By the time Count Warren scrambled up to the ramparts, the sight that greeted him was enough to make his blood run cold.
Across the open field, a wedge-shaped formation of heavy cavalry was thundering straight toward his gates — silver armor gleaming under the noonday sun, lances angled forward like a storm of steel. The sunlight flashed off their armor, each glint like the cold edge of a blade. Even from atop the wall, the sheer killing intent radiating from that formation made the guards' hands tremble on their bows.
The precision of their ranks.
The perfection of their armor.
The unity of their charge.
No rabble could ever move like that.
Warren's heart sank. This… this isn't a force that could've been trained in just one year. Then who—?
There was no time to wonder. The silver tide was closing fast, and the murderous rhythm of their hooves rolled through the ground like thunder.
If they broke through the gate, the handful of soldiers inside the castle wouldn't stand a chance.
"Stop them! At all costs!" Warren roared.
The captain of the guard shouted back confidently, "Don't worry, my lord! The gates are sealed tight. Without siege engines, they'll never get through!"
Only then did Warren realize how shaken he'd been by his own imagination. Yes — this fortress, Blackstone Castle, had stood for generations. Even werewolves couldn't bring it down.
What could a few horsemen do?
He took a deep breath, smoothing down his rumpled coat and forcing his face back into its usual noble calm. Right. Even if it's Chen Mo… he's no sorcerer. He doesn't have wings. Let's see him fly over these walls.
Relief crept back into his chest as he looked down at the charging formation. The castle walls of Blackstone were built from solid volcanic rock, ten meters high and over three meters thick — a wall that had weathered countless sieges without ever falling.
The gate was reinforced wood bound with iron, over thirty centimeters thick, bolted with massive timber beams. Even a full charge from armored knights couldn't break it. The werewolves themselves had tried once — and failed.
Yes. Let them charge. They'd break themselves before they ever broke his gate.
The ground shook harder now — the thunder of hooves growing louder, nearer. The silver phalanx was almost within range.
"Archers!" the guard captain shouted. "Ready—!"
"Loose!"
The order snapped through the air, and a black cloud of arrows rose from the walls. The whistling hiss of hundreds of shafts filled the sky as they arced downward toward the charging knights.
"Shields up!"
Chen Mo's voice cracked through the formation, steady and commanding.
As one, over a hundred knights raised their shields, covering helm and chest.
The timing was perfect.
A heartbeat later, the arrow storm fell upon them.
Clang—clang—ding—!
The sound of steel on steel filled the field, a storm of ringing metal. Half the arrows struck true — but when the dust settled, not a single rider had fallen.
Not one horse stumbled.
The entire formation surged forward, untouched.
Warren's eyes went wide.
"What—how is that possible?!"
Even the thickest knight's armor couldn't withstand such a barrage — not completely. And yet these men rode through it as though it were nothing.
But Chen Mo's armor was no ordinary steel. Each piece had been forged in his workshop using methods centuries ahead of its time. The joint designs — refined from his own Adamantium combat suit — gave both protection and mobility.
There were no weak spots. No exposed flesh.
Only the thin slits of the eyes remained unshielded — and even those were covered by the curve of their shields.
The arrows bounced harmlessly away, deflected by the flawless curvature of the armor.
Even the horses were clad in full barding — head, neck, and chest protected by overlapping steel plates. The eye guards doubled as blinkers, keeping the beasts calm amid the chaos.
Only the legs were exposed — and shooting a moving horse's legs from above was near impossible.
The defenders' arrows had become nothing but rain against an iron storm.
"Keep firing! Don't stop!" the guard captain bellowed, his voice trembling now.
Volley after volley poured down, but it made no difference. The silver knights pressed forward through the arrow rain — relentless, unstoppable.
Within moments, the entire formation reached the base of the gate.
Too fast. Too sudden. The defenders hadn't even had time to prepare rocks or boiling oil.
They could only stand and watch, helpless, as the unstoppable cavalry arrived beneath the towering gates.
Warren's pulse steadied again. That's it. Let's see them try now.
He let out a sharp, derisive laugh.
"Fools," he muttered. "You think you can breach my gate with horses?"
He'd seen werewolves throw themselves against these very doors until their bones shattered. The gate had held then, and it would hold now.
He imagined the impact — the front ranks crushed into pulp, the rear ranks piling into them, chaos and panic spreading through their formation.
Yes. Let them come. Let them destroy themselves.
A cold smile crept across his lips as he leaned forward over the parapet, watching the knights thunder closer — thirty meters, twenty, ten — still not slowing.
"Come on then," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "Show me how you die."
And below, the earth trembled like a heartbeat — a storm of silver and steel racing toward the black gates of Blackstone Castle.