Müller raced across the meadow, leaving the hill in the distance. He rode atop a black, three-eyed beast—a nyxstrider. The creature had four powerful, scaled legs. Its head was sharp and angular, with a long mane cascading down the sides.

  Like its mane, the creature’s long, bushy tail streamed behind it in the wind. Four jagged horns protruded from its skull—two curling from the sides like twisted handles and two smaller ones rising at the center between its three glowing eyes.

  Müller closed his eyes. When he opened them again, their deep blue had turned to a brilliant gold. His gaze lost focus, drifting into the distance.

  Lend me your eyes, Tentsui.

  Back in his tent, the bird stirred. Tentsui ruffled its feathers and lifted off the fur rug, its golden eyes turning northward. It cocked its head, eyes irrupting slightly brighter. Then, with a mighty cry, it spread its wings and burst through the tent roof, disappearing into the sky.

  It left the camp behind, streaking toward the battlefield.

  He glanced up from his steed, his golden eyes catching the flash of wings as Tentsui passed overhead.

  Müller’s vision blurred as his mind adjusted to the bird’s broader field of view.

  After reconciliation, he beheld the meadow from a lofty vantage point high above. His perspective shifted swiftly, and an endless wall of peaks emerged. The range stretched in both directions, cleaved by a narrow gap. Sheer stone walls rose steep and unforgiving, unclimbable even for the most skilled. Yet just beside the gap to the left lay a steep and straining path that wound upward to a plateau.

  As the bird neared the forward camp, Müller spotted scattered remnants of the battalion. Soldiers sat or paced aimlessly, their wide eyes vacant with shock.

  The closer Tentsui flew to the battlefield, the more soldiers he saw. Finally, just before the fallen range, the bird passed over a large gathering of survivors. The soldiers were some distance from the bluff, weapons in hand, yet none dared to advance.

  In the space between them and the bluff, scores of bodies lay still, riddled with arrows.

  A wide trench encircled the foot of the range, so deep that even two men standing atop each other couldn’t reach the top. It was broad enough that neither man nor beast could hope to leap across. Beyond the trench, several squads of soldiers and archers stood guard, laughing and jeering at the stranded survivors.

  Reaching the crest of the right side of the range, the abandoned camp stretched into view. Hundreds of tents dotted the plateau, some collapsed, others intact, yet their orderly rows were now broken.

  Soldiers rushed from tent to tent, snatching anything of value, leaving the camp in chaos.

  Officers chased after the gleeful looters, voices hoarse with shouted orders as they struggled to regain control.

  Madness and greed reigned—it was pandemonium.

  Having witnessed such scenes on countless battlefields, Müller shifted his gaze to the archers lining the cliff’s edge. Bows at the ready and eyes fixed on the battle below, the soldiers waited. Occasionally, they cast quick, anxious glances at their commanders, awaiting the order to lose.

  Tentsui soared northward, passing over the crest and gliding above the battlefield.

  Müller’s eyes narrowed. The three regiments had weaved into one, locked in desperate combat against the enemy, straining to hold their ground.

  Clusters of soldiers formed around three distinct figures.

  Tentsui’s vision sharpened, honing in on them.

  Benedict’s Squires, Müller thought. The trio stood apart from the chaos, not mere soldiers but fully armored commanders, their voices carrying over the conflict-strewn meadow as they rallied their men.

  He counted at least four fallen squads strewn along the retreat path, their bodies riddled with arrows. Unfortunate, Müller mused. They hadn't realized the camp had been overrun.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain speared through Müller’s head. His focus wavered, and the battlefield vanished from view. When his vision cleared, he once more saw through his own eyes.

  Grimacing, Müller pinched his brow and leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes burning behind closed lids. The pain dulled, and when he finally reopened them, they had returned to their usual deep blue.

  Müller sighed and snapped the reins, spurring his steed forward. He tried to reconnect his vision with Tentsui, but the sharp throb in his head warned him it was futile.

  Instead, he reached out through their link and issued a command. Keep watch over the battle and alert me to any changes.

  He pushed the connection to the back of his mind, focusing his full attention ahead. By now, he was passing the first scattered remnants of the force, but he didn’t slow—he pressed on.

  As he rode past, more eyes turned toward him, recognition dawning. He was the first to come from the main camp, and soldiers began following in his wake one by one.

  The commotion trailing behind him had long since alerted the group at the front. They quickly cleared a path for him to ride through.

  Müller's nyxstrider reared as he pulled back the reins. Once it settled, he swiftly dismounted, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered soldiers. "Who is the officer in command?"

  Uncertain glances flickered between them, confusion evident in their eyes.

  Then, the crowd parted. A single figure strode forward—a brown-haired, stern-faced woman. Five musclebound men flanked her, their resemblance to her apparent and unmistakable.

