Chapter 36: Turning the Tide! Cutting Through the Enemy Lines!

Dust swirled in the air.

The cavalry slowly gathered speed, then surged into a full gallop upon entering the battlefield. Duncan drew his Oathkeeper, raised the small shield strapped to his horse, and led a detachment of cavalry around the enemy's left flank, charging directly toward the hundreds of Saxon hunters ahead.

"It’s Lord Duncan!"
"Reinforcements have arrived!"

A cheer erupted from the wooden walls of Exeter. The wavering morale of the defenders stabilized instantly; the mere presence of one man gave the demoralized soldiers the courage to continue the fight.

"Support Lord Duncan!" a traditional Celtic warrior bellowed. "British Legion, follow me!"

That roar actually prompted the surrounding British Legion to begin re-forming their lines.

Charge!

By now, Duncan had driven straight into the heart of the fray. His sixteen riders formed a simple wedge, slamming into the unsuspecting Saxon archers. It was only when the riders were upon them that the Saxon pirates realized their peril, and the enemy commander scrambled to lead a unit of chieftain’s guards to intervene.

But it was already too late.

*Splutch!*
Blood sprayed.
A head flew into the air!

The Oathkeeper traced a cold, icy arc. With a casual swing, Duncan’s longsword sheared through the neck of an elite Saxon forest hunter as if it were tofu, splattering the surrounding enemies with blood. The archer unit was poorly equipped; many lacked even leather armor, carrying only short swords for defense.

Slash! Stab!

The simplest of moves, each strike resulting in severed limbs. Duncan led the way, carving a path through the formation alone. The sixteen riders behind him widened the gap: Cuchulainn cut down a Saxon hunter who appeared to be a squad leader; Clegane charged with his lance, skewering an enemy before instantly drawing his blade to hack left and right.

In an instant, the sixteen riders tore through the entire unit of Saxon hunters. With heads rolling and bodies littering the ground, the archer force fell into absolute chaos.

The first wave of a cavalry charge—to be touched was to die.

—Saxon Forest Hunters (Morale Shaken) (Facing a Formidable Foe) (Terrified) (Heavy Casualties)!

Duncan cut down five or six men in succession, moving through the lines as if they were empty air. Behind him, the sixteen riders were equally lethal—Cuchulainn slew three, Clegane two, and the others claimed their share. Together, they had cut down over twenty men in one strike, shattering the hunters' morale and sending many into a panicked rout.

When cavalry reaches archers, it is a slaughter.

Duncan didn't even need to lead his men back for a second pass; the Saxon hunters had already turned to flee. He had single-handedly broken through three defensive lines, turning the three hundred hunters into a chaotic mess and chasing them across the hillside. The disorder began to spread across the entire battlefield, causing the forward troops to glance back in anxiety.

By the time they had completely punched through the enemy formation, only thirteen of the sixteen riders remained behind Duncan.

Cuchulainn had taken an arrow in his left arm, but he didn't even frown, simply snapping the shaft off. Wearing scale armor, the wound was of no consequence. Clegane’s Sarmatian riders had stayed the closest and remained largely unscathed, though they had discarded their lances to draw their sabers and longswords.

Three riders lost in one fierce charge. Duncan’s heart bled, but he did not look back. He led the survivors around the side to enter through the West Gate. Because of his assault, the British Legion had been granted a reprieve; their morale had recovered significantly, the area near the fallen gate had been reclaimed, and some were already organizing a counter-offensive to support his group.

The success of a general is built upon a mountain of bones.

Ignoring the three fallen men, Duncan held the rear alone. He drew the Bow of Norden and nocked an arrow. The shaft whistled through the air, and a heavy-armored chieftain’s guard approaching from afar dropped from his horse instantly. The arrow pierced his chest, nearly punching through the armor entirely!

The sight stunned the enemy.

The power of the Bow of Norden far exceeded that of the Northland war bows he had used before. Duncan wasn't entirely sure of the draw weight, but he estimated it to be around three hundred pounds, given that drawing it to full capacity noticeably drained his stamina. This time, he had come prepared with a quiver of armor-piercing arrows.

—Parthian Shot!

Just as the enemy hesitated, wondering whether to continue the pursuit, Duncan had already nocked another arrow. The bow bent like a full moon, and the shaft pierced the air, shattering the skull of an elite chieftain’s guard. The armor-piercing tip nearly punched through the man's helmet.

The enemy fell into a panic, losing all courage to pursue!

Duncan trotted forward a few dozen paces and loosed an arrow in a forty-five-degree arc, aiming at the enemy commander from a distance. He dared not get too close, for the enemy still possessed hundreds of bowmen.

