"Your Excellency, which tribes comprise the Imperial forces? And what are their numbers?" Sir Andrew asked, his face tense with worry. The gathered knights, too, appeared visibly uneasy.
Michael removed his helmet and addressed them calmly.
"Do not worry. The Imperial forces ahead consist of approximately 7,000 soldiers. Their formation is chaotic, and their equipment is inconsistent. They're nothing more than a ragtag group. With your abilities, victory is well within reach. Follow my orders, and we will triumph!"
His composed and reassuring tone steadied the knights, and their unease dissipated.
Satisfied with their restored morale, Michael began organizing the forces. The Special Detached Unit numbered 530, but with squires and bodyguards included, their total reached 1,000.
"Form into your pre-assigned groups and await further orders. The soldiers will integrate into your units. Special Detached Unit knights, mount your horses and follow me!"
Given the flat terrain, Michael planned to utilize cavalry for the main offensive. Gripping his bow, he observed the dust clouds in the distance as the enemy approached.
Just as in previous battles, the strategy was to disrupt the enemy by eliminating their leaders, sowing chaos among their ranks.
Meanwhile, the vanguard of the Imperial forces continued their tedious march, unaware of the 2,000-strong force waiting ahead. The plains stretched endlessly before them, offering no cover or shade. The Elonia forces' scorched-earth tactics had left the area devoid of resources, even water.
"Damn them! They're trying to cook us alive!" one soldier grumbled.
Another complained, "It's so hot. Where's the water, supply officer? Give me more!"
The supply officer hesitated, constrained by the tight control of resources by the Five Great Tribes.
The supply officer, under mounting pressure, explained, "I was instructed to distribute water to the soldiers of the Five Great Tribes first. Only after that may I divide the remaining supplies."
One frustrated soldier snapped, "The Five Great Tribes? They're barely 2,000 strong and all positioned far behind us! Shouldn't those of us here, in immediate need, receive water first?"
Grumbling spread through the ranks, as most soldiers silently nodded in agreement. But the supply officer could only shrug helplessly.
"The orders are as they stand. If you wish, you can go and request permission from the leaders behind us. Otherwise, I can't do anything more."
Naturally, no one volunteered to walk back and beg for a mere canteen's worth of water. The thought of returning with nothing but humiliation made such an option even less appealing.
As the murmuring soldiers backed down, the officer attempted to placate them. "I understand your frustration, but the military code is strict. Please conserve what you have, as best as you can. We have limited supplies left, and we must also prepare for the return journey."
The logic was sound, albeit cold comfort. Complaining further would only worsen the dryness in their throats.
Despite their grumblings, the soldiers resumed their tiresome march under the unrelenting sun. The vanguard of the scouting force, lacking coordination and leadership, allowed discipline to crumble. The leaders from the Five Great Tribes remained far behind, strolling leisurely.
Several tribal commanders attempted to rally their troops, but it was like pouring water on sand. Morale remained low, and vigilance was nonexistent.
One commander, however, glanced upward, noticing a fleeting shadow pass over the ground.
The thought ended as abruptly as his life when sharp claws slashed his throat.
The surprise attack spread quickly through the ranks as commanders were felled one after another—some with arrows through their foreheads, others with their throats cut. Soldiers erupted into chaos.
Some transformed out of panic, but their partial animalistic shifts were pitifully weak. Their abilities, diluted through generations, amounted to little more than a few sharpened teeth or patches of coarse fur.
Watching from a distant hill, Michael fired arrow after arrow, his aim unerring. Each shaft claimed a leader, sending ripples of fear through the enemy ranks.
Michael's immense physical strength, enhanced by magic, allowed him to fire at exceptional range with deadly precision. His magical bow and the enchanted armor acquired from the ancient temple gave him an edge that seemed almost unfair.
Meanwhile, Miaomiao tore through the ranks of the Five Great Tribes, killing their commanders with ruthless efficiency.
[Trash. All of you are nothing but trash!] she sneered as she eliminated another leader.
Even those attempting to summon ancestral powers to fight back found themselves no match for the coordinated attacks of Michael and Miaomiao. The transformed warriors, far from intimidating, became easy targets.
As the two withdrew after decimating the enemy leadership, chaos and terror rippled through the remaining soldiers.
The remnants of the vanguard—bereft of leadership and direction—milled about in disarray.
Escape was futile on the open plains, where every path offered little cover. Nonetheless, one veteran soldier among them attempted to take charge, rallying the others.
"Regroup! We need to retreat immediately! Michael will surely return to the fortress to bring reinforcements, but that will take time. Let's retreat and use the gap to our advantage!"
It was, effectively, a call for retreat—a desperate attempt to flee. But their withdrawal ended before it began.
Back at his position, Michael had already issued orders.
"Special Detached Unit, follow me for a direct charge! Infantry, encircle the area and ensure no one escapes. These enemies hold no value as prisoners—kill them all!"
In wartime, mercy was a luxury few could afford. Michael's forces, clad in shining armor, mounted their warhorses, and prepared to charge.
Michael himself climbed atop Bucephalus, leaving Miaomiao to rest. His piercing gaze swept across his forces as they formed ranks.
The infantry, alongside the support personnel, began constructing an encirclement. With the enemy trapped, Michael signaled the charge.
The cavalry thundered into the disorganized enemy, their lances striking down everything in their path. The charge was devastating.
Panicked soldiers attempted to fight back, but they might as well have been hurling pebbles at a war machine. The cavalry tore through the enemy lines with precision, scattering them like leaves before a storm.