Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 269 Covering the Rear
Dusk fell like blood, staining the battlefield a dark crimson. Bob stood atop the crumbling watchtower, his baton cracked and the eagle statue at its tip missing half a wing, as if foreshadowing the war's end.

The shouts of battle, screams, and the clanging of metal from afar mingled together, like a never-ending nightmare.

"Third Company, flank to the left! Archers, prepare for volley!" Bob shouted hoarsely, his voice trembling noticeably. However, his order was like a stone thrown into an abyss, eliciting no response whatsoever.

The soldiers were already in complete disarray; some were running aimlessly, while others were slumped on the ground, staring blankly at the sky, as if they had given up the fight.

He watched helplessly as his elite heavy cavalry were cut to pieces by the enemy's Mo Dao soldiers.

Those once majestic knights now lay fallen like harvested wheat.

The mournful neighing of warhorses, the angry roars of knights, and the piercing sound of a long-handled sword slicing through armor constantly assaulted his eardrums.

A knight's arm was severed by a longsword. The severed arm drew a bloody arc in the air before landing heavily at Bob's feet, splashing blood everywhere.

"No! No!" Bob closed his eyes in pain, his nails digging deep into his palms.

He recalled the night before the war began, how confident and spirited he looked at the map in his tent.

He meticulously planned every tactic and calculated every troop deployment, believing victory was assured.

He had even begun to fantasize about the victory celebration, how he would receive cheers from the people, and how he would become the pride of his family.

Reality, however, was cruel. The enemy commander seemed to see through his every plan and always managed to deliver a fatal blow at the crucial moment.

Those tactics he was so proud of were like child's tricks in front of the opponent.

What made him even more desperate was that his soldiers seemed to have lost the will to fight; when faced with the enemy's attack, they only felt fear and wanted to run away.

A messenger covered in blood scrambled to the watchtower: “Sir! The left flank has completely collapsed! The enemy’s crossbows are advancing toward the center!” Before he finished speaking, a dense buzzing sound came from afar, like thousands of bees flying around.

Immediately afterwards, countless crossbow bolts gleamed coldly as they pierced the air, and wherever they went, soldiers fell one after another, their blood staining the entire land red.

Bob, holding onto the watchtower railing, felt a sudden dizziness.

He saw that his central camp was engulfed in flames, and the soldiers' figures were twisting and struggling in the raging fire.

The fate of those generals who once followed him in his campaigns is now unknown.

He remembered their vows before they set off, the determination and trust in their eyes, but now, all of that had vanished.

"Why...why did this happen?" Bob murmured to himself, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face.

He thought of his father, the stern and dignified old general.

If your father saw this scene, what would he think?
You'll be disappointed, you'll definitely be very disappointed.

The family's century-old glory may be destroyed in one fell swoop.

He stared intently at the battlefield rout, feeling as if a piece of red-hot iron was stuck in his throat.

Every step was meticulously planned, and every step was repeatedly rehearsed—but why?
Why did Wilke's army seem to have known everything all along, precisely cutting off his escape route at every step?
Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. He whirled around, grabbed the contact person of Marquis Sonata beside him, and his voice was hoarse and almost torn: "Where is Marquis Sonata?! Where are his cavalry? Why didn't they attack Wilke's rear as planned?!"

The man's face was deathly pale, his lips trembled, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Those evasive eyes said it all.

Viscount Weinstein felt as if a blunt knife had ripped open his chest.

He should have realized this sooner—why would Marquis Sonata entrust him with important responsibilities when he was a destitute nobleman who had lost his territory and a "viscount" whom even tavern owners in the West were too lazy to flatter?
He gazed at the thick smoke rising in the distance, a cold smile creeping onto his lips.

This betrayal was nothing more than a predetermined ending. The situation on the battlefield was deteriorating rapidly.

The enemy's spearmen had broken through the last line of defense and were surging forward like a tide.

Their armor gleamed coldly in the setting sun, and the halberds in their hands shimmered with a ghostly blue, demon-slaying steel luster. Bob watched as an enemy halberdier easily pierced the chest of one of his personal guards, the light of life slowly fading from the guard's eyes.

"My lord! Hurry up and leave! It will be too late if you don't leave now!" Several bodyguards rushed up and forcibly lifted Bob up.

But he struggled fiercely and refused to leave.

He couldn't leave; he was the commander of this war, and he had to stay with his soldiers.

However, his resistance seemed so futile that he was eventually dragged onto a warhorse by the guards.

On his way out of the battlefield, Bob looked back.

The battlefield was littered with corpses and rivers of blood.

The once vibrant land has now become a living hell.

The burning tents, shattered weapons, and countless cold corpses created a horrific scene.

He knew that he had completely lost this war, utterly and utterly.

What was initially just a vague suspicion turned into a chilling feeling that suddenly seeped into his bones as he surveyed the battlefield.

Wilke's army's attack route was so precise it was almost uncanny.

They bypassed all the strong defensive points, aiming their blades directly at the weakest gap in the defenses, as if someone had paved the way for them.

"There's a traitor!" Bob's thought had barely crossed his mind when a deafening battle cry suddenly erupted in the distance.

The earth trembled, and iron hooves thundered.

Nash had somehow rushed to his side, his face horribly grim: "You were careless... Sonata betrayed us."

"What?!" Bob jerked his feet up in the stirrups, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic battlefield—the cavalry that was flanking them from the flank, ruthlessly cutting off their retreat, their armor bearing the lion crest of the Sonata family.

The Iron Lion Knights.

"This is impossible..." His voice caught in his throat, his fingers gripping the reins so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Why would he do that?!

Bob's voice was almost squeezed out through clenched teeth, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as if it were about to tear open.

A chill of betrayal crept up his spine, making his hand holding the sword tremble slightly.

Nash did not answer, but turned to look at Solomon beside him, his eyes solemn and resolute.

"I'm entrusting this child to you," he said in a low voice, his tone eerily calm. "I'll cover the rear."

Solomon raised the corners of his mouth, revealing a satisfied smile.

"it is good."

(End of this chapter)