A bone-chilling aura erupted outward, sweeping across the entire battlefield in an instant.
Faced with this inexplicable and eerie chill, every soldier froze involuntarily. Bright sunlight still shone down on them, warm enough to feel stifling, yet in that split second, they felt as if they stood naked in the bitterest of winters. The penetrating cold seeped through their bodies, straight into the depths of their souls.
It was precisely this momentary hesitation that proved fatal. Even the most well-drilled soldiers could not overcome their instinctive reactions. And in that brief pause, the crescent-shaped silver-white sword light howled across the ranks, cleaving a gaping hole in the formation as if it were made of paper.
"By the Holy Light!"
Standing atop the watchtower, the commander stared down at the unbelievable scene unfolding below, his face ashen and his eyes glazed with shock. He watched his soldiers fall like wheat before a scythe, their once-impenetrable ranks crumbling into chaos in the blink of an eye. But this time, he felt no fear—only numb disbelief that had overwhelmed all other emotions. Three high-ranking swordsmen?
The commander rubbed his eyes, unable to process what he was seeing. He was no stranger to high-ranking swordsmen—serving under one of the Empire's Four Pillars, he had even witnessed battles between knights and these elite warriors firsthand. Such power was supposed to decide the tide of major battlefield engagements, not descend upon a mere frontier outpost! An outpost garrisoned by nothing more than a unit of seasoned veterans, for the love of the Holy Light!
The thought brought tears of frustration to his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to rush down, kneel before the enemy, and scream at the top of his lungs: What sin have I committed to deserve an assault by three high-ranking swordsmen working in tandem? This was the kind of treatment reserved for legion commanders! How could a lowly outpost officer like me possibly merit such an "honor"?
Though the commander was on the verge of tears, Blake and his companions had no intention of showing him mercy. Fortunately, however, after this exchange, the black-cloaked rider on horseback seemed to grow bored of the slaughter. He spurred his mount forward once more, effortlessly breaking through the fractured defensive line before vanishing into the forest without a trace.
Only then did the commander finally draw a long, trembling breath of relief. He patted his chest, still reeling from the near-death experience, before quickly issuing orders to send a pursuit party after the intruders—a purely symbolic gesture, of course. Both he and his men knew full well that tracking down high-ranking swordsmen was an impossible task. But that hardly mattered now. Having suffered such a devastating defeat, they had to do everything in their power to appear diligent and accountable.
Every soldier knew their supreme commander, that eccentric young lady, was by no means a gentle or lenient figure. No one in their right mind would dare incur her wrath.
Thus, as soon as the order was given, five cavalrymen mounted their horses and set off in pursuit. The remaining soldiers, under the commander's leadership, began the grim task of reorganizing the camp—clearing away the debris, tending to the wounded, and tallying the dead. When the final count was completed, a heavy silence fell over the survivors.
As a temporary outpost, the garrison had not been heavily fortified—only three hundred soldiers were stationed here to patrol and monitor the border. But after this attack, more than half of them lay dead. In the end, a mere one hundred and twenty-five soldiers remained alive. This casualty count, however, came as no surprise to anyone present. After all, they had been pitted against three high-ranking swordsmen—even though only one had actually engaged them in combat, such a foe was far beyond the ability of three hundred ordinary soldiers to handle. If anything, the death toll was surprisingly low. If Blake had not been in such a hurry to leave, there would undoubtedly be no survivors left at this outpost at all.
Just as the outpost commander finished compiling the casualty report and was about to begin organizing repairs, a deep, resonant horn blast echoed through the air—followed by the unfurling of a jet-black triangular flag emblazoned with a serpent coiled around a scepter.
At the sight of that flag, the commander's face paled dramatically. He took a deep, steadying breath, then marched solemnly to the camp gates to greet the approaching army, his posture rigid with formality. By then, the vanguard of the host had already arrived at the outpost's front entrance.
"What happened here?"
