Armored Cavalry, survive in a world full of mods

"What about my tent?"

"Your central command tent has been set up."

Tersolius nodded, and after briefly determining the direction, he stepped forward—the imperial military camp was well-organized, and the commander's tent was not far from its location.

The night was filled with busy people. The auxiliary soldiers, who had been largely useless today, were digging trenches, setting up camp, and delivering food and hot soup prepared by the cooks to the soldiers.

After a fierce battle, every soldier was exhausted. Some even struggled to walk back to their camp. Every now and then, you could see soldiers who were too tired to eat, huddled together to sleep wherever they could find a spot. Their armor was covered in thick bloodstains, emitting a pungent stench of blood. No one bothered to clean it; they were all too exhausted to even think about collapsing into bed at any moment.

His tent was still set up in the very center of the camp. At this moment, bright firelight shone through the curtain. When he stepped into it with the clanging of his armor, he saw Talina with her dark blue hair scattered on the table, looking dazed and with her eyes half-closed.

Before the girl lay a thick stack of parchment, large drops of ink from her brass pen spreading across it, quickly obscuring the delicate, neat handwriting… But she was too exhausted to see clearly or hear anything else. Her head, adorned with a hairpin, tilted forward, little by little, but she never actually slumped onto the table to sleep, like a duckling trying to catch fish and shrimp.

Tersolius chuckled helplessly, gently placed the champion he was holding onto the wooden bed covered with a wolfskin rug, then stood up and went to the table, reaching out to touch Talina's constantly shaking head.

As he expected, this touch easily shattered the already fragile balance, causing Talina to fall forward headfirst... Before she could bury her head in the ink, Tersolius's hand caught her firmly in front of him, then gently pulled her back so that her shoulders rested on the high-backed chair. He then removed the magnificent, thick lion skin from his own shoulders and covered her with it.

"Ah?...My lord..."

The girl struggled to open her eyes a crack, then Thesolius covered them with his palm.

"Don't think about anything nonsense. We've already won. Now, get a good night's sleep... There's still a lot to deal with tomorrow."

........................

"Do you still have any pinellia oil? Could you share some with me?"

Kochkin's lips twitched as he bumped his shoulder into Worif's shoulder, tossing his longbow into the corner of the tent while his other hand reached rather restlessly for a small pouch on Worif's side.

Wolf, however, showed no mercy and grabbed the man's wrist:

"It's gone, it's long gone. Where did the ones I allocated to you go? They were just sent out a month ago, how could you use them up so quickly?"

"Hey, didn't you find a wife in the city...? I thought this stuff was pretty useful, so... I know you probably still have some left, so share some with me, my hands are killing me."

Warif rolled his eyes, but still reached into the bag and pulled out a small white ceramic bottle:

"Use them sparingly. These are all for you. I'll go get two more bottles tomorrow."

"Ha! Thanks."

Kochkin chuckled as he took it, then pulled out three bowstrings from the longbow beside him and his own pouch, and began carefully applying the translucent wax from the bottle to the bowstring, while also moistening his fingers.

He had lost count of how many arrows he had shot that day, only remembering that he had broken three bowstrings, one of which almost blinded him... This was partly due to the excessive force he used, but also because he hadn't used enough special oil and wax to maintain the bowstrings and his fingers, which caused the bowstrings to wear out even more.

Every time he throws out the arrows from his quiver, his auxiliary soldiers immediately replenish them, creating a dense and terrifying rain of arrows that keeps him constantly fighting for life and suffering on the battlefield. He doesn't need to worry about running out of arrows and keeps his opponent suppressed from beginning to end.

What they were most proud of was that his thousand-man squad successfully shot down two monsters that tried to charge into the enemy lines, turning those twisted, huge, and bloated creatures into a pile of rotten flesh by the deadly poison, and completely thwarting the sinister plot of the Asel people.

Kochkin had never imagined that he could accumulate merits so quickly and continuously... It was as if the glory and achievements that countless soldiers coveted were fruits hanging on a tree for anyone to pick, and he had earned his current status in just one year.

