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While the catastrophic news from Perfume Bay and Stridar had not yet fully spread, another devastating blow was about to fall on the ambitious Lyseni forces.
The Lysene army — composed mainly of mercenaries and slave soldiers, tasked with executing the "Race to the Sea" plan to sweep the entire lower reaches of the Disputed River — was marching toward the Volantene port cities of New Volantis Port and the Tax Collector's Isle.
Their mission was straightforward: not to storm the two heavily fortified cities, but to cut off their overland supply lines while providing a secure land base for the Lysene naval fleet.
According to Lysene planning, their navy would blockade the entire Disputed River delta. Then, using naval superiority, they would land large numbers of troops in the delta region and force the enemy to surrender through overwhelming numbers and siege.
Once those two cities fell, the entire coastal and riverine stretch of the lower Disputed River would belong to Lys!
Moreover, both cities were incredibly wealthy and prosperous: the Tax Collector's Isle was home to the greatest concentration of nobles and rich merchants, while New Volantis Port was a magnificent trading hub whose cargo volume rivaled even Lys itself.
At this moment, the Lyseni were strutting with confidence. The string of easy victories — capturing outposts and cities with almost no resistance — had made them completely complacent. They marched in loose groups along the road. From above, their formation looked like a long, broken snake winding through the delta.
They had no idea they had already become prey in someone else's eyes.
"Damn it, what is Lord Marcus thinking?" On a low ridge, a noble chariot driver lowered his spyglass and dismounted.
As he stepped down, a slave immediately knelt beside the chariot, using his own back as a stepping stool for his master.
"Look at them," the noble complained. "Their marching formation is so sloppy, so fragile! I bet after two — no, one good charge, their entire army will collapse!"
"Such a weak force — why did we have to yield so much ground earlier? Why abandon all those forts and cities?"
"Mohata, it's because Lord Marcus didn't want to face a united Three Daughters alliance all at once," the noble rider beside him replied while having his slaves help him into his armor and sharpen his blades.
"More importantly, Lys has the weakest land military potential of the three cities. Their citizen militia only defends the home islands. For foreign wars? Ha!" The rider laughed with open contempt, pointing at the scattered mercenaries below.
"They can only rely on unreliable, honorless mercenaries and hastily recruited rabble to fill the ranks! While we — the great, ancient Volantis — only trust citizens and nobles forged in blood and fire!"
"So Lord Marcus wants us to annihilate them completely and force Lys to withdraw from the war?" Mohata asked.
"Exactly," the rider said, fastening his vambrace. "That is the plan. And…" He smiled slyly.
"And once Lys pulls out — whether they still have the strength to continue or not — Tyrosh and Myr will pressure them to keep fighting. If Lys still has power left, they'll resent the other two cities for forcing them. If they're exhausted, they'll start infighting without us lifting a finger!"
"Tell the whole army: the moment they enter the kill zone, we strike! I want Lys to never again have the courage to face us! They've swallowed quite a few of our forts these past few days, haven't they? I intend to make them vomit up every single one!"
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As the Lyseni marched:
Suddenly, from the deep reeds along the river, a sound different from flowing water rose — the low thunder of chariot wheels!
One after another, banners bearing the ancient coats of arms of Volantene noble houses rose from behind the reeds.
Then the thunder became a storm! Light chariots, decorated with family crests and pulled by two or even four warhorses, burst out from multiple directions like ancient war beasts.
The drivers skillfully handled the reins while the warriors beside them hurled deadly javelins or drew powerful composite bows, sending arrows and spears raining down like hail.
Right behind the chariots came the Volantene noble riders — proud, excellently equipped, born to command. Their armor might not be as heavy as the Death Cult's super-heavy cavalry, but it was far more agile.
Their superb horsemanship and innate arrogance made them strike like hunting leopards — precise and merciless as they sliced into the already loose Lysene columns.
Fighting alongside these nobles were the private slave-warrior legions each family maintained.
These slave warriors had been trained from childhood in the harshest military discipline. Their combat skill was excellent, and their loyalty to their masters absolute. Their fighting ability and discipline rivaled even regular city-state troops. They formed solid infantry lines that worked perfectly with the chariots and cavalry charges, acting as an iron anvil that pinned the Lyseni in place.
There was no doubt — this was a meticulously planned ambush, striking from a position of total advantage.
The Lysene formation was shattered in the first moments. The chariots' impact was devastating on the flat delta plains, instantly tearing apart the already disorganized lines. The hastily recruited slave soldiers, whose morale was already low, collapsed immediately under the terrifying assault. They fled screaming in all directions, only to be easily run down by the pursuing noble cavalry or lassoed and captured.
Waiting for them were Volantene mines and plantations.
The hired mercenaries, though individually skilled, had no unified command and fought as scattered individuals. They couldn't withstand the organized, multi-arm cooperation of the coordinated assault.
Small defensive clusters they tried to form were quickly broken by chariot charges — the razor-sharp blades on the chariot axles spinning through the crowds and creating bloody sprays. Once the formation shattered, the noble cavalry swept in from the flanks with lances and curved swords. In the end, they were surrounded and wiped out one by one by the numerically superior and well-coordinated slave-warrior legions.
The battle quickly turned into a one-sided slaughter. Blood stained the murky river red. Corpses choked parts of the waterway. The air was thick with the heavy stench of blood and the fresh scent of crushed reeds.
A noble named Mohata, who had just completed a magnificent chariot charge, reined in his horses. The chariot spun in place. He flicked the blood from his javelin and looked at the carnage around him — the scattered Lysene soldiers being slaughtered like sheep. He curled his lip in disdain and complained to a family knight riding beside him:
"Father and Lord Marcus made too much of this. Assigning us these opponents? Honestly… a bunch of rabble who can't even put up a decent fight."
"Besides, the Un-crowned Princes should have come with us! They've been allied with our family for generations — true brothers-in-arms! Dealing with this trash is a waste of our time and effort. Why not let the Fourth Legion, the Iron Totem, handle it? This lowly work is perfect for their engineers and their picks and shovels. Let them learn that Volantis's martial virtue comes from real blood and fire, not their spades and hoes!"
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