Late the second night, urgent horn calls came from the south city direction.
Then came screams and firelight.
Viscount Webster had never slept—he immediately donned his armor and charged out of his tent, face grim.
That area was defended by a small noble's knight order—not many men and poor equipment. He'd thought they could hold for a few days, but hadn't expected trouble so soon.
When he led men there, the entire section of wall had become a slaughterhouse.
Blood flowed down stone steps, armor fragments and severed limbs mixed together.
Corpses hung upside down from battlements, eyes still open, faces frozen in terror.
Not a single survivor.
"Kill!" Webster roared, personally charging with his blade.
His war blade was heavy and fierce, splitting several approaching Snow Swearer warriors to the ground in one strike, battle energy burning like flames.
Knights followed close behind, fighting desperately, gradually retaking the wall bit by bit in the chaos.
