Thud!
The flying axes and short spears of both sides exchanged friendly greetings before the actual melee began, sending the unlucky ones howling to the ground.
"Kill!"
The promise of fifteen Gold Dragons per head gave the Second Sons an extremely high morale boost as they clashed with the enemy.
With the bounty issued, the company split into three waves to batter their opponents. When one wave fell, the next would surge forward. The veterans and elites charged at the very front to inspire the others—this was the Second Sons' signature tactic.
Relying on this single trick, the Second Sons had crushed countless opponents. Unfortunately, the opponents they faced this time were called "Players."
Hammer swung his battle-axe. Thanks to his incredible arm strength, he easily hacked down the scrawny player in front of him.
Although he was an armorer, he had experienced this scene countless times. He couldn't count the number of people he had killed even if he used his toes.
Blood splattered on his face. The fear from his early days was long gone. But in the next moment, Hammer felt that long-forgotten sensation again.
"Fck!"
Hammer's jaw dropped. The guy he had clearly hacked until his brains spilled out was actually staggering back to his feet. Right now, that disgusting, tilted head was staring dead at him.
A short sword easily slit his throat, spraying blood everywhere. Hammer dropped his weapon, clutching his neck with both hands, trying to stem the torrent of life pouring out.
"Urgh..."
As the notorious giant of the Second Sons collapsed, more and more mercenaries began to realize the horrifying nature of their opponents.
"Seven Hells! How is he standing up! I killed him twice! I killed him with my own hands!"
Kem, a young mercenary from Flea Bottom across the Narrow Sea, retreated in terror.
In front of him, the man he swore he had killed twice was furious. In Kem's eyes, the man let out a roar from the deepest of the Seven Hells:
"You bstard! Give me back my Kingdom Coins!"
Thwack!
A rusty iron axe smashed Kem's face beyond recognition.
"By the Seven Hells, what is going on!"
Mero, watching from his horse, couldn't believe his eyes. The line that should have collapsed in one hit was holding firm, while his own hundred elites led by Uhan were retreating step by step.
"Damn it! Tell Scar to stop watching the show! Order those horse-lords to flank them!" Mero felt his blood boiling. Was his mercenary company getting soft?
No, Uhan and the others must be slacking off. Damn them, I paid you so much money!
Mero was practically roaring. His messenger didn't dare to delay, sprinting to deliver the commander's orders to Scar and his men nearby.
"Let's go!"
Receiving the order, the Dothraki didn't hesitate. They unslung their bows from their saddles while simultaneously drawing their arakhs, ready to switch between shooting and slashing at a moment's notice.
"Charge!"
At the young leader Scar's command, over a dozen riders broke away like kites with cut strings, howling strange cries as they circled toward the enemy's flank.
Uhan, whom Mero believed was slacking off, was currently lying in a pool of blood. Before he died, relying on his skilled technique, he had cut down two opponents. But as he stepped over the losers' corpses, he was struck from behind.
The leaderless mercenaries didn't last long enough for their cavalry support to arrive.
Facing opponents who wouldn't die—opponents covered in blood, riddled with wounds, some even standing up to fight with half their heads hanging off—even the fiercest mercenary couldn't convince himself to fight for Gold Dragons anymore.
"Run!"
"Seven Hells!"
The mercenaries began to retreat.
Players had always been a group quick on their feet and full of ideas. Pineapple_Pizza_Lover, his head covered in blood from a slash, howled:
"The Second Sons have lost! Their Commander is dead!"
Next to him, Storm_Dominator, who had just spent Kingdom Coins to respawn and restore his severed finger, froze for a second, then caught on. He shouted at the retreating mercenaries:
"We lost! We lost! Our army is defeated!"
"Enemies on the left!"
"We're surrounded!"
"Surrender! Surrender! Stop fighting!"
The other players caught on quickly. Monkey see, monkey do—they started shouting all around, performing a symphony of panic for the already demoralized mercenaries.
The mercenaries, fierce just moments ago, lost all will to fight and scattered like birds, fleeing in every direction.
"Damn it! Send everyone in!"
"Push forward!"
The Titan's Bastard roared in fury.
His two lieutenants, Ben Plumm and Kasporio, wisely kept their mouths shut. They silently rallied their wavering lines, drew their weapons, and after shouting a few slogans about "Forward to live, backward to die," they led the mercenaries toward the opponents they had dismissed as rabble just moments before, driven by Mero's promise of heavy rewards.
"Cavalry!"
A player shouted. The next moment, an arrow pierced his throat.
"Shields up! Spears!" Storm_Dominator lifted his visor so his shouts could be heard.
As the guild's sharpshooters, Little_Li_Guang and Yang_Youji stepped forward. Unflinching behind the cover of the shield-bearers, they faced the charging cavalry head-on.
Thwip! Thwip!
Two arrows flew like meteors. Two riders from the charging group immediately fell from their horses.
The Dothraki lived up to their fearsome reputation. With superb horsemanship, they leaned low, hiding their bodies behind their horses' flanks, displaying incredible riding skills to the players.
"Don't panic! Spread out! Teams of three—attack the rider high, chop the horse legs low!" Storm_Dominator shouted.
Throughout history, infantry defeating cavalry wasn't unheard of. It relied on disciplined formations, terrain, fortifications, or elite skills and fearlessness.
But the most critical point was that the soldiers had to be unafraid of death—or at least, in the moment of impact, act unafraid enough to thrust their spears at the enemy with trembling hands.
As it happened, players were genuinely unafraid of death. And this group of Dothraki wasn't the heavy Cataphracts of the Northern and Southern Dynasties, nor were they the endless hordes of Huns or Khitans. They were just a dozen light cavalry without lances.
"I'm Yang Liulang reincarnated!"
A player screamed strangely, swinging a long axe at a charging rider. The next moment, his opponent dodged nimbly and casually sliced off his head with a curved blade.
But his opponent was immediately poked off his horse by a spear from the player's teammate. What awaited the fallen Dothraki was a swarm of blades hacking at him.
Scar looked back in horror. He had luckily broken through the players' loose formation, but he saw the players swarming his fallen comrades like madmen, tearing them apart on the spot.
Yes, tearing them apart. The players were like the Han soldiers fighting over Xiang Yu's body for a reward—every fallen Dothraki met a gruesome end at their hands.
Even though their gear wasn't any better than the players'.