First Battle

Unexpectedly smooth.

Suleiman watched as the Burned Men warriors of the Mountain Clans, who had been charging wildly toward the village entrance, finally grasped the current situation.

They stood there, stunned.

He couldn't help but sigh: "Barbarians who don't use their brains will remain barbarians for a lifetime!"

He had originally prepared for the worst-case scenario—a night of close-quarters combat—but he never expected this group of barbarians to remain idle all night!

It wasn't that Suleiman didn't want to launch a night raid; it was mainly because he lacked confidence in his soldiers' ability to handle close-quarters fighting.

He had an impression of the Mountain Clans, as Tyrion had rated them very highly.

The Burned Men, in particular, were feared by every other tribe of the Mountain Clans; it was said they proved their courage through self-mutilation.

Whether by burning off a nipple, a finger, or even an ear, they had to sear away a body part to declare their adulthood.

Tyrion had heard that their current war leader, Red Hand Timett, had gouged out his own left eye with a red-hot dagger.

Suleiman had been quite panicked when he learned from refugees last night that the enemy was the Burned Men.

But he hadn't expected that, despite facing a force with a massive numerical advantage, the enemy would choose neither to break through nor to attack while his position was still unstable.

Suleiman had hurried to order his troops throughout the night to dig trenches and set up barricades at the only exit leading out of the village.

This was no complex military engineering; it was merely using readily available timber, farm tools, and dirt to construct a simple defensive line in a short amount of time.

This was Suleiman's first time commanding a battle, and he was still somewhat nervous.

But, the combat strength was three hundred against forty—the advantage was his!

"Enemy attack!" "Archers, ready!" "Infantry, form ranks!" Lushen and Roslyn were galloping on horseback, shouting.

However, the scene he had anticipated did not occur.

He had originally envisioned the Burned Men warriors charging through a rain of arrows, roaring as they threw themselves at the makeshift fortifications, attempting to leap over the trenches and hack at the wood with their weapons.

His soldiers would then strike from behind the barricades with spears, while axemen and swordsmen would handle any Burned Men who managed to climb over.

Yet, nothing happened.

The group of Burned Men warriors, who had been charging as if unstoppable, suddenly and abruptly halted their steps upon seeing the trenches and barricades before them.

The warriors at the very front leaned forward due to their immense momentum, but their feet remained firmly planted in place.

The warriors behind them stopped in quick succession, and the previously tight charging formation instantly became loose and chaotic.

They maintained their forward-leaning posture, yet stood frozen at the village entrance like statues, weapons still gripped in their hands.

The savage grins on their faces hadn't fully faded before being replaced by a clear, incredulous bewilderment.

They stared with wide eyes at the scene before them: that shallow trench, that row of crooked wooden barricades.

And behind the barricades, the group of Flatlander soldiers—who should have been scattering in flight, crying and begging for mercy—were now holding their weapons, calmly waiting for them.

After an awkward, eerie silence, someone finally broke the stalemate.

A tall Burned Men warrior, with a particularly striking burn scar on his cheek, pushed past his companions and strode toward Suleiman and his men.

The archers aimed their bows at him, waiting only for the order to fire!

He carried an arrogance born from his very bones and a contempt for the Flatlanders, as if the trenches, the barricades, and the archers aiming at him simply did not exist.

He walked to the edge of the trench, gripping a spiked wooden club, and looked at the Riverlands soldiers behind the barricades with a provocative gaze.

He made no attempt to cross or destroy the fortifications, but instead began to shout loudly:

"Hey! You Flatlanders hiding behind the wood! Who is your leader? Step out!"

His voice echoed in the quiet morning air, carrying a primitive demand for a fair duel.

In his view, three hundred against forty was an absolute numerical advantage, and hiding behind fortifications was a cowardly act.

Suleiman stood on a high slope behind the crowd, watching as a Burned Men warrior walked right up to them, demanding they form ranks for a fair duel.

Just walking straight up like that—how presumptuous.

Suleiman: ...

Seeing this, Suleiman's previously tense body completely relaxed.

"Archers!" Suleiman's voice was clear and powerful, carrying an unquestionable command. "Loose!"

The archers immediately obeyed; they had already nocked their arrows, keeping them aimed tightly at the target ahead, waiting for Lord Suleiman's command.

As soon as Lord Suleiman's order fell, more than a dozen bowstrings were released almost simultaneously, and the arrows flew!

"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"

The rain of arrows, accompanied by the sound of tearing air, instantly crossed the barricades and flew toward the Burned Men warrior who was still clamoring for a fair duel at the edge of the trench.

Perhaps that Burned Men warrior was still expecting the leader of these Flatlanders to walk out, or at least respond to his provocation.

Or perhaps he expected them to ignore him, allowing him to mock the weakness of the Flatlander leader.

But he had never expected to receive such a direct and cold response.

A trace of contempt still lingered on his face.

He had no time to make any evasive maneuvers.

Nearly a dozen arrows struck him almost simultaneously.

Some hit his beast-hide armor with a dull thud, while many more ruthlessly pierced his body, burying themselves into his chest, stomach, and limbs.

His front was turned into a pincushion by the point-blank volley.

The shout in his throat came to an abrupt halt, and his body twisted from the excruciating pain.

The spiked wooden club in his hand clattered to the ground.

He stared with wide, incredulous eyes at the arrows embedded in his own body.

It seemed that even at the moment of death, he could not comprehend why this group of Flatlanders would play so far outside the rules.

Because the Flatlanders he had encountered before all prided themselves on their so-called chivalry.

Yet, why would this group so despicably use bows and arrows to ambush a Warrior who was in the middle of demanding a fair fight?

Then, his body went limp, and with a heavy thud, he toppled backward onto the edge of the trench, falling silent forever.

The Burned Men warriors were enraged; they had encountered other Flatlander groups before, but they had never seen such a shameless Flatlander leader!

To actually ambush a Warrior.

They had encountered other Iron-skins in the Vale, even Iron-skin knights, and they all adhered to this so-called chivalry.

Yet these men, when faced with a massive numerical disadvantage, chose to build fortifications and ambush a Champion!

"Archers, nock your arrows!" Suleiman continued to command.

He noticed that Lushen and Roslyn also seemed somewhat confused.

Suleiman did not explain; why should there be rules in war? Demanding to line up for a fair fight?

That was a colossal joke; he had never heard of such a stupid and unreasonable request!

War was inherently unfair; there would always be one side that was stronger and one that was weaker.