Chapter Seventy-Two: The Fall of the City

At this moment, beneath the walls of Brook City, a decisive battle was unfolding.

"Charge!" Knights bellowed at the foot of the city, driving the endless stream of soldiers forward.

Behind these knights, countless trembling militiamen, clutching crude spears, were being herded onward, shivering with fear.

Even knights trained in battle aura found themselves powerless in the face of this so-called meat grinder of a siege. Thus, it was the norm to force ordinary soldiers and even conscripted peasants to the front lines.

These men were weak, lacking professional training, and their gear was pitifully simple. Yet they were easily gathered and cost little; no matter how many fell, there was no hesitation in sending more. Most of these militiamen had even been conscripted from the lands of lords who had sided with the enemy, so their deaths provoked no sympathy—only the satisfaction of using them as expendable fodder.

Under the ferocious assault led by the First Prince, the Second Prince’s forces had been routed one after another in the field and were now forced to cower within the walls of Brook City, hoping to rely on its fortifications for defense.

But the First Prince pressed the attack relentlessly. As soldiers fell one after another on the battlefield, the assault did not slacken in the slightest—instead, it grew only more intense.

For a man like him, there was no hesitation in driving others to their deaths. This ruthlessness was the reason for his prestige in the army and, at the same time, one of the reasons the nobility within his domain resisted him so fiercely.

With his iron will, should he inherit the throne, all the nobles within his domain would suffer; sooner or later, he would suppress them one by one, perhaps even destroy their families without mercy.

His conduct since raising his banner had proven as much.

To him, those who submitted would prosper; those who opposed him would perish. Every noble who stood against him was to be exterminated, their peasants driven into battle, their families slaughtered to prevent future troubles.

At the outset, this approach not only terrified his enemies but also sent chills down the spines of his own supporters. Thus, apart from the military, only a handful of minor lords dared to back him.

Yet, as the First Prince’s campaign of bloodshed advanced, the situation was reversed. One by one, lords who feared his wrath capitulated, unwilling to risk the consequences of his vengeance.

As for these lords, the First Prince’s methods were simple: he sent them to the front lines as cannon fodder.

Upon the city walls, Kezel watched the surging chaos below, his face ashen.

At his side, a knight suddenly knelt. "My lord, we must withdraw to the inner city at once!"

This knight’s expression was resolute, battle aura surging and a powerful stench of blood emanating from him. He was Kezel's chief knight, Gediel.

Yet Kezel ignored the overpowering scent of blood. His face remained grim. "Ever since we were defeated, we've retreated again and again. Now, with the enemy driving waves of fodder against our walls, even if we fall back to the inner city, I fear it will do little good."

"It’s not the same!" Gediel cried. "Unlike the outer walls, the inner city is small, making it difficult for large forces to maneuver. We can hold it with only a few men—our knights can rotate on guard and hold the defenses!"

"Furthermore, within the inner city, we have the support of the nobles and stores of grain sufficient to last us several months, enough to await the arrival of reinforcements from the other great lords outside."

Hearing this, Kezel hesitated.

He looked down from the walls. Below, militiamen with crude spears were being driven forward by the First Prince’s knights, turning the ground red with blood, corpses strewn everywhere—a truly horrifying sight.

All around, the knights, battered by wave after wave of expendable attackers, grew ever weaker. The glow of their battle aura flickered dimly; they were barely holding on.

Witnessing this, Kezel sighed. "Gediel, I will go lead the nobles into retreat. Until then, I leave this place in your hands."

"Hold the walls at all costs until we have fully withdrawn!"

"Yes, my lord!" Gediel replied loudly, his eyes shining with resolve.

Below the walls, the First Prince watched the weary knights atop the ramparts and said, "It looks like the breach is near."

He appeared rough-hewn, lacking Kezel’s scholarly elegance, yet he had his own kind of charisma—a manly vigor that set him apart.

He seemed about thirty, a murderous glint between his brows, mingled with excitement and fatigue. As he gazed at the blood-soaked scene atop the walls, he seemed utterly unmoved.