Sydri still wore her bizarre, otherworldly attire. She tilted her head down to glare at the officer before her, paying no heed to the smoldering ruins of the camp and walls just a short distance away. Her voice was cold and devoid of emotion. In response, the commander straightened his back, his face etched with a mixture of solemnity and nervousness, and quickly relayed a detailed account of the attack: the outpost had come under sudden assault by three high-ranking swordsmen, who had annihilated more than half of the garrison before vanishing without a trace. As for the attackers' identities, they had nothing to report. Blake and his companions had come and gone like the wind, never once revealing any clues to their origins or affiliations.
"That is everything that transpired, My Lady Legion Commander," the officer concluded, his voice trembling slightly as he finished his report. Having laid out the full extent of the disaster, his previously jittery nerves finally began to settle. He let out a quiet sigh of relief, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. The fearsome reputation of this particular knight was well-known throughout the ranks, after all. Among the Empire's Four Pillars, Princess Lindilot was widely beloved for her kindness and fairness to her soldiers, with Nahias a close second. Sydri and Karan, however, were notorious figures feared by their subordinates. Especially this eccentric young lady—those who served under her were all too aware that she was quick to anger and even quicker to execute, often for the most trivial of reasons. Yet despite this, the soldiers endured her volatile temper without complaint. After all, it was thanks to the might of these two Natural Knights that their legions had never lost a battle. When compared to the near-certainty of death on the battlefield, the risk of being executed by their commander for some minor infraction seemed almost negligible by comparison.
"Clean up the camp," Sydri ordered, her expression remaining impassive as she listened to the commander's report. She frowned slightly, then nudged her horse's flanks with her knees and rode silently past the outpost's ruins, continuing onward without a backward glance. Behind her, the previously stationary army sprang into motion as one. Their faces were calm and expressionless, their movements precise and synchronized to a fault. Even the cavalrymen riding in the vanguard maintained perfect formation, their horses' hooves striking the ground in unison, never a single step out of line. It was as if the entire procession were a well-rehearsed drill performed hundreds of times over—flawless and exact in every detail.
Faced with this imposing display of discipline, the outpost commander could do nothing but lower his head, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, daring not even to breathe too loudly until the entire host had passed by the ruins of his camp. Only then did he raise his head, trembling as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop the sweat from his forehead.
"Monster," he whispered under his breath.
For a general, the mark of true greatness lies in the ability to grasp the full scope of a situation at a glance and respond with decisive action—no matter the time, place, or circumstances.
General Surt had always believed this with all his heart, and had always strived to live up to this ideal.
But now, he was forced to confront a harsh and unwelcome truth: events had spiraled completely beyond his control.
In truth, when the first outpost had come under attack, General Surt had had no intention of fleeing immediately. He was well aware that slipping away amid the chaos would only put them in a more precarious position. The Sith soldiers were no fools—they would not have come so close to conquering Orlt if they were. Once the attack was discovered, they would undoubtedly launch a massive manhunt for his caravan, and his small band of fugitives stood no chance against the full might of the Sith military.
Yet staying behind was equally unwise. Though General Surt had no idea who the attackers were, he recognized those two beams of light that had blasted apart the outpost gates instantly—soul blades, without a doubt. Which meant two high-ranking swordsmen had launched an assault on a Sith Imperial outpost!
Surt himself was a high-ranking swordsman, albeit one who had long since plateaued at the lower echelons of that rank, never able to advance further. Even so, he knew all too well the devastating combat power wielded by warriors of this caliber. If there had been only one attacker, he might have stood a chance of intercepting them. But two high-ranking swordsmen? Any thought of opposing them was pure folly, best abandoned immediately.
As for remaining at the outpost, that was even more out of the question. After suffering such a brutal attack, the Sith Empire would undoubtedly dispatch heavy reinforcements to conduct a thorough search of the area. They would never be able to hide from such a manhunt. Thus, General Surt felt as if he had been given a sharp whip to the back—leaving him with no choice but to gallop forward as fast as his horses could carry him. Even so, he clung desperately to the hope that he could somehow regain control of the situation, to steer events back onto their intended course.
