“Slaughter these heathens! The Crimson Gods demands more souls!”

The crazed shout of one of the attacking cultists echoed from the forests as Tomas was forced to assume battle positions.

Previously, everything was normal when a warning shout from Johnathan drew everyone’s attention. However, shortly after his shout, their mounts suddenly turned restless and kicked off their riders before disappearing into the forest. The only horses that remained were the ones pulling the carriages.

Before anyone realised what had happened, the enemy’s assault had already begun. He had only barely gotten back up when he had to brace himself for battle.

The outfit that the cultists wore was very peculiar to say the least. They were basically half naked, wearing only a pair of pants, pauldrons, and a bevor and gorget with a hood attached, all of which were coloured black. Of course, they wore these hoods over their heads.

Multiple symmetrical yet curving scars lined up on their body in a strange pattern. The cause and reason for these scars, Tomas did not know. There were also red markings on their uniform which had a similar pattern to their symmetrical scars. Some of them even wore a bright red sash.

Only the adherents of the heretical Crimson Cult adopted such an odd uniform that was both unsightly to the eyes and impractical for the battlefield.

And their weapon of choice were just as peculiar. They were armed with swords that had toothed blades. Like their outfit, their swords also had red markings inscribed onto the blade.

The appearance of just one of them was enough to make Tomas nervously gulp. Yet it seemed as if there was countless cultists hiding deep within the woods, a confident, malicious smile etched onto their faces while their eyes displayed their insidious intentions.

A trickle of sweat slowly rolled down the back of his neck. The lining of his gambeson stuck to his skin like how a leech stuck onto its host. His head was faring no better either. It felt like his brain was being baked inside the metal sallet helmet.

These unfavourable conditions made the already horrible situation even more dire.

“Rally Lads! Don’t let these black and red pansies scare you off!”

Soon, Johnathan’s booming voice once again echoed throughout the spontaneously created battlefield.

“Form a defensive perimeter! Now! Casters in the back! Non-casters at the front!”

Everyone who wasn’t incapacitated followed their captain’s orders the instant they heard them.

As a non-casting swordsman, Tomas hurriedly joined the defensive line with both of his hands tightly gripping onto the hilt of his unsheathed shortsword. He didn’t even cast a sideways glance at who was alive, injured or killed. He just focused on the upcoming battle in front of him.

Luckily for him and his comrades, they were somehow able to form a defensive line before the attacking cultists closed the distance. Nevertheless, their formation did little to slow down the incoming assault.

Within seconds, an enemy swung an overhead slash at Tomas.

With a well-timed deflection, he parried the attack and caused the cultist to stagger backwards. Then Tomas pressed forward for a counterattack. Remembering the lessons taught to him in his fencing classes, he took advantage of this opportunity to directly thrust his sword into the cultist, driving the sword through his chest.

“Grrrlllggghhh.”

The cultist made a sort of odd gurgling noise upon having a sword piercing through his chest.

Even though the cultist’s face was partly obscured by his hood, Tomas could still see the cultist’s eyes widen in shock. His pupils dilated from the pain.

At that moment, Tomas felt a short burst of euphoric joy within his heart upon realising that he successfully killed the cultist. Although this was by no means his first battle, this was the first time slaying a heretical cultist.

However—

“Ah shit!”

That victory was short-lived.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

He immediately regretted his actions after dealing the killing blow. His sword was stuck in the cultist's chest. But that was not his main problem.

Another cutlist a few feet away from him winded up for a strike.

“Goouuuggghhh!”

The cultist with a sword through his chest made an awkward pained croak as Tomas hastily attempted to free his sword from its bloody confinement.

The sword remained stuck. His thrust was sloppy. Giving up on the sword, he let go of the hilt and braced himself with his forearms. He may seriously injure himself and cripple his ability his ability to fight in the process but it was better than losing his life.

But the sword slash that he was dreadfully expecting never came.

“Krrrkkk!”

Three blurs shot past Tomas before three separate blood explosions blasted out of the cultist, two from the chest and one from the head.

These three ‘blurs’ were actually a set of three sharp prism-like crystals. However, unlike real crystals, these ones looked like they were made out of blue light and seemed to be both corporeal and incorporeal at the same time. Tomas soon realised what these crystals were.

Only one magical profession was capable of producing such ‘crystals.’

Arcane Magic.

And Tomas knew exactly who was responsible for this arcane magic. His mouth curved upwards into a smile as he mentally thanked Karazhan in his mind while also using this moment to remove his sword from the corpse of the original cultist.

“You sons of bitches! I’ll kill you all!”

But to Tomas’s complete and utter surprise, Karazhan charged forward past both Tomas and the overall defensive line and into the ranks of the cultists.

“[Arcane Missiles!] [Arcane Missiles!] [Arcane Missiles!]”

With the palms of both hands aiming at whichever cultists were closest, he repeatedly chanted the name of the same spell over and over.

The runic symbols on his white gloves glowed bright blue lights as more and more ‘arcane missiles’ materialised in front of his open palms before promptly flying into the enemies unfortunate enough to stand in his path. Bodies dropped wherever he went, staining the soil with the colour red.