  They halted in front of Müller, their expressions stoney and defiant. The woman folded her arms, locking eyes with him. "Those officers you’re asking about? They were the first ones targeted. The first ones killed."

  "Really?" Müller lifted an eyebrow. "And who are you?"

  "You can call me Hymn. Hymn of Cliffend," she answered, stepping closer. "Think of me as the unofficial, temporary leader. Now, your turn—who are you?"

  Her gaze flicked to his steed before returning to him, scanning him from head to foot. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Her lips pressed together. "You don't look like you're from around here."

  "Müller of Blackwood," he replied, his hand resting lightly on his sword’s hilt. "Knight Benedict and Fitzgerald hired me as a mercenary."

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  "Blackwood?" Hymn echoed, brow furrowing. "Never heard of it."

  Müller glanced past her, noting her companions' tense grip on their weapons. "Not surprising. It’s far to the west."

  "Hmm," she murmured, studying him. "Do you have anything to prove your identity? A letter of engagement? Something that proves you're not a spy?"

  Without a word, Müller reached into the satchel strapped to his nyxstrider and pulled out a pouch of coin—Knight Fitzgerald’s payment. He raised it, turning it so the emblem imprinted on the leather caught the light.

  "Is this proof enough?"

  Hymn’s sharp eyes locked onto the pouch. After a beat, she gave a slow nod. "Any instructions for us from their sirs, Müller?" she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm.

  Müller ignored the jab. "The two Knights are assembling the reserve army before heading here."

  "Of course," Hymn snapped, throwing up her hands. She turned to the gathered soldiers, her voice rising. "As always, the Knights don’t value us common folk! They could hand command to someone else and come themselves, but no."

  She swung back toward Müller, her eyes blazing. "Let me guess, they want us to storm the hill?"

  Müller raised a hand to his mouth, hiding his smirk. "Something like that. They sent me ahead to distract the enemy and give the three regiments a chance to escape. Bit much for one man, so I’d appreciate help."

  "See?" Hymn’s voice rang out, carrying over the crowd. "They don’t regard our lives! We’re a damn diversion—cannon fodder at best. And if not for those three Squires, I’d bet they’d retreat, letting the thousands beyond the range die while calling it an unavoidable sacrifice."

  Murmurs rippled through the soldiers, some shifting uneasily, others nodding in agreement.

  "Be that as it may, I still have my orders. And besides," Müller’s gaze locked onto hers, as if seeing straight through her, "no matter how you feel about the Knights, I don’t think you have it in you to abandon your fellow soldiers."

  Hymn held his stare for a long moment before looking away. "I still refuse to throw my life away." Her eyes drifted to the right, settling on the archers and soldiers waiting just past the trench. "Even if we make it across the trench alive, closing the gap without shields would be suicide. We’d be cut down before we got anywhere close."

  Müller followed her gaze. "True," he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

  He fell silent, thinking. Then, suddenly, his hand stilled, and he turned back to her. "What if I take care of the archers?"

  Hymn’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, was I not clear? What if I kill them?"

  "Kill them?" Hymn echoed, raising an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to cross over to them?"

  Müller dismissed her with a wave. "That's not your concern. What I want to know is if you'll join me in the assault."

  Hymn threw her head back and laughed sharply, the sound echoing around the group. "Fine. If you somehow manage it, we'll all join you. Some of us have family over there anyway; if we can save them, why wouldn't we?"

  Müller nodded in satisfaction. "I have your word."

  "Oh, and if you clear the area, don’t forget to replace the planks we used to cross. Otherwise, we won’t be able to reach you," she called after him.

  Müller nodded in acknowledgment before turning and mounting his steed in one swift, practiced motion.

  Snickers, laughs, and pitying looks rippled through the crowd as they watched him ride forward, toward the bluff.

  Müller scanned the soldiers, his gaze briefly settling on a slight and awed-faced youth before locking onto a heavyset man beside him. Steering his steed closer, he extended a hand. "Can I borrow that shield?"

  The man gripped a large wooden shield, nearly as tall as he was. He hesitated, glancing down at it. "I don't know… this is one of the few shields that made it off the hill. I can’t fight, so for my safety, I’m not sure I should give it up."

  "Come on, I’ll pay you for it," Müller coaxed. His eyes flitted over the shield, noting its worn edges and weakened spots. "Besides, it’s already badly damaged. It won’t hold up against many more arrows, let alone a spear or sword."

  The man hesitated, conflict flickering in his eyes—prioritize his safety or collect the coin.

  "Give it to him. He’ll need all the protection he can get."

  Müller turned at the voice. Hymn stood nearby, arms folded, her sharp gaze pinning the man in place.

  With a heavy swallow, the man sighed and handed over the shield.

