Luise watched him go.
Albert's black horse shot through the ranks like an arrow, ploughing through Leandrian soldiers who tried to block his path. Two fell before they could even raise their spears. A third was sent flying sideways, his helmet crushed by the horse's knee.
"Damn it!" Luise's fist clenched against her saddle. Around her, the Götthain forces began to waver—men-at-arms turning toward her, waiting for orders, while levies trembled watching their lord vanish into the chaos.
She drew a long breath. The morning air stank of iron and sweat.
"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!" her voice cut through the noise. "Kurt, take the left flank! Men-at-arms to the front! Spears behind!"
The soldiers moved. Not as quickly as if Albert were commanding, but they moved. Kurt began shouting orders on the left flank, his voice hoarse but clear. Men-at-arms formed a shield wall. Levies thrust spears through the gaps.
Luise remained at the center, her eyes unable to tear away from the spot where Albert had disappeared. There, in the heart of the blue sea, the enemy's white horse taunted like a challenge.
"Idiot," she hissed. "Why lose control all of a sudden..."
But she kept commanding. Because that's what Albert had asked. Because she'd promised.
***
Albert didn't hear Luise's shout.
The world narrowed to a tight corridor between bodies that kept coming. The horse beneath him—a Götthain warhorse named Scalin—charged with pure instinct, front legs kicking, massive body pushing forward.
Leandria soldiers ahead still struggled to form ranks. Two spears thrust forward. Albert deflected one with his shield; the other missed as Scalin suddenly veered.
Wurzel danced. The first slash caught a soldier who'd just thrust his spear—blood sprayed, body fell. The second slash split the next man's face—from forehead to chin, like fruit split by a knife.
Three more horse-lengths. Five spears. Albert didn't think; his body moved on its own, as if it knew exactly what needed to be done.
Beyond all this, atop the white horse, the Leandria commander was finally recognizing the danger. He pointed toward Albert, shouting at his guards.
Ten fully armored soldiers detached from the main group, advancing with shields and swords. Their armor was thick—solid plate, not gambeson or brigandine. Layers of steel designed to withstand any slash.
Albert calculated the distance. Five meters. Three...
The first stepped forward, shield raised, sword ready to strike from above. His movements were practiced, confident in his armor. He'd fought dozens of battles; he knew this armor could withstand any blade.
Wurzel came down. Not an ordinary slash. Albert swung from the shoulder, rotating his hips, pouring his entire body weight into a single motion. The sword struck—and for the first time, Albert witnessed firsthand what Götterbaum Black Steel could truly do on a battlefield.
The blade pierced the helmet. Pierced the steel. Pierced the skull. Stopped at the jaw.
The soldier stood for one second—maybe two—with Albert's sword protruding from his head. His eyes were still open, his mouth moving soundlessly.
Then he fell.
Albert pulled Wurzel from the corpse. The blade was clean—blood ran off it, but no scratches. No nicks. As if fresh from Borin's forge.
The surrounding soldiers froze. Nine others, all seasoned veterans, stood paralyzed watching their comrade die from a single slash. Their armor—thick, expensive, the pride of their lives—had just been proven useless.
Albert didn't wait for them to recover from shock.
Scalin surged forward. Wurzel slashed right—the second soldier fell, arm severed at the shoulder, steel armor like wet paper. Slash left—the third collapsed, face destroyed.
Two others tried to run, but Albert pursued. Wurzel struck from behind, splitting backs, piercing spines. They fell without a sound.
The remaining four turned and fled. Not an orderly retreat—they ran. Abandoning their commander behind.
The Leandria commander on his white horse screamed at them, cursed them, threatened them. But they didn't hear. They only wanted distance from that black-bladed demon.
Albert guided Scalin forward. That commander. His target. So close now. Just—
A horse screamed. Not Scalin. Another horse nearby, struck by an arrow, collapsing onto its rider. But the sound reminded Albert of another danger.
He turned left.
Twenty archers, lined up behind the Leandrian infantry formation, were aiming at him.
"Die!"
The first arrow flew. Albert deflected with his shield—one, two, three, but they kept coming. Scalin neighed in pain—an arrow pierced his neck, another his thigh. The horse crumpled, hurling Albert to the ground.
The world spun. His back slammed against hard earth, air forced from his lungs in a single rush. Above him, gray sky and arrows still falling. He rolled, felt one arrow strike the ground exactly where his head had been.