*Hum!*
The bowstring vibrated.

This arrow shot the barbarian commander's horse dead, startling the surrounding chieftain’s guards into frantically escorting him to the rear.

The siege of Exeter came to an abrupt halt!

Amidst the cheers of the British Legion, the main force of the Saxon pirates began to withdraw, seemingly realizing that the town could not be taken for the time being. The chieftain’s guard had already retreated. Once the barbarian commander pulled back, the morale of the troops besieging the front wavered, and they soon followed suit.

Duncan, alone on his horse, circled the battlefield before sauntering brazenly through the main gate—the very gate the Saxon pirates had been besieging—and into Exeter.

No one dared to block him. No one dared to stop him.

A single man, leading a charge of sixteen, had frightened off nearly two thousand Saxon pirates. If his cavalry had been more elite or more numerous, he would have dared to take the enemy commander’s head from the midst of his army.

Exeter erupted into earth-shattering cheers.

Upon entering the town, Duncan’s first act was to don the lord’s armor he had stripped from the Duke of Tintagel, then rally the Duke’s personal guards to form a unit of thirty elite cavalry.

Because, in his "God’s Eye" view, he had already seen another massive Saxon army on its way.

—Horsa [Leader] [Chieftain] [Odin’s Gaze] [Legendary] (Two-Star Gold)!

***

Horsa was furious.

He was a Jute, one of the Germanic branches, hailing from the lands around Denmark. The Jutes were the first Germanic barbarians to migrate and invade Britain, later joined by the Saxons and Angles to form the force that occupied the southern part of the island.

He should have easily inherited the throne from his brother, Hengist, but the interference of the Anglo-Saxons had forced Horsa to divide the land with his nephew. These meddlers had clearly intended to split the Jutes, leaving Horsa with no options but to grit his teeth in frustration. Historically, after the Jutes declined, the Saxons led a campaign of ethnic cleansing, of which the Jutes were also victims.

"Completely annihilate the Duke of Tintagel, and with the weight of this great victory, force them to bow!"

Horsa did not want a civil war. In the current Britain, the Celts still held the demographic advantage; if a full-scale barbarian civil war broke out, the work he and his brother had spent years building would be destroyed. The Saxons were systematically carrying out the first stage of ethnic cleansing in Britain—essentially ensuring that British women bore their offspring, so that, over time, the indigenous people would become history. The process was much like the American destruction of the Native Americans. In these decades of invasion, while other areas might still have many British natives, the region around Kent had almost completely completed the cleansing and assimilation.

"Enfes has been defeated?"

Horsa, traveling surrounded by his chieftain’s guards, paled, his expression twisted with rage. "Useless!"
"Did he not guarantee me that he could take Exeter?"

Enfes had started as a Saxon pirate. The early barbarians who invaded Britain were all roving raiders, but once they had men, money, and territory, they gradually evolved into aristocratic warlords. Furthermore, the fief of Southampton that the Duke of Tintagel had promised to Duncan was actually Enfes’s territory. He also controlled the Isle of Wight.

A barbarian commander nearby sneered mockingly, "Perhaps Enfes wasted too much energy on virgins. He no longer has the strength to lift a weapon in battle?"

The barbarian messenger turned red with anger, gritting his teeth. "Duncan, the one rumored to have shot down the King, has appeared. He led a dozen riders to break our archers. It caused a massive panic. Lord Enfes led the chieftain’s guard in pursuit, but he was shot down twice by him, and his warhorse was killed."

A deathly silence fell.

Those around exchanged glances, then looked toward Horsa. Duncan’s reputation had grown too vast during this time. Killing a founding monarch was already a massive event, and Duncan had the hidden hand of Avalon pushing his legend forward. Even if Celtic mythology was in decline, they still held influence on the island; Druid priests held sway over indigenous tribes, and once the story spread, it resonated across all of Britain.

"DUNCAN!!!"

Horsa’s expression was filled with hatred. Regardless of how he squabbled with his nephew for the throne, his affection for his brother was genuine. The two brothers had invaded Britain together and built the foundations of the Kentish kingdom; they were true brothers who had lived and died together. His brother had been a terrifying powerhouse, a top-tier fighter among the Germanic barbarians, yet he had died so ignobly—shot through the chest by a ballista, lingering for half an hour before finally expiring.

"All forces, accelerate!"
"Surround Exeter immediately!" Horsa ordered decisively.