  Müller nodded in thanks, turning the nyxstrider. "Meet me after the battle. I’ll compensate you then." His gaze flicked to Hymn. "Appreciate the help."

  Hymn scoffed, already striding away. "It’s not for your sake. I don’t want you dying without a fight and leaving me with a guilty conscience."

  Müller smirked as he flicked the reins, urging the creature into a brisk trot.

  It’s not like I couldn’t clear the whole camp myself, he mused, his gaze distant. But as Benedict said, I can’t make a scene. I need to keep this within the realm of mortal ability.

  He adjusted the shield as he rode, raising it to cover himself and as much of his mount as possible.

  THUNK!

  A sudden impact against the shield jolted his arm. He didn’t slow, but a glance back revealed an arrow lying on the ground.

  The first of many.

  Moments later, a barrage of arrows rained down, battering the already-worn shield, splintering its edges, and chipping away at its fragile frame.

  Müller snapped the reins, leaning low as he spurred the nyxstrider forward. The creature surged ahead, closing the distance to the trench—but the shield was breaking apart just as fast, leaving him more exposed with every passing moment.

  The enemy soldiers’ cries rang out, their voices edged with alarm.

  "He's not stopping!"

  "Keep firing! The shield won't hold much longer!"

  "Damn it, I'm out of arrows!"

  "Tsk. Draw your weapons—we’ll cut him down when he falls into the trench!"

  "What if he clears it?"

  "Are you daft? No beast can cross that distance in one leap."

  Seizing the moment, Müller leaned over the nyxstrider's side, snatching up a fallen soldier’s spear. He spun it in his grip until the tip faced forward, his gaze sharp and locked ahead.

  Then, just before the jump, he wrenched back the shield and hurled it forward with all his might.

  Before the waiting soldiers could react, the shield hurtled over the trench, slamming into the forward line. It shattered on impact, sending splinters flying and toppling them in a cascade of bodies.

  Müller leaned forward slightly, his leg tightening against his mount.

  Then, he was airborne. He used every trick he knew to increase the distance, raising his body and bending his knees as they flew over the trench. With a precise motion, he pulled back the spear, took careful aim, and, with a roar, catapulted it forward.

  The spear whistled through the air, soaring over the stunned soldiers' heads before drilling into the one commanding them at the back.

  He collapsed, eyes wide with shock, lifeless on the ground.

  In an instant, Müller was across. He shifted his weight back and jerked at the reins, guiding the nyxstrider to a halt.

  The enemy soldiers froze, their eyes wide with fear, too terrified to make a move.

  Not letting the opportunity slip away, Müller abruptly drew his sword. With a horizontal slash, he decapitated the nearest soldier, the man's head thumping to the ground, eyes still wide in disbelief.

  The grisly sight was enough to snap the soldiers from their panic. With a collective roar, they surged forward, eyes blazing red with rage.

  Müller just smiled. He leaped off his steed, deftly parrying a sword thrust at his chest before responding with an upward cut.

  He spun, avoiding a spear thrust, then ducked beneath the wide swing of an axe.

  Without their leader, the soldiers' movements became disjointed, their strikes wild and easy to avoid.

  In moments, the majority of them lay dead—bodies split open, slashes running deep, tendons severed, leaving them useless on the ground.

  Hymn and the remnants of the Second Battalion stood in stunned silence, watching as Müller cleared the trench and slaughtered the enemy.

  “Damn,” Hymn whispered, eyes wide. “He did it.”

  The surviving soldiers stared at Müller, their hands trembling, weapons slipping from their grasp. Then, one turned and bolted up the slope, screaming for help.

  That was all it took. The rest broke into a panicked retreat, scrambling away.

  They didn’t have to go far. The clash had already roused the enemy camp above. From high up on the bluff, scores of reinforcements poured down, their battle cry rolling across the field.

  Müller turned, gaze sweeping past the trench, locking onto the awestruck soldiers. He raised a hand—a clear signal to Hymn.

  A slow smile spread across Hymn’s face. Then, with a sharp pivot, she thrust her sword skyward and bellowed, “ATTACK!”

  The Second Battalion roared as one, their battle cry shaking the earth. With renewed fire in their eyes, they charged forward, storming toward the trench.

  Müller’s gaze flicked to the bluff, gauging the distance between him and the nearest enemy soldier. Deciding he had enough room to work with, he scanned the area until his eyes landed on several nearby planks.

  He grabbed as many as he could carry and carefully laid them across the trench. He repeated the process several times before suddenly ducking—a blade whistled past, missing him by a hair.

  Müller drew his sword and lunged, his strike clean and precise as he impaled the man.

  Glancing back, he saw the first of the Second Battalion crossing. He just needed to hold the line a little longer.

  With a sigh, Müller steadied his stance as the enemy pressed in. I should have asked for twenty.