The sharp, piercing sound of heavy weapons clashing and scraping filled the air, accompanied by the furious roars and shouts of both sides in battle.

On one side were swordsmen clad in silver-white armor, numbering around twenty. On the other side were night stalkers dressed in tight black outfits, numbering at least one hundred and twenty.

The silver-armored swordsmen had the advantage of superior equipment and individual combat strength, surpassing the black-clad assassins. However, the assassins made up for everything with sheer numbers, outnumbering the swordsmen several times over.

The scene was utter chaos, with bodies still warm collapsing one after another. Blood splattered across the entire ground—some from the silver-armored swordsmen, but even more from the black-clad assassins. The blood quickly blended into this silver world, turning what should have been a silvery landscape into a crimson one.

Even the bravest tiger cannot withstand a pack of wolves. The silver-armored swordsmen were the fierce tigers, while the black-clad assassins were the savage wolves. In just a short while, the more than twenty silver-armored swordsmen were reduced to sixteen, while the assassins paid double the price.

The heavy casualties did not slow the black-clad assassins; instead, it only fueled their ferocity. All the assassins threw themselves at the silver-armored swordsmen with reckless abandon, their weapons like the scythes of death itself.

“Protect the young master!” Seeing his men fall one after another, the captain of the silver-armored swordsmen, George Washington, shouted. He was a giant of a man, two meters tall, and the greatsword in his hand matched his height, reaching two meters in length. To call it a greatsword was almost an understatement—it was more like a door panel.

In the hands of the burly George Washington, the door-sized greatsword was a weapon of unquestionable lethality. Its sheer weight allowed him to cleave through assassins’ bodies with little effort, slicing them in two with a single blow. The spurting blood was quickly frozen by the frigid air.

At the captain’s roar, the remaining silver-armored swordsmen instinctively closed ranks. The vice-captain, 'Mark Allen', gripped his sword in one hand and shielded a young boy behind him with the other—the very target of the black-clad attackers: the young lord of Fallen City, [Samuel Parker].

At this moment, the young lord of Fallen City, 'Samuel Parker', had terror in his eyes. The stabbing pain in his chest made it hard for him to breathe.

The fear of death stripped away his usual elegance; no matter how refined he might be, it could not change the fact that he was only fifteen. In the face of blood and death, fear was winning out.

“Damn it, were those black-armored city guards all **** raised? With all this commotion, why haven’t they shown up yet?” Captain George Washington was growing desperate.

“We can’t hold out any longer. If the young master’s wounds aren’t treated soon, he won’t make it.” The vice-captain, 'Mark Allen', who had never left the boy’s side, was extremely anxious. He was thin, but his sword hand was long-fingered and calloused, proof that he was no less skilled than the captain among the sixteen silver-armored swordsmen.

The young lord Samuel Parker’s chest was stained with a conspicuous patch of blood on his white shirt—a wound inflicted by an assassin an hour earlier. If the captain hadn’t arrived in time, that strike would have ended the young lord’s life. Though his life was spared for the moment, the wound was deep, and without treatment—

“Hold on a little longer. Those damn black-armored guards should be here soon.” The burly captain George Washington swung his greatsword fiercely, sending another assassin to meet death. His voice was hoarse. But would those damn black-armored guards really arrive in time? The captain himself wasn’t sure. In his heart, he had already cursed those guards and their ancestors for eighteen generations.

The roars of the silver-armored swordsmen and the clash of weapons remained the dominant sounds in this small corner of the battlefield.

The remaining sixteen silver-armored swordsmen fell one by one, and even the indomitable captain was now covered in several deep, bone-revealing wounds.

———————————————

The young lord Samuel Parker now sat leaning against a wall, his breathing growing weaker, his eyes becoming dull and lifeless. Even the sound of weapons clashing seemed to fade in his ears.

Excessive blood loss had left Samuel Parker’s face pale. He knew he was about to face what no human wishes to face. Yet, strangely, the closer death crept, the less afraid he felt.

“Is that you, vice-captain Mark Allen? Has my aunt not come yet?” The young lord Samuel Parker gasped, speaking softly to the vice-captain guarding him. His words came with difficulty.

“No, Miss Grace Bennett hasn’t returned yet. She said before she left that she would be back tomorrow.” Though the young lord’s voice was faint, the ever-attentive vice-captain Mark Allen heard him clearly. The aunt he spoke of, Grace Bennett, was his mother’s younger sister. Since the young lord’s mother had passed away, she had cared for him here.

Miss Grace Bennett was very beautiful—the most beautiful person Mark Allen had ever seen in his life.

“I see,” the young lord Samuel Parker whispered. In his mind appeared that fresh, elegant figure—the only woman who had ever given him a sense of family.