Of course, for him, as long as he followed under a certain leader, merit and glory would inevitably come to him. This was also the consensus of tens of thousands of soldiers in this army.

"Alright, I'm almost done tidying up. I need to find a place to take a nap. I can barely stand up right now."

After maintaining his bowstring, Kochkin stood up and prepared to return to his tent to rest. He was indeed exhausted, and at this moment, if it weren't for military regulations, he wouldn't even want to care about his weapon.

"Wait a minute."

Kochkin turned his head in confusion.

"Have you seen the boss? I don't think I've seen her since we retreated..."

Kochkin pondered for a moment, then his eyes also became confused:

"Damn it! I didn't see him either... Where did the old man go?"

354 One Man's Ending (1)

Drawn by the scent of blood, a crow with outstretched wings slumped from a withered treetop. Its feathers gleamed with a pale blue sheen, and its eyes shone like black porcelain. Only its thick, sharp beak had a unique yellowish-white hue.

This creature, which is always associated with death and decay, is now eager to enjoy a feast, and there are countless pieces of flesh and blood on this plain for it to consume.

Broken flags, tattered armor, shattered swords, and broken spears piled up like mountains. Spasming, twitching fingers desperately emerged from the tangled mass of flesh and blood. Piled-up entrails and blood mingled with the mud, and even a casual stroll would submerge one's boots.

This is a true hell, enough to test the spirit of those who consider themselves brave, tearing away the disguises of the cowards among them at the first moment, making them flee in agony. The stench of excrement, blood, and entrails mixed together constantly assaults one's sense of smell until its sufferers become accustomed to it.

No one knows exactly how many people died here. All that is known is that the low mounds formed by the piles of corpses stretch as far as the eye can see, and the flowing blood has even exceeded the soil's absorption capacity, spreading across the surface like a lake.

The legion's auxiliary soldiers lit large bonfires, using the broken wagons and fences as fuel to throw some of the corpses in and burn them, creating a terrible stench. Others were buried in deep pits covered with lime, while valuable spoils were stripped away—the refined steel from the twisted armor and swords was recycled, and the flags were gathered together for counting and accounting.

This was a resounding victory, which brought with it a bountiful death. Mud and stench were everywhere. Any sane person would choose to stay away from such a place unless they were prepared to gain something from it...

A ragged man was slowly making his way through the jungle, his movements extremely furry and cautious. He looked like a large, gray rat standing upright, except for the tattered bag slung over his shoulder, which was filled with jingling objects.

He wasn't alone. There were three other men dressed similarly to him cautiously groping their way through the bushes around him. They were all covered in tattered cloth, trying their best to be inconspicuous and to keep their height low as they walked.

The bloodstains seeping from the burlap sacks on their bodies clearly revealed their identities—corpse strippers, crows and wild dogs on the battlefield.

A war is always bloody and terrible, leaving behind a trail of corpses and remains... But it also means a valuable and enormous fortune. For many people, the armor on those corpses, the swords in their hands, and even the money and other things in their pockets are worth the risk... Compared to these, the bloody and rotting corpses seem less terrifying.

Of course, this is also an extremely dangerous job. If they are discovered by soldiers cleaning up the battlefield, they may die under their swords. So those who do this job must learn to be careful and cautious, hiding during the day and going out at night, just like real rats, so as not to attract attention.

Based on their usual experience, coming here a day after a major battle is the safest and most appropriate time. Although this also means that the most valuable items have most likely been looted, there are still enough leftovers to provide for them—that is enough. Safety is more important than the huge gains.

However, they also had to be careful when approaching the battlefield. There was a high probability that the carrion dogs and other wild beasts were already there before them, and most of those creatures had deadly putrefactive poison on their teeth. Even people like them would never want to be attacked for no reason.

Acting alone is also dangerous and foolish, so they always gather at least three people before venturing close. That way, they can help each other if they encounter anything.

The men believed they were about to reap a good harvest... the overwhelming stench of blood and the terrifying noise could be easily detected even from dozens of miles away. This was destined to be an incredibly large war, with the dead and wounded piling up like mountains. Even if everything was looted thoroughly, they would still have something to eat.