Exeter was not a fortress of the Cornwall region; the city defenses here were not that sturdy. If he could trap the enemy inside, he might be able to kill that Duncan and avenge his brother. This time, Horsa had assembled three thousand men, and with Enfes’s Saxon pirates, they had a total force of over five thousand.

***

Exeter.

After taking command of the local forces, Duncan immediately ordered the soldiers to tear down houses to repair the wooden walls on all four sides. The Duke of Tintagel had conscripted over two thousand men; after yesterday’s minor defeat, about 1,500 remained. If he could hold out until tomorrow, when Kveto arrived with his troops, he would have over two thousand men—barely enough to fight Horsa’s main army head-on.

In fact, the indigenous people still made up the majority of Britain’s population, but in direct military engagements, the Britons were always the weaker side.

"No ballistae this time. I have to find my own opportunities."

Duncan was inspecting the city defenses. Exeter only had a ring of three-meter-high wooden walls that could not stop a large army, and there were no decent defensive structures, save for a few towers that were barely better than nothing. He promoted Cuchulainn on the spot to commander of the British Legion, ordering him to reorganize the troops and concentrate the main force.

Night fell.

Horsa had surrounded Exeter completely. Unlike their previous engagement, this time Duncan spotted some special units.

—Germanic Screaming Shield-Maidens (One-Star).

Horsa had brought out his true reserves, including female warriors who, while slightly worse in equipment, looked incredibly fierce. The enemy’s numbers were nearly triple his own, and Duncan dared not act rashly.

At dawn, the enemy began to move. Duncan used his God’s Eye view to issue orders, mobilizing troops to defend the wooden walls. Whenever a platoon appeared "Morale Shaken" or "Exhausted," he would immediately order them to fall back and replace them with fresh troops.

Horsa pressed his main force near the East Gate while dispatching another army to sneakily breach the South Gate. Under the God’s Eye view, the enemy’s plan was laid bare. Duncan commanded with a stoic face, and Cuchulainn led a hundred-man British Legion detachment to successfully repel the enemy.

The defense of Exeter was like an iron bucket!

Not a single flaw.

By noon, even Horsa was growing weary. He couldn't help but marvel, "I have never seen a commander so skilled at defense! Our every move is anticipated."

In such a situation, without a surprise maneuver, they could only fight a hard battle. Almost as soon as the Saxon elites made a move, Duncan mobilized his troops to counter it. He even personally directed the Welsh archer units, seizing opportunities to focus fire and inflict significant casualties.

*What the hell!*
*How does he know exactly where our commanders are positioned?*

In the last wave of the offensive, a barbarian warrior had attempted to lead elite pirates in a storming attempt; before they could even reach the top, a volley of arrows covered the commander's coordinates, killing that two-star Saxon warrior on the spot.

Duncan, of course, wasn't always sure who the commander was. But Germanic barbarians valued strength above all else. Any enemy target that surged forward with additional markers or star rankings was treated as a priority target. Saxon elite axemen, Saxon pirate warriors—by sniping them one by one, he was bound to kill some of the enemy commanders.

The Saxon pirate unit under the "Virgin-Taker" Enfes had suffered heavy casualties!

Horsa dared not move his own elites, forcing Enfes to send his elite pirates instead. Pirates and soldiers were essentially two different systems—one was land infantry, the other early naval troops. These waves of frontal assaults had nearly wiped out the Saxon pirates' foundation.

"We cannot keep attacking!"

A Saxon pirate warrior rushed to Enfes, his face twisted. "If we keep taking losses, we won't be able to control the English Channel."

These were navy men! Although early navies had limited use, if the Saxon pirates suffered heavy casualties, they would be unable to blockade the coastline. These pirates played a vital role in the process of invading Britain.

"If we don't take this place, Horsa will cut off our heads," Enfes said, his expression equally fierce.

They were now in a position where they couldn't get off the tiger. If they didn't bleed Enfes’s pirate force dry, Horsa’s main army would never take the field first. The real battles never fell to them; pirates were stepchildren. They were not the core cadre of Hengist and Horsa and were often used for attrition warfare. Because the pirates were originally criminals, robbers, and thieves who had no other way to survive, the two brothers’ true foundation was the "well-born" Germanic warriors. Those "well-born" men had higher morale, better equipment, and were often drawn from the aristocratic warrior class of clan society.

"Bring me my armor!"

"Virgin-Taker" Enfes was tall and lean, not the traditional brawny warrior, but he was incredibly strong. In his youth, he had been a champion fighter in his tribe. It was akin to the Germanic penchant for drinking and fighting—like underground cage fighting; if you beat all the challengers in the tribe, you were the champion. In his early years, his nickname had been "Fighter of Fighters—Enfes," but after his penchant for virgins became known, it changed to "Virgin-Taker—Enfes."

