Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

"What are you standing there for?! If you don't want to die, get moving!" Mandela roared furiously.

The slaves, who had just gained their freedom and hadn't even had time to break their shackles, began to act haphazardly according to Mandela's instructions.

Mandela's anxiety was understandable: as the war intensified, more and more guards were being transferred to the city walls; however, in order to prevent slave rebellions and ensure the city's operation, a certain number of city defense troops were still stationed in some important areas.

The slave labor camp where Mandela lived was one such important area because it served as a weapons workshop. Due to the needs of the war, it was filled with large quantities of copper and iron ore, damaged weapons awaiting repair, and numerous unfinished weapons.

The consequences would be unimaginable if these things fell into the hands of slaves. Slave owners knew this all too well, and Mandela knew it too.

As soon as the alarm sounds, within 15 minutes, a well-equipped city defense force of about 200 men, with a sufficient number of bows, crossbows and javelins, can arrive to suppress the attack.

If given a choice, Mandela would not want to confront the slave owners' army head-on, even the weakest city defense force, which was not something a disorganized rioting slaves could handle.

But now Mandela had no choice. The slaves, who were almost unarmed and whose ability to move was restricted by shackles, could be identified at a glance on the street. Even if they tried to escape during the chaos of war, they would most likely be killed by the city's defense forces on their way.

We must remove the shackles and arm ourselves, but the time required to accomplish these two things is precisely the point at which the city defense forces can react.

At this point, Mandela could only make the slaves use the resources in the workshops to arm themselves as much as possible.

"Don't take swords! Those unfinished products are blunt! They won't kill anyone!"

"There's no time to sharpen them! You idiots! Go get the spears! The bows and arrows!"

"Give the armor to the strong and powerful! Don't try to take the armor if you're skinny! It'll just be a burden on you!"

Mandela roared furiously, as if decades of forbearance and patience had been completely exhausted in the instant the beam was sawed off, leaving only a bellyful of anger and rage.

"Those without weapons, go get hammers! A blacksmith's hammer is more effective at hitting people than a dull knife!"

"Mandela! Give me your hand!" A slave from the Summer Islands, with skin as black as charcoal and covered in sweat that shone brightly, interrupted Mandela's outburst, slamming a bronze block the size of a bowl heavily into the ground as he spoke.

Mandela cooperated by placing his shackled wrists on the block. The Summer Islands slave, known as "Carbonhead," deftly used a chisel and hammer to break the rivets off the shackles, then gestured for him to switch hands.

"How many people are still not free of their shackles?"

"We only have a couple of sets of tools, so there's no use in rushing."

Freed from his long-bound hands and feet, Mandela comfortably moved his wrists and ankles.

Carbon Head pointed to the crossbow bolt still lodged in Mandela's shoulder and suggested, "Shouldn't we take care of it?"

"Removing them will cause me to lose blood, and those vicious slave owners won't give me time to heal. Forget about me! Go and remove the chains from the others!"

The little flea, baring its bright white teeth, appeared from behind "Charcoal Head" and presented Mandela with the exquisite weapons he had found—a short sword and a Mil crossbow scavenged from the overseer's corpse.

Mandela took the short sword and tucked it into his belt. He then tested the crossbow, an old machine that had been used for who knows how many years. The bow and handle were covered with wear and dents. It could only fire single shots, unlike the latest models with lenses and three-round bursts. But the crossbow was still flexible and reliable, and the draw weight was strong enough. It was the best weapon he could find in the workshop.

"Excellent!" Mandela praised.

"Just like you, a vicious and ruthless old bastard!" Little Flea chuckled, a hint of smugness flashing in his eyes. Then, as if remembering something, he pulled out a knife, inserted it into the gap in Mandela's slave collar, and cut it off in a few swift movements.

Mandela stroked his neck, which had turned white from wearing the collar for so long, and thanked the little flea.

"Don't mention it, buddy!" The little flea turned and left to attend to other things.

Mandela carefully counted the few crossbow bolts he had, ensuring they would be useful in a critical moment. In this life-or-death situation, any negligence could have fatal consequences. His comrades around him were also nervously making final preparations, and a tense and solemn atmosphere filled the air.

