Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 382 Destruction
Rebaton's laughter gradually subsided, transforming into a sharper, more nakedly fanatical whisper: "Good... very good!" His finger, trembling nervously, pointed to the distant core of the slowly rising chaotic storm, where Duke Wenger and the elite of almost the entire kingdom's northern and central nobility resided!
"Wenger, Wenger...you old lion who reigns supreme in the North...and those few shining stars of Odom...all...all of them have fallen into it! What excellent bait! What a wonderful feast!"

His eyes gleamed with a morbid, almost obsessive light: "As long as they all... all perish there! Along with the damned, always unrespecting family private armies they took with them, and those high-ranking retainers who keep us up at night! Within the Central Plains! Who else?! Who can shake my throne?! Who can make my decrees... be discounted outside the palace?!"

He opened his arms as if to embrace the entire kingdom that was about to be completely "purified" by the blood sacrifice. "Internal troubles eradicated! Power is in my grasp! The rest... is just an empty seat waiting for me to light a few more new lamps! Hahaha!!"

He clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking clearly. His face was a mixture of wild joy and a chilling, undisguised greed and indifference. "Territory? Lost?" A cruel smile played on his lips, as if he were discussing something irrelevant, even laughable. "What does it matter? Those fertile lands…those mines…those bustling cities…were all 'granted' by me! They were the 'ancestral estates' cultivated by those dukes, marquises, and earls for centuries! They were never truly my directly controlled royal territories!"

Rebaton's voice turned as cold as a viper, carrying a sense of vindictive satisfaction: "Lost them all...better!" He even slapped the saddle forcefully, as if he had heard the funniest joke, "By losing all those powerful vassal territories, I can take advantage of the massive waves stirred up by the Black Robe Organization—"

His eyes suddenly sharpened like knives, flashing with a cold, piercing light that seemed capable of tearing apart and rebuilding the entire kingdom's map: "Once 'they' have all rotted in the gatekeeper's cold 'harvest field'! My new army! My followers! It will be just right to... take over!"

His words were filled with utter contempt for the entrenched interests of the entire aristocratic class that had been entrenched for thousands of years and a ruthless determination to uproot them!

"Clean house?" Rebaton gazed at the increasingly chaotic and turbulent "meat grinder" in the distance, a chilling smile like a poisoned blade. "I'm... cleaning up after those disobedient children. Black-robed men and gatekeepers alike... their 'merits'... I'll certainly record a large portion of them!"

He turned his horse around, taking one last look at the depths of the battlefield, which resembled the entrance to a giant tomb, with its dark chasm. His face was once again covered by his usual gloomy mask, tinged with a hint of languor.

But beneath that gloom, the flickering flames were hotter and more frenzied than ever before.

“Let’s go back!” Rebaton’s voice returned to its calm tone as he ordered the “Round Table Council” behind him, “We don’t need to stay here any longer.”

With a light thud of hooves, ten riders, like melting ink, escorted the emperor, who was watching from afar as he personally orchestrated the massive sacrifice, swiftly and silently disappearing into the deepening shadows of twilight.

All that remains behind him is the bloodiest altar, fueled by countless lives, about to be completely ignited!
His imperial throne, seemingly amidst the flames and wails of the altar, became even more stable, even more...lonely.

Smoke mingled with the stench of congealed blood and the scorched earth of mud, weighing heavily on the boundless wasteland.

The setting sun, like a dying giant, splashed its last embers of blood-red light onto the vast graveyard that had just devoured millions of lives.

The Duke of Wenger's army, which once symbolized the crushing power of steel and absolute strength, is long gone.

As far as the eye could see, there was only a vast, terrifying ruin, seemingly trampled and ravaged by the hands of the gods, made up of corpses, broken armor, twisted steel artifacts, and charred flags.

The congealed dark red had almost soaked into every inch of the soil, reflecting an eerie light in the setting sun. Even the wind carried a thick, bloody stench, emitting a low, mournful wail.

The demon general stood atop a giant siege engine wreckage that had not yet completely collapsed, a short distance behind Robin.

His black leather armor, seemingly forever stained with undried blood, fluttered slightly in the wind. However, his abyssal, dark red eyes pierced through the hellish scene before him, fixed intently on the core of the ruins—the rift of law that had once cleaved the earth and ushered in the end. Although the area had long since been smoothed over by the aftershocks of chaotic energy, leaving only a twisted, charred, enormous crater.

He saw it.

Or rather, he "sensed" a very subtle, yet ultimately chilling, "trace" in that final moment of harvest, in that instant when the rules collapsed and flesh and soul were forcibly crushed into nothingness.

Like the last ripple in space left behind when cosmic dust is sucked into a black hole;
Or perhaps, on the parchment that was instantly burned, an indescribable burn mark remains.

This "trace" made him feel... "familiar".

A distorted and blurred sense of familiarity, originating from the deep imprint of the very essence of life, yet buried by endless time.

At the same time, this "trace" also carries a kind of "coldness" that freezes the soul, is absolute, and ends all life.

Two completely opposite sensations were brutally mixed in that fleeting "fragment of perception," causing the demon general's body to tremble uncontrollably and very slightly.

It wasn't fear, but rather the most subtle, instinctive deformation of a metal produced when an extremely precise and robust killing machine is pushed to its limit.

Robin stood quietly a short distance in front of the demon general, the shadow of his hood completely obscuring his face.

He also gazed at the battlefield, which had been completely reduced to scorched earth.

long silence.

He didn't expect that.

Yes, no.

His risky move of using the black-robed men to lure out the entire noble coalition was merely intended to create chaos, deplete the nobles' morale and strength, buy himself time to break through the final barrier, and allow the arrival of the gatekeepers to be consumed as much as possible by the internal strife within the kingdom.

At most, they hope that the anchor point of that hunting ground can catch a few more big fish and drag a few heavyweight families down with them.

(End of this chapter)