Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 452

Chapter 452: Fight evil for good(1) Chapter 452: Fight evil for good(1) It was chaos.

Pure, unrelenting chaos.

The battlefield was a swirling maelstrom of bodies, steel, and blood.

The clash of weapons rang out like a discordant symphony-swords clashing against shields, axes biting into flesh, and the sickening crunch of bone beneath the weight of a mace.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat, the cries of the dying blending into the guttural roars of those still fighting to live.

Robert’s eyes darted across the carnage, his mind struggling to process the sheer brutality of it all.

A warrior swung an axe in a wide arc, cleaving through a skull with a wet thunk.

Another drove a sword into a man’s throat, the blade sliding in with horrifying ease.

A lance pierced through a chest, its tip emerging bloodied and glistening on the other side.

Everywhere he looked, there was violence-raw, unfiltered, and unending.

A man clutched at his belly, his hands slick with blood as his intestines spilled between his fingers.

His lips moved in silent prayers to gods who seemed deaf to his pleas, his killers already moving on, their faces grim with the conviction that they were doing divine work for those their victimes were praying to.  Those who could still fight wasted no time.

They finished off the fallen with ruthless efficiency-a dagger thrust through a throat, a boot crushing a throat, a sword driven into a chest.

There was no mercy in their actions, only the cold pragmatism of survival.

The moment a foe ceased to be a threat, they were discarded, forgotten-a mere obstacle removed from the path of victory.

If there was space, if there was a fleeting second to spare, some offered the mercy of a quick death.

A dagger driven cleanly through the heart, a blade across the throat to end the suffering.

But more often than not, there was no such luxury.

The living moved on, their eyes already scanning for the next threat, the next kill.

It was brutal.

It was relentless.

It was war.

When Robert had agreed to take part in the attack against the bandits, he had assumed-perhaps naively-that he would fight as a nobleman should: on horseback, where speed and height offered both advantage and dignity.

But the dense, tangled forest had no regard for nobility.

There was no room for thundering hooves, no space to charge in gallant fashion.

The trees forced them all onto equal footing, stripping away rank and status until every man was just another figure in the mud, armed and desperate to survive.

The only thing that still marked him as different was his armor, the breastplate and chainmail affording him greater protection than the men around him.

It set him apart, but not in any way that truly mattered.

A well-placed blade would still find its way through the gaps.

An arrow loosed from the shadows would still pierce his flesh if fortune turned against him.

Of course he didn’t mind.

It wasn’t that he relished bloodshed-far from it.

The sight of so much red pooling at his feet, the coppery stench filling his lungs, made his breaths come faster, shallower.

But it was the knowledge that if death came for him here, it would be absolute.

No second chances.

No delaying the inevitable.

And in some quiet, shameful part of his heart, he almost welcomed it.

If fate had decided that his life should end in this cursed forest, cut down by a stranger’s blade, then so be it.

It would only accomplish what he himself hadn’t had the strength to do that night, high atop that tree, staring into the abyss.

Perhaps, at last, it would put an end to this wretched thing he still called a life.

He was here in search of redemption-but if death came for him first, he would not turn it away.

And perhaps it had arrived, stepping out of the chaos in the form of a towering man wielding a axe.

Robert locked eyes with the bandit, a silent understanding passing between them.

The man was younger, his face twisted with a mix of fear and bravado, his knuckles white as they gripped the haft of his axe.

Robert’s gaze was steady, his breathing calm.

He had seen this before-the wild desperation of a man who believed brute strength could overcome skill and discipline.

The bandit moved first, as Robert had expected.

Inexperience made men predictable.

With a guttural roar, the bandit charged, his axe swinging in wide, reckless arcs.

Each blow came with more fury than thought, the steel whistling through the air like a storm.

Had Robert been without a shield, he might have flinched, might have taken a step back to avoid the onslaught.

But fear didn’t touch him-not when the reassuring weight of his shield met every attack with a dull, resounding thud.

Again and again, the axe hammered against the old wood, the bandit mistaking Robert’s lack of immediate retaliation for weakness, for hesitation.

He thought he had the upper hand.