Then he turned to the other slaves and shouted, "Hurry up! Time waits for no one! We must be ready before the city garrison arrives!"

Under Mandela's command, the slaves sprang into action. Some were busy sharpening the tips of spears, others were binding straps to crudely made, obviously unfinished shields, and still others were assembling arrows. Everyone was doing their utmost to survive the impending battle and then breathe the air of freedom they had longed for, or had never experienced before.

……

City defense army camp.

The moment the alarm bell rang, the already tense and vigilant military camp, due to the impending war, erupted into chaos, with people thronging around.

Commander Kraken, fully armed and with a cold gaze, gripped his sword hilt and held his riding whip, striding resolutely towards the drill ground. Behind him followed a squad of guards, each expressionless, like cold-blooded machines.

Kraken came from a minor branch of the Great Lords family, but through his exceptional military talent and ruthless methods, he quickly distinguished himself in the army and rose to the rank of junior officer in the city garrison.

He had hoped for further promotion, but languished in this position for nearly ten years. In the end, he had no choice but to resort to networking to marry a woman from the wealthy but notorious Wei Zhu family. Through nepotism, he achieved success in both his business and personal life.

Due to the recent war, this job, which had long been considered a dead-end job with little pay, has become a coveted position in the eyes of many. The city defense army he led was responsible for the "leisurely" job of patrolling the city, guarding slaves, and preventing rebellions. Compared to the dangerous work on the front lines, this job was safe and comfortable.

Recently, many people have been seeking legitimate job transfers by offering bribes and using connections. Kraken was fully aware of this, but remained silent and even welcomed it.

For the reasons mentioned above, Kraken's ranks were filled with relatives and cronies, including brothers-in-law, uncles, juniors of former superiors, friends of friends, and relatives who were only remembered when needed.

But Kraken didn't care, because he had his own plans.

In his view, these rich and cowardly young masters who were transferred back from the "front line" were not only well-equipped, but also had a certain number of private armed forces and knew basic battle formations. Although they could not fight tough battles, they were exceptionally useful in low-intensity battles such as suppressing rebellions and maintaining order.

While enhancing the combat effectiveness of his troops, these people can also fill his coffers and expand his network of relationships, achieving multiple benefits in one fell swoop.

A messenger rushed in, interrupting Kraken's thoughts.

"Sir, the slaves in the blacksmith's workshop are rioting."

Kraken knew his opponents were disorganized, undisciplined rebel slaves armed with broken or unfinished weapons. He mounted his warhorse and shouted, "In the name of the Harpy, the rebels shall be crucified! Charge!"

With Kraken's order, the city's defense forces marched in a mighty procession toward the workshop district.

In the workshop area, amidst the suffocating silence, the sound of orderly footsteps, mixed with the clatter of horses' hooves and the scraping and clanging of armor, grew louder as they approached.

Behind the gate, which was blocked by thick logs, Mandela crouched down, pressed against the wall, and squinted, staring intently at the city defense troops that were gradually approaching in the distance.

There were about twenty cavalrymen and over a hundred infantrymen clad in leather armor, equipped with shields, short swords, and spears. Behind them were a slightly smaller number of "archers and crossbowmen" clad in fine iron armor. The city's garrison marched in neat and powerful steps, their disciplined formation exuding the air of a professional army.

"Raise your shields!" Kraken shouted the order from a distance of an arrow's flight.

The city's defense troops, clad in leather armor, responded swiftly to their commander's orders, skillfully raising their shields to form a tight shield wall in front of their chests.

"Move forward!"

The sound of orderly footsteps rang out, and the shield wall slowly moved forward, pressing down on the slaves.

"Coward! Coward!" Mandela cursed angrily as the leading officer refused to approach.

One hundred paces, eighty paces, sixty paces... Mandela nervously observed the distance. The slave had only four old Mil crossbows and a dozen crudely repaired bows. He had to seize the precious opportunity to retaliate.