Ever since his nickname changed, Enfes’s life had gone downhill. Some Saxon pirates didn't even want to join him!

*What the hell?*
*Fighter of Fighters—that sounds like a badass nickname. Following him is a sure bet!*
*Virgin-Taker?*
*Is this guy a softie? Real Germanic warriors love mature women! Only conquering a hungry matron makes a real man!*

There are only wrong names, not wrong nicknames. Ever since Enfes’s name changed, many fierce pirates had defected to others. If someone asked who your boss was and you dropped Enfes’s nickname, you’d have no face left!

A squad of elite pirate warriors began to assemble. Enfes donned his armor, put on an iron pot helmet, and took up a large shield, preparing to attack the wooden wall from the southeast. The defense there was weaker, manned by militia and auxiliary legions; if they could storm it, the elite pirate warriors could quickly open a gap.

—Virgin-Taker-Enfes (Two-Star Silver-Gray) (Champion Fighter) (Pirate Leader)!

They were coming.

Duncan sensed the enemy’s elite troops moving. He thought for a moment and decided to let them reach the wall first. Because they were well-equipped, wearing heavy armor and carrying large shields, Duncan wasn't confident in a one-shot kill. He would let them get close and then hit them with heavy javelins.

Duncan moved. He picked up a heavy javelin and approached the enemy’s direction. As he sprinted, his God’s Eye view locked onto his target.

"They’re storming up!"
"Charge with me!"

Enfes killed a British militiaman with an axe and immediately tore open a gap with his men.

But at that moment, a javelin streaked through the air. *Splutch!* It plunged into his body, the immense impact knocking him off the wooden wall on the spot.

*Thud!*

Enfes landed. His vision blurred, and he couldn't speak. A four-foot-long javelin was embedded in his chest; as he fell, it had nearly pierced his entire torso.

One strike, one kill!

The surrounding elite pirate warriors broke instantly. Duncan’s Francisca throwing axe whistled through the air, splitting an enemy’s skull.

The honor of being the first to breach is not easily won!

With Enfes dead, the enemy pirate force fell into immediate chaos. It was then that Horsa finally moved. He quickly dispatched Saxon aristocratic cavalry to rally the nearby remnants, swallowing Enfes’s entire foundation in one go.

They had been bled enough. The previous waves of attacks had all been Enfes’s pirates; only now did his elite heavy infantry begin to press forward.

At the same time, at the edge of the strategic map, an army marked in green gradually approached the battlefield.

—Exile Private Legion (High Morale) (Slightly Fatigued).
—British Coastal Militia (High Morale) (Long March).
—Celtic Gaulish Warriors (High Morale) (Restless) (Likely to charge without orders).

The reinforcements were mostly fatigued. But there was an exception: the traditional Gaulish warriors, who possessed better physical condition and higher military discipline. They were not only untired but also restless, with a conspicuous tag on their unit marker: "Likely to charge without orders."

Fortunately, their numbers were small, or they might have charged directly.

Kveto led this six-hundred-man legion around the right flank and into the battlefield, then ambushed them in a nearby forest, seemingly waiting for the right moment to strike.

This was a fresh force! If they could strike the enemy’s rear at a critical moment and form a pincer attack, it was entirely possible to crush the enemy army head-on.

On the actual battlefield, without Duncan’s God’s Eye view, one would not know how many enemies there were. If a strong assault caused chaos, the enemy would only think they were surrounded.

"Rally the cavalry!"

Duncan ordered decisively. He gathered the units that were not marked as "Morale Shaken," "Exhausted," or "Out of Breath." This main force concentrated near the crumbling gate, led by the Gaulish Oath-Warrior, Cuchulainn, to hold off Horsa’s Saxon bodyguard unit.

"Clegane!"
"Once the cavalry leaves the city, you head immediately to the forest on the southwest and tell Kveto to prepare to attack."
"As soon as the cavalry moves, they are to enter the battlefield!"

Duncan personally led over thirty elite riders and opened the gate on the other side. The cavalry surged forward, appearing on the flank of the battlefield and racing straight toward the enemy’s chieftain’s guard.

This wave had to be a total victory!

He could not afford to lose his core foundation here. Once the battlefield descended into chaotic slaughter, he intended to lead this elite cavalry to behead the commander and seize the banner—taking the enemy’s head from the midst of ten thousand men!

With the Bow of Norden in his hand, he was now possessed by the spirit of Huang Zhong. As long as he was given the slightest chance, he would strike down Horsa!