Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 968 - 40: The Hunt (End)_3

Chapter 968: Chapter 40: The Hunt (End)_3

“This horse… is the White Lion’s.” Shigu worked as a translator for the house guards.

“What’s it called?”

With pride and loud clarity, Stag answered with a name.

After a moment of thought, Shigu translated: “Longwind!”

“Longwind?” Winters was immensely pleased. “What an excellent name! Perfect for today.”

Having said that, he buckled his face armor and mounted his horse.

The armored warriors of the Red River Tribe seemed to be called to action, each of them mounting their warhorses.

“No need! You stay behind to protect Erhulan and Little Lion.”

“In Herde Language, Batu!” A silver-armored archer spurred his horse forward: “In Herde Language, I volunteer to lead the charge!”

As soon as he finished speaking, eleven more silver-armored archers stepped forward, the very twelve “guards” Stag had previously chosen for Winters.

“Good!” Winters drew the azure great banner standing before the golden tent with his backhand: “To break the army and breach the formation, twelve knights suffice!”

…

The leader of the Hound Warrior Division, Geha, drove his warhorse madly, its flanks already bloody and matted, its chest heaving with white foam.

Geha had left the Red River armored cavalry far behind, the Hound Warrior Division’s curved blades only three bowshots away from the Green Hills…

Two bowshots…

One bowshot.

The White Lion’s magnificent golden tent was now a mere stone’s throw away; Geha felt as if he could reach out and grab it.

“In Herde Language, kill!” Geha couldn’t think of anything to spur on his men; he roared out the only desire in his heart with all his strength: “In Herde Language, kill!”

No one heard Geha’s roar, as it was drowned out by the furious bellowing of twelve heavy cannons.

The next moment, a beast-like roar filled the hunting grounds, and the raging battle even paused for it.

Under the gaze of half the hunting ground, a red-armored knight leaped from the Green Hills.

Merely catching a glimpse of that streak of crimson, the people of Red River Tribe fell into an unprecedented frenzy: “Yasin!”

“Yasin!”

“Yasin!”

The other half of the hunting ground couldn’t witness the miracle through their eyes, but as the sky-shaking cheers erupted, the same frenzy immediately spread—the White Lion was back!

Geha watched dumbfounded as the magnificent white horse leapt high and landed heavily, its hooves pounding the earth as if striking Geha’s own heart.

Geha couldn’t believe his eyes: the red-armored warrior on the white horse was holding the Red River Tribe’s azure great banner.

A banner might have a pointed tip, but Geha had never seen anyone use such a heavy ceremonial object as a weapon.

There could be no mistake—it had to be the White Lion.

“In Herde Language, were you not already dead?!” Geha screamed in rage, charging towards the red-armored warrior with his spear: “In Herde Language, were you not already dead?!”

The next moment, Geha was dead.

Just before dying, Geha had a strange thought—turns out a great banner really could be used as a weapon.

Winters barely noticed Geha’s death as he drove his warhorse without reservation, smashing into the Hound Warrior Division’s ranks like thunder.

Twelve silver-armored Archers followed closely behind, the Dog Soldiers were instantly crushed to pieces.

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Like a basin of ice water thrown into a pot of boiling oil, the Green Hill Hunting Ground erupted.

Everyone—people of the Red River Tribe, enemies of the Red River Tribe—rushed madly toward the “White Lion,” the latter frenzy driven to kill him, the former frenzy determined to protect him.

Winters didn’t need to seek out enemies; he merely charged straight through, and the enemies would come to him on their own.

The mead he drank before the battle numbed his senses, pain, and fatigue; at this moment, Winters was like a demon crawled out from Hell, a demigod from ancient legends, a berserker from the songs of the Northern bards, wantonly scattering death, fighting tirelessly.

Disintegration Spell, Disintegration Spell, Arrow Flying Spell, Arrow Flying Spell, fling one, then another… endless battle will, boundless rage, infinite strength.

Winters lied.

He didn’t step onto the battlefield just for Erhulan.

At least, at this moment, all his repression, unwillingness, and pain were unleashed in the killing, and Winters couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d experienced such a thrilling, exhilarating battle.

He no longer needed to consider responsibility, mission, family, friends, future, present… he didn’t even need to think, he just needed to fight, fight, fight.

The enemy’s deaths facing Winters became more and more gruesome, from initially having their brain tissues precisely destroyed by the Disintegration Spell, to their skulls being torn apart inside their helmets, to limbs being forcibly torn from torsos by the violent force of magic.

The uncontrollable magic power even ignited the grand banner in the sky; with flames and blood, Winters charged and slaughtered across the field.

Gradually, everyone began to flee from him in frenzy—both the members and the enemies of the Red River Tribe.

Witnessing the warriors in red armor literally “raising a storm of blood and flesh,” old Sergei found himself with a dry mouth, and with his heart thumping, he turned to the other members of the Iron Peak County Delegation, “The Barbarian Chief… wasn’t the Barbarian Chief dead? Or at least seriously injured? How… how…”

Anna unblinkingly stared at the figure in red armor atop the white horse, covering her heart, whispering softly, “That is not the White Lion.”

“Then who is it?” old Sergei asked in shock and fear.

Colonel Moritz sighed.

It struck old Sergei like a thunderbolt, “That is… that’s Montaigne the Civil Guard Officer?”

Colonel Moritz sighed again.

Pierre gritted his teeth, mounted his warhorse, drew his sword from the scabbard, “Whilst the Centurion bathes in blood, how can we just stand by and watch! I am going to fight shoulder to shoulder with the Centurion! Who will join me?!”

Without a second word, old Sergei leaped onto his horse’s back, laughing maniacally, “I’ve only got two passions in my life, one is hunting game, and the other is killing barbarians; today I can finally enjoy both to the full!”

The people of Iron Peak County laughed heartily, mounting their horses one after the other, heading toward the battlefield under Pierre’s lead.

Colonel Moritz found a clean spot, sat down on the ground, took out a flask from his bosom, and took a small sip.

…

In the distance, a cavalry troop with strict formation and bright armor appeared on the horizon.

Although the cavalry appeared fatigued, with bloodstains still on their armor and weapons not yet cleaned, their morale was high as they sang the Herders’ triumphant war songs in unison.

A Green Plumed Feather rider galloped from the front of the formation and stopped beside another Green Plumed Feather in the middle of the troop.

The Green Plumed Feather who came to report bowed respectfully, presenting a scroll-like object with both hands, saying half in doubt and half in shock, “[Herde Language] White Lion, Green Hill seems to…”

The other Green Plumed Feather removed his helmet, revealing himself to be the White Lion, who was supposed to be reigning over Green Hill.

The White Lion took the scroll-like object from the hands of the ranger, pulled it open, and put it to his eye; distant objects were drawn closer.

After a moment, the White Lion retracted the telescope, shook his head regretfully.

“[Herde Language] Keep moving forward,” he said. “[Herde Language] Continue singing.”