"Get up!" The command came from somewhere deep. Get up or die. No third option.
Albert pushed himself to his feet. His knees ached. His back ached. His lungs burned. But he stood.
Around him, Leandria soldiers began closing in. They'd seen him fall, seen his horse die. They thought this was the end.
Twenty or thirty men. A tight circle, shields raised, spears leveled.
Albert spun Wurzel in his hand. The black blade was wet with blood, but still gleamed in the gray light.
The first advanced. Spear thrust. Albert deflected, stepped sideways, and Wurzel struck from below—severing a leg at the knee. The soldier fell screaming.
The second and third advanced together. Spears from two directions. Albert ducked, let one pass over his head, caught the other with his shield, and in the same motion, thrust forward. Wurzel pierced a stomach, emerging from the back.
He pulled his sword free, spinning. The fourth was already too close—an axe descending. Albert blocked with his shield; wood cracked, his arm went numb. But he could still slash a neck, still find an artery. Blood sprayed across his face, warm.
Five. Six. Seven...
They kept coming. Albert kept killing.
No war cries. No battle shouts. Only sounds—the sound of metal meeting flesh, the sound of breaking bones, the sound of ragged breath from his dry mouth.
And through it all, Albert's own silence. No growling. No cursing. Only focus. Like a War Machine.
Around that circle, slowly, the Leandria soldiers began to stop.
They still stood, still held their weapons, but they no longer advanced. They stared at the scene before them—a pile of corpses, pools of blood, and one figure at the center, standing with black sword, chest heaving, but showing no sign of falling.
"Who is this devil?" The question lived in their eyes. What monster was this that never shouted, never cursed, never showed emotion, just kept killing?
In the distance, Helvetia forces were beginning to realize what was happening. An Eisental officer shouted, pointing toward Albert. "SUPPORT HIM! ADVANCE!"
Some troops began moving, pushing through the crumbling Leandria lines.
But Albert didn't wait for reinforcements. His eyes had already found another target.
The Leandria commander's white horse. Only twenty meters ahead, beyond the terrified soldiers. The commander still sat atop his mount, face pale, mouth open—perhaps shouting, perhaps cursing, perhaps praying.
Albert ran. Not a sprint—his body was too exhausted for that. But a steady run, heavy steps, sword extended forward. Two soldiers tried to block him. Wurzel struck; they fell. Two more retreated.
Five meters. Three meters.
The Leandria commander pulled his reins, trying to turn his horse. But too slow. Albert was already beside him. His left hand grabbed the saddle, pulled, swung his body onto the horse. In the same motion, Wurzel slashed.
The commander screamed—once. Then his body fell from the horse, leaving an empty saddle and a pool of blood in the grass.
Albert sat atop the white horse, drawing deep breaths. Around him, for a moment, the battle stopped. Leandria soldiers stared at him, saw their commander dead, saw their white horse now ridden by a demon with a black blade.
Then Albert pulled the reins.
The white horse turned, then shot forward—straight toward a gap in the crumbling Leandria lines. Soldiers scattered, none daring to block him. They'd just watched thirty men die at the hands of one. They didn't want to be the thirty-first.
Albert raced past them, leaving the circle of corpses behind, heading toward the Helvetian defensive lines that were beginning to advance.
***
Luise saw him coming from a distance.
A figure atop a white horse, racing between fleeing soldiers. Uniform tattered, drenched in blood from head to foot. But his posture—back straight, shoulders relaxed, black sword in hand—was unmistakable.
"MY LORD!" her voice cracked with relief.
Albert approached, stopping the horse beside her. His face—if it could still be called a face—was a red mask. Blood dried on his skin, in his hair, on his eyelashes. His eyes... his eyes were empty. But he was still there. Still alive.
"Luise." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "The forces?"
"Intact, My Lord. Seventy soldiers still combat-ready."
Albert nodded. He turned toward the battlefield ahead. Leandria forces were beginning to retreat—disorganized, chaotic. The death of their commander on this flank was rippling through the entire line. A domino effect.
"We pursue," he said. "Until they're completely routed."
Luise stared at him. She wanted to question him. Wanted to scold him for going alone, for taking such insane risks. But not now. Not here.
She nodded. "As you command."
The Götthain forces advanced, joining the wave of the Helvetian assault. Before them, the enemy continued retreating, leaving behind corpses, equipment, and their dreams of victory.
Albert remained atop the white horse, leading them forward.