"Naturally," came the reply as Coris, formerly directing the front lines, approached. "My lord, you’ve driven these lords’ peasants at the walls for days on end. With such ferocity, even knights atop those walls must be exhausted."

"But, my lord," Coris added after a moment, glancing at the ashen-faced lords behind them with some hesitation, "won’t this offend these lords too deeply?"

The First Prince only sneered. "Coris, do you think that, if I succeed in taking the throne, these lords will truly obey me?"

"No, they will not!"

He seemed both agitated and grim. "To them, I am nothing but the lowborn son of a slave—a stain upon noble blood. They may submit to my strength, but they will never offer true loyalty."

"In that case, why should I show them any mercy? As long as we are strong enough, even if every last soul in their lands perishes, who would dare speak out?"

Coris fell silent at these words, then said, "Prince, as things stand, the Second Prince’s forces can no longer hold. We should take this city soon."

The First Prince nodded. "Send another wave of fodder. Once they’ve all fallen, send in our knights. By nightfall, we must breach the walls!"

With the order given, and under the baleful glares of the lords, another batch of expendable troops was herded onto the battlefield.

These militiamen came from all walks: elderly men in their fifties and sixties, boys not yet of age alike. All shivered as they were forced forward, clutching their spears.

A few, confronted by the mangled carnage before them, trembled and refused to advance. For such as these, the knights overseeing from behind were merciless—cutting them down with swords, their deaths prompting terrified screams.

Under this bloody coercion, the fodder surged forward, fighting desperately with their meager spears.

As this wave joined the fray, the pressure on the knights atop the walls—led by Coris—intensified noticeably.

Truth be told, this rabble, armed with crude weapons, was almost laughable against the skilled knights; they could hardly so much as dent their armor. Yet the true pressure lay not in the enemy before them, but in the growing exhaustion and suffocating despair within.

Even a butcher would tire after slaughtering for days on end—how much worse, then, in this oppressive battlefield?

But this stalemate was soon to end.

When the last of that wave of fodder perished, a new order was given, and Coris himself led a group of knights in the attack.

The pressure atop the walls surged. One after another, the exhausted defenders were overwhelmed by the ferocity of the assault. The defensive line wavered, held together only by the advantage of the fortifications.

As more knights poured up the walls, the balance slowly shifted in favor of the First Prince.

Upon the wall, Gediel let out a furious roar, his battle aura surging wildly as he cleaved down a knight before him in a single stroke.

He was bathed in blood, a formidable sight. Seeing the desperate situation ahead, he prepared to rush to aid his comrades.

At that moment, a glint of light flashed—danger prickled at him, and he instinctively shifted aside.

A sword’s gleam swept by; behind him, a warrior was sliced clean in two, blood pooling at his feet.

Gediel looked up slightly and saw a tall, armored knight charging toward him: it was Coris.

In an instant, the two clashed, their battle auras colliding with a force that blasted a gaping hole in the wall.

The impact sent Gediel staggering backward. Facing Coris’s unchanged expression, his own grew grave.

“Gediel, surrender. You are no match for me.” Coris spoke slowly, with a tinge of appreciation in his eyes.

Now, the two stood as commanders on opposite sides, equals in rank, but Gediel was clearly outmatched—and after days of bitter fighting, he was utterly spent.

Ignoring the offer to surrender, Gediel answered with action: his longsword slashed down, launching two dazzling arcs of energy in a cross toward his foe.

Coris sighed, battle aura flaring as he suppressed Gediel with overwhelming force.

The two fought fiercely atop the wall, earth-knight against earth-knight, leaving gouges wherever they clashed—any ordinary man caught in their wake would be gravely wounded or slain outright.

At last, with a mighty blow, Coris sent Gediel flying, the latter crashing into the crowd below.

Gediel coughed up blood, his armor shattered and riddled with wounds.

“No… I can’t hold on…” he gasped, barely conscious, then—with the protection of his fellow knights—retreated from the field.

Coris, enraged, charged after him but was blocked and could not break through.

As Gediel and his men withdrew and the sounds of battle gradually faded, the outer walls of the city finally fell into enemy hands.