Walter King looked down from above, observing every move of the Black-Clad Army, and without hesitation, dispatched a cavalry unit to meet them. On the outskirts of the battlefield, they engaged in a fierce entanglement with the Black-Clad Army’s vanguard.

　　Warhorses brushed past each other, and dozens of cavalrymen had huge gashes torn into their bodies, screaming as they fell to the ground. The survivors quickly turned their mounts and launched a second head-on charge. Steel blades reflected the morning sun, splashing dazzling red light in all directions.

　　Compared to infantry clashes, cavalry charges were undoubtedly more brutal. In just two rounds, both sides had lost thirty percent of their elite troops. The remaining survivors still refused to give up, clamping their horses’ bellies hard and once again raising their sabers for another charge.

　　“Charge, charge forward!” The young warrior Arthur King, fired up by the clash between the cavalry, was boiling with excitement. He stood on his stirrups, brandishing his treasured sword with all his might.

　　The surviving warriors on both sides indeed began a third round of charging. Their actions showed not a hint of hesitation. The distance of over a hundred paces vanished in an instant. “Boom—!” Another muffled explosion echoed. Red mist billowed, and warhorses, carrying their masters’ corpses, leapt out of the bloodfalls, wailing mournfully!

　　This round was nearly a draw again, but the cavalry left near the melee on both sides was now less than half of the original number, no longer able to fulfill their respective missions. As if by mutual understanding, the captains suddenly turned their mounts and galloped back toward their own main forces, leaving behind the corpses of both friend and foe.

　　“A draw, a draw!” Arthur King grew even more excited, as if he hadn’t noticed the mutilated remains scattered on the ground. “Little Ben, from now on you’ll follow me, and the two of us will be cavalry commanders together. We’ll charge into battle on horseback, and if we fall drunk on the battlefield, let no one laugh at us…”

　　He deliberately said these last few lines to Eric Scott. As the son of a general, inheriting his father’s career had become his highest life goal. But the only response he got was the faint sound of teeth chattering. Drowned out by the other cries and wails on the battlefield, it was almost impossible to notice without listening closely.

　　“Little Ben, Little Ben, what’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you’ve been scared silly!” Arthur King was shocked, quickly jumping down from his saddle and wrapping his arms around the trembling Eric Scott. “You—you’re so useless? You’re so tall and strong! Don’t tell me you’ve never even killed anyone! You’re the chief disciple of the second-in-command of Wagang, Second Master Scott!”

　　“I—I—I…” Eric Scott could only keep himself from collapsing by bracing his wooden spear against the ground. Blood, endless blood—since the battle began, all he had seen was endless blood. Whether it flowed from the Black-Clad Army or from the Wuying Army, it was all a deep, rich red. So thick he couldn’t open his eyes to see, couldn’t hear the sounds around him, could barely even breathe.

　　He knew that acting like this would surely bring shame to Wagang Village. But he simply couldn’t escape the thick red all around him, couldn’t straighten his back to face the blood and death head-on.

　　Arthur King had guessed right—he really had never killed anyone, not even a chicken. In the fragmented memories from before he woke up, and in those after, he had always been well protected by those around him. His axe skills were taught by the sixth-in-command, Peter Wright, and his practice targets were always rotten tree stumps in the mountains. The first blood he ever saw was from his own head, not from anyone else’s body.

　　“Someone, help! Little Ben, Little Ben has lost his soul to the sight of blood!” Unable to stop his companion from trembling, Arthur King shouted for help at the top of his lungs.

　　Soul-loss syndrome was a kind of lazy affliction he’d heard about from his elders. It usually only happened to those born with incomplete souls or to cowards. Once struck by the blood and spirits of the dead on the battlefield, such people would lose the ability to move or speak, and might even be scared into madness, never to recover.

　　But at this moment, hardly anyone around was paying attention to these two half-grown boys, and no skilled doctor came to help. Arthur King shouted for a long time but got no response. He had no choice but to brace Eric Scott’s waist with his knee and use his left hand to force his friend’s head toward the fiercest part of the battlefield. “Don’t be afraid, open your eyes, open your eyes and look carefully. Even evil spirits fear the wicked, and besides, you’re surely still a virgin, your true yang is intact, and a hundred ghosts can’t harm you!”

　　“Open your eyes, look—try your best to look! Either you become an idiot, or you get through this yourself. Don’t count on anyone else, not even the gods can help you!” As he shouted, he searched for the Wagang leaders, hoping to draw their attention and get the right remedy for Little Ben.

　　The chief, Thomas Brooks, appeared at the very front of the formation. Riding a sturdy iron-grey horse, his spear danced up and down, picking off Black-Clad soldiers who charged at him.

　　The third-in-command, Richard Foster, was leading over a hundred Wagang infantry, fiercely clashing with the Black-Clad Army, who had pressed forward at some unknown point. Half his body was already stained red with blood, though it was unclear whether it was his own or the enemy’s.