Carbon Head lay prone on the ground, constantly wiping the sweat from his palms on his loincloth, then gripping his long-handled hammer tightly. Jerry hugged his crossbow tightly, muttering under his breath, "The wisdom of the old woman, the courage of the warrior, the justice of the Father, the love of the Holy Mother..." Some even urinated on the ground beneath their feet. Little Flea clutched the short knife he had just snatched from some unfortunate overseer, his eyes gleaming with eager anticipation.

Seeing this, Mandela pulled the spirited little flea back a bit.

Forty steps, the rhythmic footsteps like drumbeats striking everyone's heart.

The closer the distance, the greater the power and accuracy of the arrows, but the greater the chance of another shot. The entire slave caravan was in a state of high tension. Mandela dared not gamble on the most favorable moment for a counterattack and the point where morale would collapse. He shouted, "Shoot them!"

A dozen slaves armed with bows and crossbows suddenly rose up with Mandela and fired arrows at the city's defensive shield wall.

"For Maggie!" Jari, in a frenzy, fired his crossbow bolt. At the moment of battle, he shouted a name unrelated to the Seven Gods. In that instant, a crossbow bolt adorned with magnificent peacock tail feathers pierced his neck.

"Damn it, I missed! I was aiming for his head!" A young officer in gold-trimmed armor exclaimed angrily from a hundred paces away. He tossed a magnificent crossbow with a sight and cocking lever to his servant behind him and then took another one that was already cocked.

"Enough talk, let's see who kills more!" said another young officer dressed in a similar style. He was carrying a triple-shot pistol with three spiral-shaped fletchings on each arrow. As he spoke, he fired the remaining two arrows.

There were a dozen or so other noble junior officers, armed with custom-made high-grade bows and crossbows, hunting down the rebellious slaves with the help of their servants, as if they were on a hunting expedition.

Even more outrageous, a flamboyant young nobleman mounted a light siege crossbow on the shoulders of two slave soldiers, specifically to shoot slaves hiding behind wooden doors through walls.

Behind the workshop gate, arrows kept flying in through the gaps in the fence, striking the shields or the ground with a trembling sound.

Mandela, his face grim, lowered his body and pulled back the flea that was about to pick up the fallen crossbow.

After the first volley of arrows was fired, the slaves' counterattack did not cause any real damage to the city's defenses. Most of the rudimentary arrows were blocked by the heavy shields, and only a few pierced through the gaps, falling three city defenders. However, the damaged shield wall was quickly filled by replacement soldiers. On the contrary, the slaves were suppressed by the noble army's sharp ranged weapons and could not raise their heads.

As they approached the gate, dense shields spread out to both sides, and eight strong, shirtless city guards, together carrying a thick log battering ram, began to dismantle the gate.

A small number of city defense troops used javelins to suppress the slaves peeking out from behind the low walls, thus protecting their friendly forces.

"These idiots! How many times have I told you? This will give the slaves weapons." Kraken scolded, his face stern.

Kraken's brother-in-law and adjutant was clearly much more lenient about such mistakes, proudly praising, "Brilliant command allows for some leeway when soldiers underperform; the enemy's collapse is only a matter of time!"

"They almost made me win in a completely dishonorable way." Kraken watched all this with a cold eye, a sneer playing on his lips.

With a sickening creak, the rough wooden gate crashed to the ground with a loud thud, accompanied by the violent impact of the battering ram, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The leading officer drew his broadsword with a swift motion, slammed it against his shield, and roared with a ferocious expression, "Kill them all!"

The atmosphere of fierce battle was instantly ignited, and the surging passion made the faces of these city defense soldiers flush red.

Like wild beasts unleashed with a bloodlust, they roared as they stormed through the gate, brandishing their weapons and lunging at the poorly equipped, terrified slaves.

"Fight them!" Even with the most dreaded close combat right before his eyes, Mandela was the first to step forward, raising his shield and gripping his short sword.

Under his leadership, the sparsely scattered rioting slaves clashed with the well-organized city defense troops.

Faced with the well-trained city defense army, the slaves' resistance appeared increasingly chaotic.

Kraken stood aside, coldly observing everything, his eyes filled only with a thirst for victory and contempt for the weak. The battle would soon be over, and he would be the victor.