“Walter King wants to kill us all!” Frank Thompson swung his crutch, knocking away a black-armored soldier who had charged at them, and added furiously, “He wants to kill us with someone else’s hand! Hurry, run, get as far as you can…”

The latter half of his sentence was stuck in his throat by a rush of blood. A volley of jet-black arrows flew through the air, turning him into a human pincushion.

“Fifth Uncle!” Eric Scott was also struck by several arrows, but all the arrowheads were blocked by his bright armor, none piercing any vital spots. Wailing, he rushed forward a few steps, cradled Frank Thompson in his arms, and cried out loudly, “Fifth Uncle, I’ll escape with you, we’ll escape together! If we die, we’ll die together!”

“Silly boy…” Frank Thompson managed a difficult smile, his head slumping to the side as he breathed his last.

A sharp pain stabbed into Eric Scott’s heart, making his whole body tremble and his steps falter. Frank Thompson was dead! The man who had never shown him a kind face and had repeatedly tried to drive him down the mountain—Frank Thompson was dead! Back then, he’d tried to send him away for fear of being dragged down, but now he had died in his arms, just to give him a chance to escape!

“Kneel and surrender, and you’ll be spared!” A black-clad cavalryman charged over on horseback, the tip of his blade pointing at the young man’s head from afar.

Anyone who could take three arrows and still wail and stagger around must be wearing fine armor. And in these times, a well-armored, fair-skinned youth surely came from a well-off family. Capturing him for ransom would be far more profitable than killing him outright.

“Kneel to your grandma!” Eric Scott was instantly filled with rage. Dropping Frank Thompson’s corpse, he drew a hand axe from behind his back.

“Courting death!” The black-clad cavalryman flew into a rage, immediately abandoning the idea of taking a captive for ransom. He squeezed his legs against the stirrups, swinging his saber to the side like a whip.

Just four or five steps forward and he could slice the youth’s neck in two with his saber. He’d lost count of how many desperate resisters he’d killed with this move—one more didn’t matter.

“Whoosh—!” A flash of cold light shattered his plans. The youth actually leapt up and hurled his axe straight at the cavalryman’s face.

The warhorse was already accelerating, and the black-clad cavalryman had no time to change direction. Relying on his combat skills, he threw his head back, pressing his back close to the horse’s rump.

The gleaming axe whistled past his helmet plume, making cold sweat pour down his back. He tensed his abs and straightened up, preparing to take another look at his opponent and quickly finish the fight. But just as he straightened his waist, a second gleaming axe arrived—“crack!”—smashing in half his chest!

“Ah—!” The black-clad cavalryman screamed as he fell from his horse. Eric Scott rushed up and, with a third axe, split the man’s skull open.

Before the youth could retrieve the axe from the corpse’s chest, a cry rang out behind him. “Captain Young is dead!”

“That brat killed him!”

“Kill him, avenge Captain Young!”

…

Immediately, a small squad of black-clad infantry hurried over, brandishing spears and short swords, attacking the youth without hesitation.

“Revenge? That’s right, revenge! I want revenge!” Eric Scott leapt back a few steps with his axe, then suddenly snapped awake. Fifth Uncle was dead, killed by the black-clad men’s arrows. He had to avenge Fifth Uncle, or how could he ever repay the care he’d received?

Gripping a short axe in one hand, he charged at the approaching black-clad men, his bloodshot eyes wide, not caring whether their weapons would hurt him.

This reckless move threw the confident black-clad infantry into chaos. Their long weapons couldn’t adjust in time, and their short weapons couldn’t reach. The chubby young man, driven by the courage of a newborn calf, plunged right into their midst. He raised his axe and brought it down, splitting open the skull of the man facing him.

A saber slashed along his spine, slicing through the tattered flag Frank Thompson had draped over him, screeching against his armor. A spear smashed into his left shoulder, making the steel pauldron ring. Another saber stabbed at his belly, but was blocked by his breastplate, pushing him off balance.

In the next instant, Eric Scott suddenly ducked his head, smashing his iron helmet into the nose of the swordsman opposite him, leaving the man’s face covered in blood as he staggered back, screaming. With a roar, Eric Scott spun around and chopped off the spearman’s arm with his axe. Another saber came from behind, aiming for his unprotected neck. Eric Scott shouted, leapt diagonally forward, and twisted his waist, hurling his axe at the attacker’s face.

“Ah—!” The black-clad infantryman with the saber screamed and fell, his fate unknown.

The other two black-clad infantrymen were so startled they froze, unsure whether to keep attacking or turn and run. Eric Scott bent down, grabbed a spear from the ground, and began smashing it wildly at them.