I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 385 The Demise of Varangi
Side of Baiyancheng Avenue.

Olaf's battle axe whistled through the air as it cleaved the skull of a Minisian swordsman, splattering blood and gore all over his body. He shook off the bits of flesh from the axe blade, breathing heavily, and looked around.

The situation on the battlefield was very bad for Varangi.

Led by Olaf, Varangi did indeed tear a bloody gap in the alleyway on the right and broke through the sword and shield formation.

But the cost was devastating.

More than twenty Varangian warriors fell forever on the way of the charge, their bodies trampled by the Miniese soldiers who followed.

The rest of the men, including himself, were all wounded. Their armor was covered in knife and spear marks, some deep dents from which dark red blood seeped.

Thick blood plasma pooled into streams on the bluestone pavement, emitting a nauseating rusty smell.

Worse still, they didn't actually break through.

Rushing into this side street was like jumping into a slightly smaller meat grinder. On the rooftops lining the narrow street, Miniese archers and musketeers occupied the space, pouring death down upon them from above.

Hundreds of arrows were raining down, hitting high and low, hitting the idiots. Even though the Varangians were all wearing heavy armor, the arrows fired by the enemy with the height advantage, while mostly deflected, always managed to sneak into the joints or hit the helmet visor, bringing up a spray of blood and a muffled groan.

In front of and behind Varangi, more Minisian infantrymen, wielding spears and swords and shields, pressed forward step by step at the officers' shouts, trying to squeeze and crush them in this deadly alley.

"Damn it, we're going to die here!"

A Varangian warrior spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, smashed a nearby enemy soldier with a mace, and leaned against the wall, panting.

"What are you afraid of!"

Olaf's eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse yet filled with fanatical excitement. He wiped the blood from his face, grinned, revealing white teeth, and looked like a vengeful ghost in the firelight.

"That's more like it! Let these cowards see what a real warrior is! Hold on, Tiger Crouching Cannon, blast their roof to smithereens!"

The surviving Varangi displayed astonishing resilience.

They quickly split into small groups, providing cover for each other. Some formed a makeshift barrier with shields to block attacks from above, while others used the remaining walls at the street corner to re-erect the two tiger-squatting cannons, raising their muzzles.

Shotgun shells erupted, blasting against the rooftops on both sides, scattering tiles, wood chips, and human remains. Amid screams, several of Minicia's firing positions instantly went silent.

But this is just a drop in the ocean. There are too many Minisians, and the influx continues.

They surged in like a tide, wave after wave, thrusting spears through the gaps in the shields and hacking at Varangi's legs with knives and axes.

The Varangians were like beasts trapped in a swamp; each bite took several lives, but they themselves were also wounded and their space to move became smaller and smaller.

Olaf wielded his giant axe like a human storm, leaving limbs and severed bodies flying in his wake.

But he could feel his strength rapidly draining away, and each swing of the axe felt heavier than the last.

He glanced behind him toward the main road leading to the city gate... Sigh, why are there shouts of battle over there? It seems even more chaotic, and the flames are blazing. Are there reinforcements?
Meanwhile, at the city gate...

Countless figures, dressed in a jumbled mess and equipped with various items, surged in like an ant swarm bursting through a breached dam, pouring into the still-smoking, blown-open city gate.

Their numbers far exceeded expectations. They had no formation whatsoever, and like a torrent of mud and sand, they instantly overwhelmed the Miniese soldiers in the city gate passage who were trying to organize a resistance.

These hundred-odd soldiers were like snowflakes thrown into boiling water; before these frenzied enemies, they were submerged and trampled without even having time to scream.

"Kill them! Don't let Varangi take it all for himself!"

"Baiyan City belongs to everyone, let's rush in and take it!"

"For the sake of the landlord... kill all the rice dogs!"

The deafening, chaotic roars coalesced into a terrifying sonic wave, assaulting the eardrums and nerves of every Minisian soldier on the city wall.

These newly arrived "enemies" had no discipline or tactics. Their individual combat ability was no match for Varangi, but they were more greedy and crazy, and there were more of them. They scattered like locusts as soon as they entered the city.

Some people, in groups of a dozen or so, would rush towards the most presentable building in sight, even ignoring the battle nearby, and burst through the gates to loot.

