A hundred elite knights charging headlong into the gates of his castle — smashing themselves to pieces in a suicidal assault. What a story that would make.
Count Warren could already picture it: how he would tell it at the next gathering of high nobles, how his guests would gasp and applaud. It would outshine even his old tale of repelling the werewolf siege.
Yes, this time, he'd truly bask in glory.
As Warren's imagination soared, the black-cloaked knight at the head of the enemy formation slammed into the gate tunnel below.
Boom!
The heavy impact echoed through the stone walls. Warren's smile widened.
He could almost see the fool's face twisting in horror as he crashed into the unbreakable gate — bones shattering, horse crumpling. A pity he couldn't watch it from here; the gatehouse tunnel stretched several meters inward, hidden from view at the base of the wall.
But then something strange happened.
One after another, the silver-armored knights charged into the gate tunnel — not just a few, but dozens. Half the formation, maybe more.
Warren frowned. That's impossible. The tunnel's barely five meters deep — it can't fit that many men and horses at once…
Before the thought even finished, a thunderous clamor rose from within the gate.
Shouts.
Screams.
Steel clashing on steel.
The Count's eyes widened.
He couldn't see what was happening — but the knights behind Chen Mo could.
In the instant before impact, Chen Mo had drawn his sword. With a single swift motion, he brought it down in a vertical strike — a silver flash like lightning splitting the sky.
Shhhh—CRACK!
The blade cut through the reinforced wooden gate like paper.
A heartbeat later, his black warhorse — taller, stronger, and faster than any beast of the age — slammed into the gate with a deafening roar.
Instead of splintering bones, there came a thunderous crash — and the doors burst open.
The massive ironbound planks flew apart, the cut door-bar split neatly in two and sent spinning into the air, crashing down among the stunned defenders inside.
For a long moment, no one moved. The soldiers behind the gate simply stared — unable to believe their fortress gate had been broken through.
Then the silver tide poured in.
Chen Mo's knights swept through the breach like a storm of iron. The first rank of defenders barely raised their weapons before the warhorses trampled them into the stone floor. Screams tore through the air, short and sharp — then silence, save for the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
When the thunder finally passed, the courtyard behind the gate was nothing but blood and ruin.
Count Warren turned just in time to see the impossible — armored knights flooding into his castle like a silver flood.
His mind reeled. How? How did they break through? Was the gate… open?
He spun toward his guard captain, suspicion blazing in his eyes — only to find the man equally pale and bewildered, staring down in disbelief.
So it wasn't betrayal. The gate had been sealed. And yet—
Warren gritted his teeth, forcing down his panic.
The knights were now dismounting, regrouping under the inner wall.
What are they doing? he thought. Are they insane? Charging on foot now?
His confusion turned to cruel amusement.
"Idiots," he muttered. "You'll die faster that way."
He knew how it worked — a knight's full armor was his greatest strength only on horseback. On foot, that same armor turned him into a slow, clumsy target. Without mobility, they'd be slaughtered like cattle by the spearmen and archers above.
And these fools were even trying to climb upward toward the walls.
He almost laughed out loud.
The archers loosed volley after volley, arrows raining down like black snow. Though the shafts glanced harmlessly off steel, they kept firing, desperate.
Spearmen gathered at the staircases, forming tight defensive ranks.
But when the silver-armored knights reached them, the laughter died in Warren's throat.
These men weren't slow. They weren't clumsy.
They moved with terrifying grace — every swing precise, every motion fluid. Their swords flashed like lightning, cutting through spearshafts and armor alike.
The first line of defenders fell almost instantly. Longspears snapped like twigs. The next line tried to brace — and was cut down just as easily.
The "invincible" castle wall was awash in chaos and blood.
Knights under Warren's banner tried to meet the attackers blade-to-blade — but their weapons shattered against Chen Mo's forged steel. Their armor buckled beneath the weight of impossible strength.
Within minutes, the defense crumbled.
And when Chen Mo himself appeared atop the stairway, his sword gleaming with reflected firelight, Warren barely had time to draw his own blade before that same sword cleaved through him — clean, final, merciless.
The Count's head rolled across the blood-slick stones.
Silence followed. Then — surrender.
Deprived of their lord, the surviving knights and soldiers threw down their weapons. No one wanted to die for a corpse.
Count Warren of Blackstone was dead. His vast lands now belonged to Chen Mo.
With his hundred-strong armored cavalry, Chen Mo swiftly assumed control, becoming the new ruler of the region.
In the days that followed, his army struck outward — methodical, unstoppable. In just half a month, he had seized all the surrounding baronies, consolidating more than two thousand square kilometers of territory and tens of thousands of subjects under his rule.
And he didn't stop there.
After securing his domain, Chen Mo continued his campaign, expanding outward like an advancing tide.
A year later, he stood as the most powerful lord within several hundred kilometers — ruler of vast lands, commander of an invincible heavy cavalry legion five hundred strong.
With expansion came stability. The knights now focused on defense and patrols, keeping the growing realm safe from werewolf incursions.
His industries flourished — soap, glass, mirrors, and other luxuries flowing out through merchant caravans protected by his silver-armored cavalry. The trade brought gold by the chestful, fueling his armies and his cities.
But the caravans served another purpose — one few knew of.
They were his eyes and ears.
Each merchant route, each shop in a distant city, was a thread in his growing web of intelligence — his hidden network across the continent.
And through that web, a name had reached him.
A name he recognized.
Lord Victor.