The Thirty-Third Chapter: The Preemptive Strike

  The dark and eerie forests of Germany, the once-magnificent Roman Empire's powerful legions were defeated by the Germans in the Teutoburg Forest, from that time on the Romans knew the bloodthirstiness of the Germans. When the Romans recalled the dense, dark forest that seemed to touch the sky, they felt a chill run down their spines. The German warriors, with black stripes painted on their faces, bare-bodied, and wielding sharp battle-axes, would often emerge from the underbrush and bring unspeakable carnage to the Romans.

  Many years later, on this land covered with dense forests, the Roman Empire that was once hated now had its national title solemnly taken over by the Germans, while people of the same Germanic blood were fighting and killing each other in these forests, their blood would water the earth where they grew.

  "Shhhhhh..." A team of soldiers cautiously made their way through the forest, with a swordsman holding a sharp sword and wearing leather armor at the forefront. The emblem on his surcoat seemed to be that of a certain family, making him appear to be a poor knight. Behind him were two tense-looking soldiers holding long spears, followed by three archers with bows and arrows at the ready, and finally five light infantrymen bringing up the rear. Judging from their formation, this was a reconnaissance vanguard.

  "Be careful, we are approaching the Saxons' camp." The sword-bearing poor knight crouched down and turned his head to say to his companions.

  "Damn mosquitoes." A soldier cursed and slapped his face, a blood-sucking mosquito was flattened, leaving blood on his face. In this dense forest, mosquitoes gathered and hummed, flying over to suck blood whenever they saw someone, annoying them.

  "Whoosh~~~~. Suddenly a white light flew out from the bush, straight over the crouching knight's head, and slashed into the soldier's face, cutting off the front edge of his helmet."

  "What's wrong?" The others watched in terror as a short-handled flying axe split the soldier's face in two, blood gushing out of the wound and splashing onto the soldier's clothes and the poor knight's leather armor.

  "Wah~~~!" Just as the flying axe killed a soldier, several ferocious axe-wielding warriors rushed out of the dense forest. They wore leather helmets with long ears, linen shirts commonly worn by farmers, and held round shields in one hand and battle axes in the other, charging into the vanguard team, swinging their axes and letting out terrifying roars.

  "Saxons, do not fear to go up, bowmen shoot." A poor knight swung his sword to clear a way through one of the tall battle-axe men, and as he did so, gave orders to others.

  "Ah." The forest, which had just been calm, was suddenly filled with the sounds of human slaughter. A soldier wielding a battle-axe had just cut down an enemy soldier when his body was pierced by arrows from archers. The arrows were deadly at such close range, and although the bowmen of Masonia may not have been as famous as those of England, they too had undergone rigorous training, with each arrow capable of taking the life of a Saxon.

  The Saxons came from behind. Just as the two sides were entangled, a team of strange warriors emerged from the side and rear of the soldiers of the Duke of Meissen. They wore chain mail, with crosses embroidered on their surcoats outside the chain mail, and helmets on their heads like bishops' hats in church. One hand held a pointed-bottomed kite shield, and the other held a war hammer. Their tall and majestic figures strode quickly with steady steps.

  "It's the Northern European Bishop, quick defense." The knowledgeable and experienced knight immediately recognized that this was from the bishops of Northern Europe, who came from the icy lands. These bishops were not just good at praying, but in battle they would wear armor and hold war hammers, becoming powerful warriors.

  Wow~~~~. The Nordic bishops saw the archers trying to shoot and hinder their advance, so they immediately raised their shields in their left hands to block the arrows, which all hit the shields. Meanwhile, the bishops continued to charge forward. As they approached, the well-trained archers became flustered, and their momentary hesitation was enough for the Nordic bishops to close in. Once they were within range of the lightly armed infantry, the bishops swung their war hammers and brutally smashed them into the soldiers' heads. Teeth shattered, blood splattered everywhere, and anguished wails filled the air.

  The mournful cries rose and fell, echoing through the forest canopy above, startling a murder of crows into flight, circling in the air. Gazing out at the dense, impenetrable forest before him, the Duke of Saxony's expression turned grave, his eyes narrowing with a growing sense of unease.

  "Duke, do not worry, my bishops will send these Masons to hell. Countess Wolfshild rode forward on her horse, thinking that the Duke of Saxony was worried about the unfavorable war situation, so she spoke to comfort him, and she had great confidence in this group of Nordic bishops under her command."

  "Don't you find it strange, Wolfshild?" The Duke of Saxony gazed intently at the forest in front of him, speaking to Countess Wolfshild without turning his head.