He parted the tangled branches of the bushes. The man ran his short-shaved hair through the thicket, preparing to continue his journey, but he was stopped halfway by the sudden appearance of blood and decay.

This is a dead soldier. His green tunic is covered in blood. On his back is a huge wound torn open by a sharp blade. The flesh is rolled up, white and rotten, with flies and maggots crawling on it, revealing the dry and white bones inside.

This unfortunate fellow must have struggled for a long time before he died. His fingers were deeply embedded in the soil as he desperately tried to pull his body away at the last moment. However, the severe wounds torn open by the sharp blade had already sealed his fate. The gushing blood created a pool of sticky mud around him, attracting mosquitoes and rodents.

He wasn't frightened; he only showed a moment of surprise before calmly approaching the corpse, intending to find something of value from it.

He had even prepared a stick with an iron hook at one end in advance, to drag the corpses out of the putrid blood and blood so that he wouldn't get his feet stuck in it.

After only a brief observation, he roughly understood how the man had died—a heavy and swift blade tore through his clothes and flesh, easily slicing through the bone, splitting open the resilient ribs and shoulder blades, exposing the pale white lungs to the air.

In a sense, this is a good thing, meaning he will die quickly and won't struggle for long, and it will also make it less likely that he will lose or damage any valuables he is carrying.

The man stretched out a pole and pulled the body out of the mud. Then, with practiced ease, he began to examine the pockets on it... This guy might not have been qualified to wear armor, or perhaps it had been stripped off. He had to look for something else.

He was quite lucky; after only a couple of quick rummages, he pulled out three copper coins. Looking at the unique printed patterns on them, a smile played on his lips as he naturally stuffed his loot into his pocket. The money of the Assele people was very useful throughout the south, and many merchants recognized it.

The bushes behind him continued to sway, and the other people who came with him also emerged. After discovering the body, they immediately swarmed towards it like flies that had smelled blood, and began searching with practiced ease.

Soon, the unfortunate dead man was stripped naked, and the short coat with a large tear was snatched away by the strongest guy. Shortly after, someone dug a curved knife out of the muddy ground nearby.

The knife was broken in half at the front, but it didn't matter; it was still somewhat useful.

This discovery greatly excited them, and almost everyone believed that there was more to be found ahead. They hurriedly stepped over the corpse and were about to continue forward when the grass in front of them suddenly rippled, and a long, sharp spear with a cold glint emerged from it.

The turn of events was so sudden that most of them were stunned for a moment, but the leader did not hesitate at all. Almost the instant he saw the cold glint of steel, he ducked into the bushes next to him.

And the facts quickly proved just how timely and correct his reaction was.

The spear thrust forward fiercely, tearing open the chest of the strongest man among them before he could react, scalding blood gushing out. Following closely behind, several exhausted soldiers, covered in blood, emerged from the surrounding bushes, calmly drawing their swords and slaying all the corpse looters amidst screams and wails.

In the blink of an eye, these soldiers proved just how professional and skilled they were at killing. Before anyone could even process what was happening, they had already cut down the last person and started picking off the survivors to finish them off.

They looked utterly disheveled, clad only in close-fitting chainmail, their boots caked in mud, some having lost their helmets. Only a handful still carried long weapons; the rest fought with melee weapons, yet they still coordinated perfectly. They killed as swiftly as slaughtering sheep.

The only survivor was the man who had immediately scurried into the bushes. He had abandoned his bag and nimbly disappeared into the tangled branches like an insect, thus narrowly escaping the sudden massacre.

The smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils, mixed with the stench of entrails, but he forced himself not to move, not to make a sound, as if he were a dead man...

This was a common occurrence, so he wasn't too alarmed—the soldiers cleaning up the battlefield wouldn't give guys like them a friendly look, and it was common for them to be used as target practice for amusement; he just considered the others as unlucky...

To survive, you'll need a bit of luck.

Fortunately, he was always lucky, and soon the sound of blades piercing flesh stopped. The soldiers exchanged a few words and confirmed that there were no survivors. After leaving two men to guard the place, the others returned in the direction they had come from.

