.
Another followed.
Soon, they too raised their hands and sank to their knees.
Below the highlands, Elville's triumphant grin slowly faded.
He squinted, leaning forward in his saddle.
"That is…" His brow furrowed. "What is happening?"
In his mind, a thousand men charging uphill should have at least delayed the enemy. Should have caused bloodshed, chaos, resistance.
Instead, the Rebel Army appeared again in his sight, intact and unmoved.
"Even a thousand pigs would take time to slaughter," he muttered.
Taylor let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh.
Was Elville still imagining himself in Tyrosh?
There, slaves obeyed without question. They dared not stop, dared not think.
But this was war.
Authority meant nothing to men with nothing left to lose.
Elville's face twisted again with fury. He snapped the whip once more, the sound sharp as a gunshot.
"Send five hundred more," he shouted. "Take them from the garrison if you must. Keep charging!"
His eyes burned with stubborn madness.
"I refuse to believe that twenty thousand men cannot break into a single hill."
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A/N: Aegon's ambition has begun to stir.As his power grows, so do his foes, traitors, and enemies rising with blades already drawn.
Will he truly succeed… or be crushed before he can claim it all?
If you want to find out, read ahead on Patreon. 19 advance chapters available, the first 2 are free.
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