  "What duke?" Countess Woolfshield did not know what the Duke of Saxony was referring to, but she knew that this war-hardened duke must have meant something.

  "The Duke of Meissen has come with a large army, why doesn't he commit all his forces to a decisive battle with me, but instead uses these small-scale skirmishes and petty tricks? This is not like him." The Duke of Saxony expressed his doubts to the female vassal, instinctively feeling that he was being manipulated.

  "That's right, it's indeed strange. Given the large difference in the number of enemy and our troops, Duke Mason is slow to engage us in a decisive battle. There must be a trap, but I don't know what they plan to do?" Countess Wolfshild rode her horse, also gazing in the direction of Duke Mason. The latter had set up his main camp on a triangular tract of land surrounded by a small stream that was washed away by the creek water, forming a natural moat around the camp, making it an easy-to-defend and hard-to-attack location.

  "This evening, bring a few people with you to take a look at the camp near Duke Mason." The Duke of Saxony was a man who acted on his thoughts, and he calmly told Countess Wolfshild before turning his horse's head towards his own camp.

  "Caw, caw~~." At this time, the battle in the forest had already ended. A murder of crows swooped down into the forest, where corpses lay scattered all over the dense woods, with severed limbs and smashed human brains everywhere. The crows danced joyfully among the bodies, pecking at the fresh human flesh with their sharp beaks.

  "Defeated again?" In the camp of Duke Mason, the nobles were shocked to hear the light cavalry report that in several small skirmishes within a week, Duke Mason's men had hardly gained any advantage. The Saxons were exceptionally fierce and accustomed to fighting in small units, and even when Duke Mason's vassals sent out their elite troops, they often returned defeated, which made the originally confident nobles of Mason feel thorny and fortunate that no decisive battle had been launched.

  "It doesn't matter, Sir Eber and Count Lauvitz will smoothly bypass the Saxons from behind, then we'll form up for a decisive battle, now this small setback can be considered as letting the Saxons taste some sweetness."

  "Silence, this plan must not be known to the Saxons under any circumstances. No one is allowed to mention it outside of this tent." The Duke of Meissen's stern gaze stopped the loose-tongued noble and warned all the nobles not to leak the plan, because if the Saxons found out, something would inevitably happen, so the key to success was secrecy.

  At night, when the moon hung in the sky, the campfires in the camp were like stars twinkling, and the soldiers of Duke Mason huddled together for warmth. The dull and tasteless life on the march made the soldiers have little entertainment, they could only boast to each other or exchange combat experiences by the campfire. To prevent the soldiers from becoming demoralized, the prostitutes who followed behind the duke's army were also kept far away from the camp, and only a small number of soldiers were allowed to go out to seek pleasure every day.

  "Hey, noble knight, take a look at this, one of the Virgin Mary's hairs, carrying it with you will surely bring good luck." A chubby merchant held up a small box, tugging on the sleeve of an elderly knight clad in chain mail and wrapped in a cloak.

  "Oh? Are you certain this is the Virgin's hair?" The aged knight, his mustache and hair gray, grasped the merchant's arm with a strong hand, asking in a mocking tone.

  "Oh, oh, of course, of course, if you're not interested then I won't bother you, sir." The merchant selling fake holy relics was caught and nodded nervously, but it was actually just his wife's hair, stuffed into a small box and sold as a holy relic.

  "Hmph." The aged knight let out a disdainful expression and released his hand, striding forward with large steps. Behind him followed two young attendants, one of whom had a bulge on his chest but unexpectedly had a handsome face, which caught the attention of some prostitutes. They snickered as they looked at the young and handsome attendant.

  "Hey, handsome gentleman, want to have some fun? My tent is just nearby." A prostitute in a green long dress, with a flirtatious smile, approached the knight's attendant, pulling down her already low neckline to reveal half of her breasts, smiling seductively in an attempt to entice the young attendant.

  "No, beauty, I still have things to attend to with my master. If I'm lazy, I'll be whipped." The young attendant smiled, revealing his snowy white teeth, and lightly sidestepped the prostitute, continuing on his way.

  "Hmph, what a disappointment. I wonder if he and his master are a pair of...". The prostitute, having failed to drum up business, cursed in frustration, but soon she was attracted by other men and no longer looked at those strange knights.

  "Woolfshield, this is the closest point to Duke Marston's camp." The aged knight, who was none other than Duke Saxon, walked to the edge of the camp composed of scoundrels, harlots and riffraff, which was several hundred meters away from Duke Marston's camp, the nearest vantage point.