He thought wrong.

As the third blow came, Robert shifted his stance, angling his shield just so.

The axe slid uselessly off the wood, carving only air.

The bandit’s own reckless momentum carried him forward-straight onto the waiting point of Robert’s short sword.

The blade punched through cloth and mail, meeting little resistance as it sank into the man’s belly and burst from his back.

A wet gasp escaped the bandit’s lips, his eyes wide with shock.

The axe slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground as he crashed forward, his face smashing against Robert’s helmet with a sickening crunch.

The two of them slammed together, the bandit’s weight pressing against Robert’s shoulder as he clung to life for one desperate moment.

Robert’s grip tightened on the hilt.

With a twist, he wrenched the sword free, tearing it sideways through flesh and gut.

He planted a heavy boot against the bandit’s stomach and kicked him off.

The body crumpled onto the forest floor, the dirt drinking in the mess of blood, bile, and shit spilled from the guts.

Only then did Robert glance at his blade, the steel slick with red and smeared with brown.

His nose curled in disgust, and he wiped it clean on the bandit’s filthy tunic.

As he did, his gaze flicked to the ruined chainmail the man had worn-cheap, rusted, brittle.

If that armor had been well-kept, my sword would have never gone through.

The thought was a cold one, but it was true.

Robert shook his head, his lips curling into a grimace.

“Amateur,” he muttered under his breath, stepping over the body as if it was a dead rat , while he turned to face the next threat.

This was far from Robert’s first battle.

He had seen war before, stood amidst the chaos of clashing armies, watched men die under his banner.

But more often than not, he had fought on the losing side.

Yet, despite all those battles, he had never been this close to the killing.

His place had always been behind the lines, issuing commands to men with shields and spears, sending them forward to bleed and die at his word.

At most, he had led a detachment of footmen when ordered by his late prince, maneuvering them as pieces in a larger game of war.

But a sword in his own hand?

An enemy just a breath away, staring him down with murder in his eyes?

That was different, that was more personal.

Now, as he stood among the bodies, his sword slick with blood, he finally understood.

He understood why men broke rank and ran, why hardened warriors sometimes abandoned their shields and fled like frightened children.

It wasn’t cowardice-not truly.

It was the unbearable weight of death breathing down your neck, whispering in your ear that the next blade to fall would be the one to take your life.

Even he, who had seen so much death, felt it.

A shudder ran through him as he pulled his blade free from the bandit’s corpse, his breath coming shallow and quick.

It was one thing to watch men die from a distance.

It was another to see the light fade from their eyes up close.

This was a small battle-if it could even be called that.

No more than a hundred and fifty men had been here, and most of them had already fled the moment steel met flesh.

Robert could hardly call this a real fight.

Unlike the brutal clashes he had witnessed in the past, this was one-sided.

There was no disciplined shield wall, no desperate last stand, just scattered groups of bandits breaking apart like dry twigs under a boot, evolving in multiple single combats rather than full-fledged fighting.

A few stubborn men still fought, clutching their rusted weapons with desperate, shaking hands, but even they were only delaying the inevitable.

The majority had already turned tail and ran, disappearing into the trees in a frenzied retreat.

But the temple’s men were right behind them, boots pounding against the damp earth as they gave chase.

They were not knights, nor were they professional soldiers, but there was something relentless about them, as they fought for something they believed in.

Robert watched as the last remnants of resistance crumbled, the few still standing either cut down or wise enough to drop their weapons before they met the same fate.

The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun.

After all bandits were certainly brave when facing weaponless peasants, but when facing someone with steel, all the bravery turned into fear , just as it was happening in front of him.

A voice cut through the din of dying groans and pounding footsteps.

“Hey you!” He turned sharply, his grip on the sword tightening as his gaze swept the battlefield.

A group of three men stood near the remnants of a half-collapsed tent.

One of them-a broad-shouldered man with a bloodied axe resting against his shoulder-was waving him over.

“If you’re not going to chase them, come with us!” the man shouted, his voice hoarse from exertion.

“There are prisoners here!” Robert blinked.

Prisoners?