Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

Agonized screams filled the battlefield as Jasper's group cut through their enemies like a well-oiled machine.

Serena, the sharpshooter archer, moved with deadly precision, her arrows finding their mark with unerring accuracy.

The knights let loose their crossbows, while those positioned further back hurled javelins into the chaos, cutting down ten or more overwhelmed foes in the blink of an eye.

The enemy's archers were the first to fall—Serena ensured that with ruthless efficiency. Next came the mounted fighters, their horses shrieking in agony as javelins pierced them, throwing their riders into disarray. The sound of wounded horses collapsing sent chills down the spines of those still standing.

Serena held the reins of her horse in one hand while reaching back for another arrow. With steady hands, she nocked it, focused on her next target, and let it fly. Within moments, fifteen road blockers lay lifeless on the bloodied ground.

But just as she reached back for another quiver, a Silver-ranked swordsman who had been playing dead suddenly sprang to life. With a feral cry, he lunged toward her, both hands raised high, ready to strike her from her mount and claim the horse for himself.

A golden light flared at the edge of his vision.

Allen's sword moved like a viper, slipping effortlessly through the narrow gap between them. His blade flashed toward the man's throat before everything turned to darkness for him.

When the dust settled, the road was littered with corpses. Of those who dared to block their way, over forty lay dead, their bodies motionless save for the occasional dying groan. A handful of survivors fled in terror, disappearing into the wilderness. Meanwhile, Allen's group stood unscathed, their efficiency undeniable.

The battle's outcome was nothing short of perfect. Serena had demonstrated the sheer dominance of an archer on the battlefield, and with Seraphina elevating her to Silver Rank, her prowess had reached an entirely new level.

Jasper, Hilter, and the others had barely needed to lift a blade—such was the crushing superiority of their force.

One of the senior students stepped forward, eyes gleaming with admiration as he saluted Allen.

"Check the bodies," Allen ordered. "Make sure to finish off any who are still breathing. Then strip them of everything—mounts, weapons, armor, provisions. Take what's ours."

"Yes, milord," the student replied without hesitation.

Allen turned to another student, "When we reach the camp, distribute the weapons and armor among our forces. As for the gold, divide it among yourselves. You earned it."

The road ahead curved, and as they rounded the bend, a familiar flag came into view—the Mark of Styles emblem waving within their encampment.

However, just beyond their camp, another settlement stood—a slaver encampment. Unlike the simple wooden palisades of their own camp, this one was fortified with a rampart of mud and stone, appearing far more secure and well-organized.

As the convoy approached, the gates of their camp swung open, and a resounding cheer erupted from within.

The slavers across the way noticed the commotion. Some mounted their horses and rode toward the battlefield, no doubt curious how a mere five-carriage convoy had managed to break through their blockade and reach the Pine Forest unscathed.

Dismounting, Allen turned to Frederick, one of the senior fighters recruited from Weston Academy, He was also the strongest amongst them being a Silver Rank Level 5, "Secure the perimeter and distribute the spears and crossbows."

With sharp discipline, his orders were carried out. The battle was won, but the war was far from over.

A senior student, his arm wrapped in a thick bandage, hurried over and saluted sharply. Allen recognized him—one of the ten academy students who had originally set out with Stroud's group.

"Dublin, isn't it?" Allen asked, giving the student a once-over. "How did you get injured? Nothing serious, I hope."

Dublin shook his head with a faint, grateful smile. "Just a few bruises, Lord Styles. Nothing worth worrying about. But Stroud… he's in the command tent, wounded."

Allen's expression darkened. "Take me to him. Seraphina, you're coming too."

The tent flap parted under Allen's hand, revealing Stroud seated inside, his upper body wrapped tightly in bandages. He looked haggard, exhaustion written across his face.

Jasper, ever the blunt one, smirked. "You look like you just crawled out of your grave."

Stroud let out a dry chuckle. "Feels about the same."

Allen waved off the banter. "Seraphina, heal him."

Without a word, Seraphina stepped forward, her hands glowing faintly as she channeled her magic. The wounds knitted together in moments, and color returned to Stroud's face.

From the side, Hilter gave a quiet warning. "Keep those bandages on. No one must know Seraphina's abilities."

It was a well-kept secret. No one outside Allen's trusted circle knew that Seraphina was a magician. To the rest of the world, she was merely Allen's mistress—a beautiful woman with no combat ability. The illusion was carefully maintained, for Battle Aura practitioners had no sense of magic and couldn't detect the buffs Seraphina provided. It was this very deception that made Allen's force seem overwhelmingly strong, as every one of his fighters operated under her unseen enhancement.

Stroud nodded. "I understand. But what about Ludwig, the herbologist? He'll want to check my wounds."

Allen smirked. "You think I'd let an outsider meddle in my affairs? I decide who goes where."

Stroud sighed. "Fair enough."

Allen's eyes sharpened. "Now, tell me what happened."

Stroud leaned back slightly, recounting the events. "We had just reached Port Talbot when I got in touch with a few old friends from Loran. One of them worked for a slaver. Through him, I managed to purchase over seven hundred strong, young slaves—most of them already awakened in Battle Force. Iron Rank, mostly, with a few Bronze."

Allen raised an eyebrow. "Military slaves?"

Stroud nodded grimly. "Many were former soldiers of the fallen Farlier Empire. Others were city garrisons captured and sold after their defeats."

The numbers were promising, but the cost had been steep. "I secured them for 11,000 gold kross," Stroud continued. "Spent a decent sum on clothing and food as well. But after the down payment, I only had 4,000 gold left—barely enough to cover the remaining 3,000 gold for provisions and transport."

Allen frowned. "And no weapons?"

Stroud sighed. "I expected you to bring them. With so little coin left, I couldn't afford to arm them myself."

That single oversight had nearly cost them everything. Without weapons, Stroud's group became an easy target. The Steven Slavers, a powerful faction in the region, had taken notice of the large purchase and assumed they were rival traders. For two days, they stalked Stroud's camp before finally making their move.

"They sent a message," Stroud said bitterly. "A simple one. First, they demanded 5,000 gold as a 'toll.' Second, they wanted half our slaves."

Allen's expression was unreadable. "And you told them?"

Stroud scoffed. "That we weren't slavers, but an army under the Styles Family."

"And?"

"They laughed in my face," Stroud admitted, his voice tight with anger. "Said they didn't care who we were. Nobles or not, we had to obey their demands."

Jasper sneered. "I bet you didn't take that well."

Stroud smirked. "You know me too well. I ran my blades through one of them and sent the others back crawling."

The act of defiance had sparked immediate retaliation. The slavers had returned in force, launching a brutal assault on Stroud's camp.

Stroud acting quickly, had fortified the camp with walls of wooden logs, but with over three thousand unarmed slaves and barely a hundred fighters, the battle had been one-sided.

"We barely held on," Stroud admitted. "The peak Silver-rank swordsman they sent nearly cut me down. We were lucky some of the senior academy students and mercenaries held the line."

Through sheer grit and desperation, they had managed to inflict around thirty casualties on the slavers, forcing them into a temporary retreat. But it was clear—the enemy would return, and next time, they wouldn't be so careless.

Allen folded his arms. "They think they're dealing with another weak slaver group. They have no idea who we are."

A cold smile touched his lips.

"Let's fix that."