Not Noble-Born, Nor From a Great House-Commanding Wind and Rain, Calling Themselves Overlords

"Whooo—"

The Riverlands' horns sounded once more.

The soaring notes were enough to leave one breathless.

Each blast hammered against the Vale knights' frayed nerves.

Like the wails of death itself, relentlessly chasing them from behind.

The flicker of melancholy that had just risen in Morton Waynwood's heart was instantly washed away by icy terror.

He clenched his teeth. "Go! Keep moving!!"

"Faster! Faster! Don't stop!"

He roared his orders, his voice ragged and broken in the night wind.

Pride.

That had long since been lost.

The only thing keeping him in the saddle now was humanity's most primitive instinct: survival.

A vast dark shadow appeared ahead—the outline of another forest.

Under the moonlight, the entrance to the forest resembled a gaping maw.

The shadows of the trees twisted and swayed beneath the moon like countless ghostly claws.

It seemed as though man-eating beasts lurked in the depths of the pitch-black woods, waiting for prey to walk into their trap.

Under normal circumstances, as an experienced commander,

Morton Waynwood would never have allowed his army to rush into such an unknown forest without scouting it first.

But now,

there were no sentries.

No reconnaissance.

Not even the slightest hesitation.

This once-proud Vale cavalry force, this army that had lost both its courage and armor,

plunged headlong into that bottomless darkness like frightened hares.

Hooves pounded over thick layers of fallen leaves, producing dull thuds, while the horses' labored breathing echoed through the deathly silent forest.

The trees raced past on either side, branches lashing their faces with burning pain.

But no one cared about such minor pain at that moment.

They only knew to keep going. Forward, and farther forward.

Before long, their view suddenly opened up.

They entered what appeared to be a broad clearing.

Moonlight poured down unobstructed,