But now, as he stared at the scene before him, a bitter taste filled his mouth, leaving him utterly speechless.
Ahead of them lay the second outpost. From the elaborate defenses that had clearly been erected here, it was obvious that the garrison had been placed on high alert following the attack on the first outpost. But now, nothing remained of it except curling plumes of smoke rising from smoldering embers and the lifeless bodies of the fallen. The fully armed Sith Imperial soldiers lay scattered across the ground, their eyes wide open in a final expression of rage and unwillingness. Their blood still trickled slowly from gaping wounds, and the charred earth beneath their corpses still retained the searing heat of recent battle.
General Surt could tell at a glance that this outpost had been attacked and completely annihilated only shortly before their arrival.
"Your Excellency?"
The soldiers behind him were equally stunned, their faces pale as they stared at the battlefield-turned-graveyard before them. They turned to their general, their voices trembling with unease, awaiting his orders.
"Continue… forward!" General Surt ground out between clenched teeth, casting a glance back at the carriage carrying the royal heirs before issuing his command. He had no other choice left. The attackers had clearly laid a carefully calculated trap for them. If the first outpost attack could have been dismissed as a coincidence, this second assault left no room for doubt—they were being herded like sheep. The attackers' goal was obvious: to clear a path for them through the border outposts.
But who exactly were they?
General Surt wracked his brain, but he could not begin to fathom the identity of their mysterious benefactors. As Orlt's highest-ranking military commander, he was, of course, well aware of the secret pact between Orlt and Wester. It was precisely because of this agreement that he was here now—hoping that Wester would honor their pledge to provide asylum to the royal heirs. But Surt also knew that, given Wester's current military strength, they should be focusing all their efforts on their own defenses, not launching raids deep within Sith-occupied territory. In fact, prior to their departure from the capital, they had received a secret message from Wester warning that Sith defenses were far too formidable for them to send aid directly into Orlt's heartland. If the royal party wished to escape, they would have to reach the border on their own—only then would Wester have a chance to extract them to safety.
But now, they had traveled less than halfway to their destination. And if these attackers really were agents of Wester, why had they not revealed themselves openly? What was the point of these shadowy machinations and covert attacks?
Or could they be agents of another nation entirely?
Surt pondered the question endlessly, but no plausible answers presented themselves. In the end, he was left with only one option. If he did not seize this opportunity to press forward through the gap that had been opened for them, they would all die here.
He had no choice but to continue.
The sense of foreboding weighing heavily on his heart grew stronger with every passing moment, but General Surt was powerless to alter their fate.
They had no path left to take but forward.
This time, they abandoned all pretense of being a merchant caravan, discarding their useless cargo and supplies to travel as light and fast as possible. Every man knew that if they lingered for even a moment longer, the Sith Imperial Army would descend upon them like a tidal wave, leaving them with no chance of escape. Though the river valley region ahead was dotted with complex mountain ranges and dense forests that would have offered ideal hiding places, General Surt knew better than to entertain any illusions of waging a guerrilla campaign against the Sith. He was well aware that the Empire already held complete control over these lands. With their meager numbers and dwindling supplies, attempting to evade the Sith in the wilderness would lead to only two possible outcomes: either they would be hunted down and forced to surrender after exhausting their food and ammunition, or they would be utterly destroyed by the Empire's overwhelming numerical superiority.
There was no third option. Thus, their only hope now was to ride as fast as possible, to outrun the Sith pursuit and break through the final blockade before the enemy could mobilize to encircle them.
A slim hope, to say the least. And what General Surt did not know was that their every move was being watched closely from the shadows.
"It seems they are not as foolish as they might appear," Blake murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips as he withdrew his gaze from the fleeing caravan below.
"That man has the makings of a true general—he recognizes opportunity when it presents itself and dares to seize it without hesitation. I would wager my sword that he holds a position of great authority within the Orltan military."