Some people love to fight. When they see a Miniese soldier, they rush at him with bloodshot eyes, regardless of whether the opponent is a squad of ten or a lone wounded soldier. Like hyenas that smell blood, they slash with knives, poke with spears, and even bite with their teeth, just to snatch that pitiful amount of military merit or spoils of war.

There were also some players who clearly had a pyromantic fetish. They shouted excitedly and threw torches at houses, shops and stables along the roadside. Thick smoke and flames spread rapidly, exacerbating the chaos.

It was a chaotic scene. Following the players were refugees from outside the city, who were starving and had a simple goal... to get enough to eat.

They are even more disorderly and chaotic than the players.

Most of the figures following behind the players were ragged and emaciated.

Unlike players, they don't have a clear objective; they only have one thing in their eyes... food.

Prolonged hunger had set their stomachs ablaze, and their reason had long been consumed by the instinct for survival. The fires lit by the players and the doors they broke down were not signals of chaos to them, but rather... the sound of a mealtime bell.

"There's food inside!"

A gaunt old woman with sunken eyes sniffed the faint smell of flour in the air. As if she had discovered a rare treasure, she pointed to an ordinary house by the roadside whose door had been knocked askew by a player and let out a hoarse but sharp cry.

The shout was like a drop of water thrown into boiling oil, instantly exploding among the refugees.

Dozens, even hundreds of refugees who had been numb and listless suddenly had their eyes light up with a terrifying green light.

They no longer hesitated, no longer feared the still-burning flames, the collapsed debris, or even ignored the occasional stray arrows and the sounds of fighting nearby.

Their only goal was... anything that might be behind that crooked door that they could stuff into their mouths!

They unleashed a hysterical power disproportionate to their frail bodies, like hungry wolves smelling blood, and surged madly toward the house.

No tools?

Then use your body to bump into it, hit it with a stone, or scratch it with your fingernails!

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The bony shoulders, knees, and even the head slammed against the already flimsy door and window, the wood groaning under the strain.

"Wow!"

A window was smashed by a stone, and several refugees, ignoring the cuts from the broken glass, scrambled to climb inside. "Crack!"

The door hinge finally broke, the door panel fell inward, and the surging crowd instantly squeezed inside.

The house instantly transformed into an even more chaotic hell. The sounds of ransacking, shouts of robbery, and desperate cries from residents who had been hiding inside mingled together.

A refugee pulled a cloth bag containing half a sack of coarsely ground rye from the corner of the kitchen, which immediately attracted four or five hands scrambling to grab it.

The sack tore open during the tearing, scattering black wheat grains all over the ground. The refugees immediately fell to the ground, like animals, grabbing the wheat grains mixed with mud and dust with their dirty hands and stuffing them into their mouths, chewing greedily, emitting satisfied yet painful whimpers from their throats.

Another refugee grabbed a piece of salted meat that was hanging from the rafters and was as hard as a rock, but was immediately tackled to the ground by the people next to him.

Several people rolled on the ground, tearing at the piece of salted meat with their teeth, and also biting each other's arms and fingers, with blood and saliva dripping down.

A mother, holding her starving child, cried and tried to grab a handful of scattered wheat grains from the ground, but was kicked away by a burly man with bloodshot eyes.

The child rolled to the ground, letting out a faint cry.

In the corner, an old man was huddled up, clutching a rough earthenware jar tightly, which might contain his last remaining food or a little bit of oil.

Several refugees surrounded him, punching and kicking him, trying to snatch the jar. The old man cried out in pain, but refused to let go.

This is just the beginning.

That cry of "There's food!" spread like wildfire among the refugees. They no longer limited themselves to the targets the player had smashed open, but turned their attention to every house within sight!
"That house, that house's chimney was emitting smoke!"

"Smash it open! Smash it open now!"

Stones, sticks, and even half a spear picked up from the ground became their tools for breaking down doors.

Fear and order vanished in the face of absolute hunger. They no longer distinguished between a wealthy merchant's mansion and a poor man's shack; as long as they could get inside, there was a chance of finding food.

Amidst the thick smoke, more and more houses were captured by refugees, from which came even more heart-wrenching cries, shouts of looting, and desperate curses.

This primal, hunger-driven frenzy of plunder dealt an even more devastating blow to the already chaotic battlefield.

