Gibson rode his horse, cold wind hitting his face like knives.
Behind him, knights marched in formation, hoofbeats heavy.
"Faster! Move faster!" he urged in a deep voice.
They had been traveling for five days, using battle energy to travel with almost no rest.
Because he understood the importance of this mission and knew Clear Feather Ridge's situation was not optimistic.
Two barons with over a hundred men against eight hundred Snow Swearer cavalry—holding out for several days would already be a miracle.
"Hurry!" Gibson growled. "Any later and we won't even be able to recover the bodies!"
War horses panted heavily, foaming at the mouth, hooves even spattering blood.
But he didn't stop, just continued charging.
However, when they finally reached Clear Feather Ridge, the scene before them left him slightly stunned.
The camp was orderly, bonfires burning, soldiers patrolling—everything peaceful as usual.
No enemies.
No corpses.
Not even traces of battle could be seen.