Just by himself, Karazhan cut a bloody swathe through the cultists. His intent was obvious. He intended to wipe out all of the cultists just by himself.

But had Karazhan really been such a reckless person in the past?

Thoughts such as these crowded the mind of an awestruck Tomas, who only stood idly by.

“Move out and cover him! We can’t afford to lose him!”

But it didn’t take long until another commanding shout from Jonathan pulled Tomas back into his senses. With gritted teeth, he felt the grip on his sword once again tighten as he broke into a quick sprint.

With his sword hanging by his left hip and ready to attack, Tomas let out a strong battlecry as soon as he approached the nearest cultist, of whom was too distracted by Karazhan’s carnage to pay any mind to Tomas.

“Haaaaaaaaah!”

He slashed sidewards as he shouted, first surprising the unsuspecting foe before his stomach was disemboweled by Tomas’s blade. A second later, the cultist’s innards spilled out onto the ground in a grotesque manner.

Having realised that an attack which left his sword embedded into his enemy’s body would leave him vulnerable, he decided that a quick but fatal attack at the cultist’s exposed stomach was more suitable for this sort of forrest skirmish.

The results spoke for themselves.

“AAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The bewildered cultist could only drop his sword and grasp at his intestines in vain as he feebly collapsed onto the dirt, screaming as he did so. But Tomas didn’t pay the screaming cultist any attention, instead he focused on his surroundings, ensuring that no other cultist was preparing to strike him from the back like before.

What he found was that the battle around him had started to tip in their favour. Thanks to Karazhan’s action, the previously high morale of the assailants wavered while the morale of the guard escorts rose tremendously.

“We’re winning! We are actually winning!”

He couldn’t help but exclaim his joy loudly as he rejoined his comrades in battle.

...

Elsewhere, within an office that was mostly black in colour, a woman with long silky white hair and scarlet eyes leisurely leaned back in her office chair.

She wore a white business suit which was outlined with red trims. Her skin was a fair white colour and a pair of two white horns protruded from her temples, curving backwards and blending in with her hair.

She held a bag full of popcorn while a glass and bottle, both of which were full of wine stood on the office table. In front of her, there was a massive flat ‘sheet’ of orange-red flames that hovered in the air and didn’t expand or go out.

However, it was perhaps better to describe this ‘sheet’ of fire as a ‘screen’ instead. Because this ‘screen’ was actually displaying a scene, much like a tv screen from worlds which are currently in or beyond the ‘information era.’

In particular, it was a battle scene that took place in the middle of a forest around a dirt road. This battle wasn’t particularly special. It was just a simple ambush that began after the signal of the blood-red arrow ordered the others to charge blindly.

Without taking her gaze away from the screen, she grabbed a handful of popcorn. She had more popcorn in her hand than she physically should be able to carry, as if reality itself bent to her will.

Soon after, her face distorted and warped. Her mouth suddenly stretched across her entire face while her eyes literally pulled themselves out of her eye sockets in order to continue watching. Both of her eyes had a small ‘tail’ of fire, almost making them appear like miniature shooting stars.

She revealed that her amount of teeth has nearly quadrupled when she opened her mouth and gladly fed herself. Somehow, someway, the overabundant amount of popcorn she held managed to fit within her mouth.

A few seconds later, her face returned to its original shape. Her mouth retracted back to its natural size and her eyes ‘flew’ back into her eye sockets. She kept a nonchalant and relaxed demeanor as she simply continued to chew on the popcorn and watch the battle take place on the screen.

Within her ‘rather long’ life, she had already seem numerous battles across numerous worlds that was similar to or outdone this battle. Yet she still took the time out of her day to personally watch this battle. In her own honest opinion, it was very uncharastic of her.

Yet a certain factor of the battle had kept her attention.

The screen itself gave her a perfect view of the battle, allowing her to witness every grueling duel and every fate changing blow.

“We have another man down! We need a cleric now!”

“I can’t cure death! I’m a cleric! Not a miracle worker!”

“More on the right! Focus your spells on the guuuahhhhh!”

The screams and shouts of numerous men attempting to defend the caravan from the crazed cultists rang out of the ‘screen’ only emphasised the bleak brutality of the battle. Even though one side of the defence took the initiative to counter attack, their casualties couldn’t be discounted.

Numerous swordsmen from both fractions have already collapsed dead, now acting as fertiliser for the vegetation or food for the nearby scavengers. The magic casters aren’t doing too well either. A sizeable amount of the caravan escort’s clerics were lying dead on the floor, most of whom were victims of the one armed with blood-red arrows.

The entire scene was less of an organised clash and more of a chaotic brawl. Yet the scarlet eyed woman still found it entertaining, all thanks to that aforementioned ‘factor.’

That man who took refuge in one of the carriages along with the wounded and non-combatants, calmly watching the battle unfold in front of him.

Seeing this sight, the woman’s lips curved upwards into a soft smile.

She took a single sip from her glass of wine before she said a single sentence.

“You better not disappoint me Walter.”