The man carefully moved his nose forward a little, which slightly improved his vision, allowing him to see more through the gaps in the leaves.

As expected, the corpses on the ground were still steaming and twitching, but life had undoubtedly left them, leaving only a pile of flesh that was gradually turning cold.

The two soldiers who remained, one carrying a scimitar and the other leaning on a spear, were both visibly exhausted. The one with the spear had even bent over, using only one hand to hold onto the shaft of the spear for balance, and was breathing heavily.

Before they could even catch their breath, the bushes behind them were cleanly cleaved open by a sharp blade. The soldiers who had just left came over, surrounding a man covered in armor stained with dust, blood, and mud. After exchanging a few words, they hurriedly chose a direction and left.

They moved quickly, though everyone looked exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep. The man hiding in the bushes finally realized something—these people didn't look like victors cleaning up the battlefield; they were too disheveled and flustered, as if a wild beast was chasing them...

Especially the man surrounded by those soldiers, for some reason, he always felt that the other party's identity seemed to be very unusual.

........................

The exhaustion after victory is a safety net. After the enemy is completely defeated, even the most carefree person feels a sense of peace. This is a privilege that only the victor can enjoy. The loser can only flee in panic, praying that the pursuers will not discover their tracks.

This kind of failed escape is extremely bitter, so bitter that it can almost make you forget everything else, but precisely because there's little chance for regret until you're sure you're safe. It's just a continuous, exhausting, desperate escape to survive.

Julius was too preoccupied with other matters to even consider the meaning of his escape... but before he could even think about it, his loyal Camus and his men had already forced him onto the run, carefully avoiding the Imperial pursuit forces and choosing the most secluded jungles and bushes along the way.

To ensure his safety, the guards killed anyone they encountered along the way, whether hunter or herb gatherer, showing no mercy whatsoever, lest they reveal even the slightest trace of their whereabouts. They faithfully fulfilled their duty, even though they were reduced to just over 50 men...

But this king, this man who enjoyed this loyalty, was already in a state of utter confusion and was somewhat in a daze.

All attempts had failed, and the situation had completely collapsed beyond repair. The Aselian legion was routed in a head-on defeat, and the army he led was completely annihilated in the battle with the Imperial Legion. Those who were assigned to the vanguard could not even afford to escape.

The monsters he had placed his hopes on played no role whatsoever. They were like jesters, only briefly appearing to amuse people. Apart from slightly stirring up the emotions of both armies, they merely created a dozen or so flesh-and-blood roadblocks on the plain.

What was the point of everything he did? He just kept making things worse...until the sky fell and the earth collapsed. It was as if the harder he tried to do something, the worse everything became, until ultimately everything he did mocked him, mocked him mercilessly...

355 One Person's Ending (2)

This feeling of despair and sorrow haunted him like a ghost, poisoning his will every moment, tearing his confidence and determination to shreds, and even making his limbs increasingly weak and tired, losing the motivation to continue.

He certainly had reason to be dejected, reason to be depressed, and reason to be devoid of fighting spirit. After all, he had just suffered such a crushing defeat, which had extinguished the last glimmer of hope for his country. What would become of the Hols people next?

Julius is now emaciated, and he has thrown away his crown... perhaps because it was too conspicuous and cumbersome, or perhaps because he felt from the bottom of his heart that he was no longer worthy of wearing it, so he abandoned it in the blood and mud of the battlefield.

Like that crown, what value does it hold now? ...

Everyone was exhausted as they walked through the woods, but no one dared to stop. Two of the strongest soldiers forcibly supported their king by the shoulders and pulled him along. Their steps were unsteady, and they had to leave two or three people behind to clean up the trail, lest the pursuers, whose blades were still dripping with blood, be drawn by the smell.

Tormented by panic, exhaustion, fear, and anxiety, each of them had reached their mental limit, on the verge of snapping like a bowstring cut by a blade... They hadn't even had a single rest until they escaped from the battlefield yesterday, their physical and mental strength completely overwhelmed.