Many of the Minisian soldiers' families lived in the city's civilian areas. Seeing their homes being attacked by refugees, and their families being looted and even injured, their will to fight collapsed instantly.

"My home, my children!"

When a soldier shouted this, he broke away from his unit and rushed towards his home in an attempt to rescue his troops, which further tore apart the already crumbling defense line.

Thus, the situation in White Rock City became even more chaotic. Varangi was at the forefront of the battle, while the players who came later took advantage of the confusion, bypassing the most intense battlefields and heading to other city walls.

The last group of refugees wreaked havoc aimlessly. They were the most numerous and the most vulnerable; a well-equipped squad of soldiers could easily defeat, drive away, and slaughter them.

However, the Minisians were unable to separate their forces at this moment, because Varangi was at the forefront.

Surrounded and unable to break out, the other players who entered the city later disliked their attempts to hog the spoils, so they deliberately avoided supporting them and went off to find places to have fun on their own.

Some people were willing to forgive and forget, but their numbers were too small. There were countless Minisian soldiers in the city, perhaps thousands or even more. A hundred or so players who were thrown into the battlefield were overwhelmed and unable to support Varangi.

And so, Olaf and Varangi fought a fierce battle until the early hours of the morning...

Olaf's giant axe cleaved open the chest of a Minician soldier once again, but this time, the axe blade got stuck in the broken ribs.

He growled and used all his strength to pull it out, bringing with it a spray of warm blood.

He staggered, leaning on the axe handle, breathing heavily.

My vision was a little blurry, and sweat, blood, and dust mixed into my eyes, causing a burning pain.

Looking around, Olaf couldn't see a single Varangi still standing; he was surrounded by enemies.

The Miniese soldiers surrounded him, their spears like a forest, their swords gleaming coldly, and the muzzles of several muskets trembling as they pointed them at him.

But none of them dared to take a step forward. This giant, riddled with arrows and looking as if he had been pulled from a pool of blood, even as he swayed precariously while leaning on his chipped battle axe, still exuded an aura of dying ferocity that chilled them to the bone.

The corpses lying at Olaf's feet serve as the best warning.

"come!"

Olaf straightened up abruptly, though the movement made his vision blur and he almost fell over.

He roared with all his might, his voice hoarse yet like the final howl of a wounded tiger, causing the soldiers closest to him to involuntarily take a half step back.

"Coward, come up here!"

He swung his giant axe violently, the heavy whooshing sound startling the encirclement into expanding even further. But the movement also caused him to stumble, his knee slamming heavily onto the blood-soaked ground.

Just then, an even more chaotic and ear-piercing commotion came from the direction of the main road, accompanied by several muffled explosions and the loud crash of collapsing buildings.

That was when the players had completely captured the other city gates, or were bombarding the inner city fortifications with captured siege spears. The cheers of victory and the sounds of greedy looting even drowned out the grim atmosphere of the place.

A Minisian officer, his face a mixture of relief at surviving the ordeal and anxiety to get it over with, squeezed out from the back of the crowd.

He glanced at Olaf, who was teetering on the brink of collapse but still radiating ferocity, then at the fear in the eyes of the soldiers around him, and gritted his teeth.

"Don't get any closer! Shoot! Fire arrows! Kill him!"

The musketeers and archers present seemed to awaken from a dream, and they all raised their weapons. Soon, the dense sound of bowstrings and the explosions of muskets rang out together, and arrows and lead bullets rained down like a deadly storm, completely enveloping Olaf's burly figure.

The sounds of armor clashing rang out in rapid succession. The immense impact caused Olaf's body to tremble violently, but he held onto his battle axe like a rock nailed to the spot, refusing to fall. Blood gushed from his body like countless tiny fountains.

After the gunshots, there was a deathly silence.

Olaf remained standing upright with his axe in hand.

His head was bowed, and blood dripped like a stream from beneath the visor of his helmet. The heavy armor that once symbolized Varangi's glory was now a hedgehog's shell riddled with arrows and bullet holes.

Time seemed to stand still. The Minisian soldiers held their breath, looking at the unyielding statue of flesh and blood with a mixture of fear and awe.

The Varangian Legion was thus completely wiped out.

(End of this chapter)