Chapter Ninety-One: Unstoppable Force

These two hundred riders appeared to be nothing more than a ragtag army. Their armor and equipment were mismatched, and the rider at the rear wore a set of infantry light armor cobbled together, with nothing but a reinforced breastplate nailed onto his chest. Hooves pounded the earth, sending mud flying as the two hundred cavalrymen charged ahead in a triangular formation toward the distant horizon.

The camp of Hasting remained vulnerable; the Odin soldiers within had not yet regained their senses. Astonished by the thunderous arrival of the Byzantine cavalry, they stood frozen. Chaya’s long axe swept forward, cleaving the Odin warrior before him cleanly in two; the horse’s unstoppable momentum sent the corpse flying. The two hundred brave men followed Chaya, surging forward before the Odin troops could regroup, cutting across their camp once more.

The rearguard was splintered into three sections, and the areas of melee had become a tragic field of slaughter. Chaya's two hundred riders dashed through the empty camp of the Odin forces, and even before they drew near, Hasting’s elite soldiers sprang into action—a hundred-strong unit wheeled quickly, facing Chaya's formation head-on. This was a cavalry unit, their majestic reindeer lifting their massive antlers high, Odin warriors atop their backs howling madly, axes in hand.

And most formidable of all, at the front of their line were two Odin berserkers riding bears.

Chaya remained at the vanguard. To maximize his horse’s speed, he wore no heavy armor, his bare arms exposed, with two dragon scales sewn into the leather lining of his chest armor. An oncoming black bear berserker charged at him, its enormous paw descending. Chaya was instantly assaulted by a pungent stench. He swung his long axe, his eyes turning blood-red as his battle aura surged forth without reservation.

With a hiss, the axe, tinged with a faint red glow, flashed across the bear’s body. The metal armor on its forelimb, along with flesh and bone, was severed, and the bear’s head was cleaved off as well. Chaya spurred his horse onward, hooves leaping over the fallen carcass. He reversed his axe, ramming the spear tip of the handle into the Odin warrior’s skull, crushing it.

Chaya led the charge, and the triangular wedge of cavalry behind him crashed into the Odin warriors ahead. The leading soldiers of both sides were thrown from their horses, some hitting the ground with shattered limbs and bloodied faces, crushed beneath hooves. Others scrambled up, weapons in hand, roaring as they lunged at the nearest foe.

Chaya was the sharpest point of the triangle. His axe whirled, a crimson light enveloping him. The blurred shadow of his axe grew into a storm, his killing technique unleashed to its utmost. Each swing, though lacking dazzling battle aura, contained a hidden red glow—a force that rendered anything before him fragile as paper, be it armor or weapon.

Under the gleaming axe, Chaya was like a beast baring its fangs, tearing apart anything in his path. Blood sprayed in his wake, heads arcing through the air, once-hot blood splattering his body and turning into cold, black-red patches.

Though they numbered only two hundred, with Chaya as their peerless vanguard, the cavalry unleashed astonishing courage and ferocity. Chaya roared forward, with his knights following, trampling the enemies blocking their way to pieces.

Soon, a hundred-man unit was shattered in moments, unable to withstand even a single clash.

Chaya’s formation plunged straight into the encirclement.

He roared, his body marked by countless traces of Odin axes and swords. But bolstered by dragon blood, ordinary attacks could not harm him. Chaya had become the battlefield’s fiercest god of slaughter, his blood-red eyes free of fear or pain—only endless rage and carnage.

His wild cries ignited the blood of every cavalryman behind him, their eyes reddening, becoming more than brave—almost fanatical.

Facing Odin axes, they charged without fear, thrusting their spears into foes, letting their own blood spill onto the earth. Any rider who fell, as long as he still drew breath, would pull his dagger and leap at the nearest Odin, stabbing, ramming, biting.

The thick encirclement was actually pierced through by Chaya’s two hundred horsemen.

Chaya rode at the front, the red glow of his axe and his endless shouting serving as a beacon for his men. They forgot everything, holding only one thought: charge! Follow that direction, charge!

Within the encirclement, the rearguard had been carved up into isolated clusters. Chaya’s rampage gathered together the stranded Byzantine warriors, like streams converging into the sea. Though many fell, more joined the mass.

The soldiers were not ignorant of fear, nor unaware of terror. Yet this country bumpkin became the wellspring of their courage. No matter what lay ahead—Odin’s blades and flames, their axes, forests of spears, bear-riding berserkers, or dense ranks of reindeer cavalry—this rustic would always roar and leap in first, breaking the enemy’s formation with brute force.

For a brief moment, the riders following Chaya felt a strange illusion: as if they were invincible.

After several fierce charges across the battlefield, more than six hundred horsemen had gathered around Chaya, as more rearguard warriors joined. The Odin forces now recognized the threat he posed, and squads of elite Odin warriors surged toward them. Soon, Chaya and his men felt the mounting pressure.

More and more Odin soldiers surrounded them. Though Chaya was a powerful vanguard, individual valor could not truly sway the tide of battle—especially since he was far from invincible.

At last, he was wounded. Two Odin warriors clung to him fiercely, their axes bursting with battle aura. Chaya’s armor was torn, and the force nearly unhorsed him. His axe was broken at the handle by an Odin attacker; Chaya stabbed the broken shaft into the foe’s chest, but his shoulder was struck by a heavy hammer. The impact shattered his light armor, and blood welled up in his throat and sprayed across his horse’s head. He drew his fire fork, severed the enemy’s reindeer’s head, and as the animal collapsed, he finished off the assailant.

Chaya gasped, feeling his strength nearly spent. The scarlet battle aura could only be sustained for about the length of a meal, and most of that time had already passed. His invincible state would not last much longer. Surveying the ant-like masses around him, and glancing at his depleted forces, Chaya knew he was at his limit.

Saving this many was already the utmost he could do. To press on now would mean death for all.

Just then, an angry roar erupted from the left among dozens of Odin warriors—a familiar bald figure was bellowing, blood bursting forth. Chaya’s eyes blazed red, and he charged toward the sound.

Kevin was gravely injured; his right shoulder armor was shattered, along with the bone beneath. He struggled to wield a longsword in his left hand, unable to use a heavy mace with just one arm. His horse was dead, and he stood on the ground, his left leg wracked with pain so fierce it weighed heavily on his heart. But he had no time to check his wounds; blades stabbed at him from all sides. Kevin could only swing his sword desperately, but was struck twice more from behind. He heard his armor ripping, but felt no pain—perhaps he was already numb.

Kevin’s vision was blurred by blood; everything around him became a crimson haze. Then he heard a familiar shout, and a horse rushed in, knocking two Odin warriors flying. A red light swept past; the Odin weapons shattered, and several heads soared through the air.

Chaya grabbed Kevin by the back and hauled him up, tossing him onto his own horse. The two rode together, Kevin clutching Chaya’s waist, gritting his teeth, panting, "Damn it... I owe you again..."

Chaya laughed madly, snatched up a discarded spear from the ground, and hurled it forward with all his strength.

With a thunderous crash, the spear knocked down more than ten Odin warriors blocking their path. Chaya spurred his horse on, trampling through the crowd.

Hasting stood coldly, watching from outside the encirclement, his eyes fixed unblinking on the battle within and on that indomitable man.

"Strong... but he lacks the heart of a true warrior," Hasting murmured, turning his head and pointing his war lance at a spot on the field. "Forget the others. I want only his life."

Behind him, hundreds of black bear berserkers roared in unison and charged forward.