So after continuing on for a while, Julius, still in a daze, finally managed to compose himself and ordered everyone to find a safe place to rest.

Fortunately, one of them was the second son of the land's lord, who was quite familiar with the forest. He led everyone through a messy area of ​​rubble and a dark pine forest, and found a shelter made of several rocks, where there were even ashes left by the previous person.

There weren't even any paths to walk on; only those familiar with the terrain could find them. This relieved everyone, and for a moment, no one wanted to speak. After sharing some food and rations, they found a corner and curled up.

The forest was shrouded in a damp and heavy mist at this time of day, which had unknowingly soaked their bowstrings and chainmail, but it was also refreshing and invigorating. When inhaled through the nose, it would invigorate them and make them instinctively wrap themselves tighter in their wool blankets.

Camus and his ilk always used the best of everything, even a wool blanket—a soft and thick blanket woven from long-staple wool from the east of Assale, which could keep them warm even on a cold winter night in a supermarket, yet it was much lighter than a regular blanket, so it didn't become a burden for them when they were fleeing for their lives.

No one knew what to do next. Even the bravest soldiers were filled with confusion, having only escaped here on a whim and fueled by adrenaline. They needed someone to tell them what to do, and that person should rightfully be King Julius.

This should have been his responsibility, his duty, and his duty, but at this moment he hesitated and retreated. His hesitation and retreat even caused his fingers to tremble and his lips to quiver... like a confused and weak coward.

He was one of the most outstanding swordsmen in the entire kingdom, but at this moment his hands were trembling like a mad old man. His confidence had vanished, and he was filled with self-doubt. He even began to doubt whether he could still give simple orders to his personal guards.

Fortunately, no one noticed them. The young men were exhausted, and apart from two who stayed behind to keep watch in the bushes outside, the others were fast asleep. So no one saw their king's loss of composure.

How lost, how weak... He clearly realized how ridiculous he was, but he couldn't muster any spirit or will to change the situation.

Perhaps he should have died on the battlefield; that would have ended everything and cleaned his name.

………………

The idea spread rapidly in his mind like a flame thrown into hay, and immediately became uncontrollable. It was like the gentle stimulation of sweet honey, or the comforting warmth of soft bedding in the dead of night, making him yearn for it involuntarily.

He almost craved this idea; he almost craved death, so he wouldn't have to face the terrible situation he had created, so he wouldn't have to face the current degenerate state.

Without making a sound, his fingers touched his sword, the hard gems inlaid on the golden hilt, and the silver-threaded hilt—this sharp sword was forged from the finest Torreich steel, cutting through bone as smoothly and cleanly as cutting through grease, and had cut off the heads of countless opponents before, and at this moment, it could easily end his life as well.

It's very simple. Just slash the side of his neck or stab him in the chest, and he'll be able to lie on the ground, panting, waiting for the cold death to engulf him.

The sound of the blade being drawn was so faint, like an insect crawling out of a leaf in spring; only the cold glint of steel flashed past inside the rock—he didn't even have a chance to let the sword get stained with the enemy's blood before he was already fleeing for his life in a sorry state.

A deep-seated weariness began to surge from his shoulders, spreading down his spine to every corner of his body... He was so tired. When Alpert fell, he had almost foreseen this day, but he was still unwilling to accept it. He was unwilling that his ambitions had not yet been realized, unwilling that those once ambitious ideas would ultimately become mere fantasies.

He did almost everything he could, painstakingly gathering strength, contacting all possible allies, cutting away flesh and blood again and again, humbly begging for help, and devoting his heart and soul to any possible hope.

He even sent his own people into the hands of those filthy, sinister scum, watching them being dismembered, dissected, modified, and stuffed... until they became a pile of useless dead flesh. This is the one thing he is least forgivable.

In his final moments, he was unexpectedly calm, as calm as if he were sprinkling salt on his bread, and then steadily and powerfully pressed the sharp blade against his neck, pushing down the chainmail neck guard.

He knew he needed to use more force to sever the muscles on the side of his neck so that he could reach the most vital spot inside.