"But it was you who backed him into this corner, Brother," Misaya replied with a chuckle, gently stroking the unicorn beside her as she pouted playfully.
"If he ever finds out the truth, he'll hate you with every fiber of his being, Father," Semia added, riding alongside them on her nightmare mount. She tilted her head, her eyes fixed on the distant caravan below.
"They will never have the chance to find out," Blake said, waving a dismissive hand. He knew exactly what the Sith forces were doing—and it was thanks to the efforts of the two sisters that they had not already been captured or killed. Only moments ago, Misaya and Semia had launched a diversionary attack on Sydri's advancing army, delaying their pursuit long enough to allow the Orltan fugitives to reach the second outpost alive. Without their intervention, the royal party would have been cut down by Sith reinforcements long before they ever reached this point. As for Blake himself, he had been busy "clearing the vermin" from the surrounding area—with the speed and power of his mount, his range of operations had expanded dramatically. He had even dared to launch a brazen attack on a Sith garrison deep within their defensive perimeter, deliberately drawing their attention before slipping away unscathed. For days now, the three of them had been coordinating their attacks like this—striking hard and fast, then vanishing into the shadows before the Sith could mount an effective counteroffensive.
What surprised Blake most, however, was Sydri's unexpectedly passive response to their raids. Though he had ordered the sisters not to engage the Puppet Mistress directly, only to harass her army from the rear and slow their advance, he had expected her to react with far greater urgency and aggression. Any normal military commander would have been furious at having their supply lines and rear guard attacked repeatedly and would have immediately diverted forces to hunt down the perpetrators. But this young lady had done nothing of the sort. Throughout the entire pursuit, she had maintained a steady, unhurried pace, as if she were on a leisurely outing rather than a mission to recapture the fugitive royal heirs of a conquered nation. At most, she would pause briefly to reorganize her troops after the sisters' attacks, then continue her advance without ever deviating from her original course.
What was she thinking?
Blake frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. He refused to believe that one of the Sith Empire's Four Pillars, the infamous Puppet Mistress, was a fool lacking in strategic acumen or situational awareness. According to intelligence reports from Charlotte, this young woman had once led a force of thirty thousand soldiers in successfully repelling a direct assault by the Night City's legendary magical artillery batteries. Though the exact details of that battle remained unclear, the mere fact that she had achieved such a feat was proof enough that she was a formidable opponent—far more dangerous than she appeared.
But what was her endgame here? What purpose did this deliberate inaction serve?
Could it be that…
Blake's eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled their earlier encounter in the capital. A faint glimmer of understanding flickered in his mind, as if he had just pieced together a puzzle he had long overlooked.
This young lady had a very short temper.
During their brief, tense meeting that day—the legendary encounter with one of the Empire's Four Scourges—Blake had sensed the unmistakable aura of killing intent emanating from her no fewer than eighteen times. In the span of little more than an hour, his casual remarks and veiled provocations had pushed her to the brink of violence again and again, and each time, she had barely managed to restrain her urge to kill him where he stood.
Blake refused to attribute this restraint to good manners or discipline. If Sydri truly possessed such qualities, she would not have been so quick to fly into a rage in the first place. Those eighteen near-murders were clear evidence of her true nature—a cold-blooded killer who thrived on violence and combat. Only someone who spent their life surrounded by bloodshed and death would react with such instinctive brutality at the slightest provocation. After all, it takes far more effort to make a naturally peaceful person fly into a murderous rage than it does to restrain a born killer from acting on their impulses.
A skilled killer… and a cunning strategist, to boot?
Blake thought he finally understood.
For the moment, however, he set these musings aside, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as he leaned forward in his saddle.
"Continue the pursuit."
"Yes, Brother."
"Yes, Father."
With that, the three figures vanished into the forest once more, their forms blending seamlessly into the shadows as they continued to shadow the fleeing Orltan caravan, their plan unfolding step by step.