"Hey there, young blood! Keep up, hahaha!"

"Show 'em what Wildfield Cavalry really means!"

"Charge!"

The dust-choked riders thundering toward the battlefield were none other than the Wildfield Cavalry.

Booming laughter erupted from several grizzled veterans in their sixties within the ranks.

By standard military reckoning, soldiers over forty were already considered past their prime.

Yet these old-timers radiated no frailty—instead, their battle aura blazed fiercer than the young recruits behind them.

Their Inner Energy reserves alone qualified them as C-Rank Warriors.

On the battlefield, they weren’t relics—they were lions in winter, hardened by time.

These were the very men who’d helped Barzak rebuild the Wildfield Cavalry.

Tragic, really. Once counted among the Four Great Cavalries, they’d been reduced to bandits after retirement—their legacy erased.

But when Barzak proposed forming an elite unit after their surrender to Baha Balm, their eyes had ignited.

They saw hope: the Wildfield Cavalry reborn!

True elites weren’t forged by numbers—they carried an unbroken flame.

So long as embers remained, the unit could rise again.

Unquenchable. Eternal.

*That* was an elite force.

Frankly, even Chining’s finest would be crushed beneath these riders.

This cavalry had a soul—a legacy that made veterans swell with pride.

New recruits lacked the tempering of time; they couldn’t topple legends.

These old-timers were the keepers of that flame, determined to reignite the Wildfield spirit.

They toiled relentlessly, shaping raw recruits into a cavalry’s silhouette over six grueling months.

Now, they needed one thing: a baptism of blood.

After this Blood Battle, they’d truly become the Wildfield Cavalry.

Their bodies were aged, but the two thousand riders behind them were young.

They’d pave the path with their own bones, honing these youths to restore the cavalry’s former glory.

Then the next generation would carry the torch—until the next after them.

"Riders’ resolve! Hooves thunder across the plains!"

The old-timers roared the cavalry’s ancient oath.

"Riders’ resolve! Hooves thunder across the plains!"

Two thousand voices answered like a storm.

"We’ll show you how Wildfield Cavalry fights!"

"Follow these old bones!"

No commander directed them. None was needed.

They moved as one—instinctively forming ranks, flowing across the battlefield like water.

When the lead rider fell, another surged forward without hesitation.

They were cavalry without chains.

Free men of war.

No elite force in the world could match their seamless succession—no collapse, no rout.

The Wildfield Cavalry knew no defeat.

Under the veterans’ lead, the two thousand riders sliced into the fray in mere breaths.

Horses armored in black. Riders clad in black.

A wave of ancient, oppressive might crashed over Stanki’s forces.

Sunlight bathed the spring battlefield in gold—yet this black tide charged as if to banish the very light.

Their weapons weren’t lances, but war-axes.

Long-handled, heavy-bladed axes that could cleave enemies beneath hooves.

Hooks between blade and shaft ripped shields from desperate hands.

Savage strikes. Fluid maneuvers.

*This* was the Wildfield Cavalry.

From above, Stanki’s formation looked like shattered pottery—cracks splitting its ranks.

One old-timer hooked a Stanki heavy infantryman’s armor, dragging him a hundred meters before hurling him into a cluster of foes.

Every soldier who tried to intercept him fell, skulls splitting under axe-blows.

*Swing—crack!* Helmets shattered like eggshells.

Unlike piercing lances, axes brought raw annihilation.

The Wildfield Cavalry didn’t scatter enemies—they hunted them.

Scattering, then converging.

A single beast disguised as chaos.

The young riders had stumbled at first, unused to this brutal style.

But soon, they embraced its savage simplicity.

Born to hunt nimble bandits across borderlands, this tactic reeked of outlaw flair—yet it dominated open battle.

Like tigers: ferocious yet agile, unyielding yet resilient.

The lead rider drew the fiercest fire. Cracks spiderwebbed across one veteran’s black armor; arrows jutted from his frame. Beneath his helmet, exhaustion lined his face.

But he didn’t slow. *Couldn’t* slow.

*Fight on. When I fall, another takes my place.*

He believed it utterly.

This battle was his final gift. The flame was passed. Now he’d watch it blaze anew.

So long as embers lived, the Wildfield Cavalry endured.

"Ahhh—*cough*—kneel before my hooves, hahaha—"

His laughter choked off.

An arrow punched through his throat.

Dark blood seeped across black steel.

"Old fool! Too loud! Follow *me*! CHARGE!"

Grief flickered in the eyes of his comrade—this was their first battle back.

Then the banner lifted. The old warrior surged to the front, leading the charge.

Attacks rained on him. He didn’t flinch. His axe carved through flesh and bone.

Hooves trampled bodies. Blood slicked his blade.

But age betrayed him. As his Inner Energy guttered out, four spearmen pinned his horse with shields.

Trapped. Immobilized.

His guard faltered. A spear found its mark.

As the second veteran fell, a third seized the banner.

The tide turned. Baha Balm’s forces surged.

Two thousand Wildfield riders paid with dozens of lives—but crushed thousands beneath iron hooves.

This was elite terror made flesh.

Watching them, I silently thanked fate for crippling Leahdon’s cavalry at Windward Fortress first.

This slaughter defied reason.

A single unit outmatched any general—even Barzak would fall before it.

At the rear, Herates’ eyes burned crimson.

*Wildfield Cavalry?! Impossible! They vanished years ago! How does Baha Balm command them?!*

His earlier ambush had masked their true power.

Herates knew elite forces better than most—he’d studied military arrays for decades. The Four Great Cavalries haunted his nightmares.

This was a war-changing weapon.

After the Wildfield’s charge, Stanki’s forces bled out like a broken dam—down to four or five thousand.

Baha Balm still held six thousand.

(Stanki’s count included wall defenders—Men Tu never stopped sniping them.)

His Inner Energy nearly spent, Men Tu fired arrow after arrow, snatching fallen shafts when his own ran dry.

After thousands of shots, his vision blurred. His arm went numb. He shot by instinct alone.

*This is my duty.*

Hours bled into one endless day. The battlefield narrowed to scattered pockets of violence.

I squinted at the stabilizing front lines.

"Men Tu. Something... dramatic. To shake their spirit."

He obeyed despite trembling muscles, drawing his bow with the last dregs of Inner Energy.

"*Heavenstartle God!*"

Like divine retribution, the arrow tore across the field—hundreds of soldiers vaporized in its path—before embedding deep in the city gate. A hairline crack split the wood.

Men Tu collapsed, cross-legged. His reserves were meager—barely B-Rank Warrior level.

It was his archery that placed him among A-Rank elites.

*One more shot... and that gate might have fallen.*

While I felt the battle’s end near, Herates stood frozen.

Silent.

He stepped down from his command post.

Walked slowly toward the front lines.