Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

The battlefield was thick with the scent of blood and the cries of the dying. Smoke from burning torches curled into the evening sky as the cold wind carried the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood.

The clash of steel and the thunder of hooves echoed across the open field as reinforcements poured out from the enemy camp.

Allen, watching from a short distance, narrowed his eyes as he assessed the battlefield. The enemy had sent only thirteen riders? That was an insult.

"Jasper, take your cavalry and smash through them," Allen ordered, his voice cold. "Serena, rain arrows from the rear. I want them dead before they get a second wind."

Jasper did not hesitate. He raised his sword high and roared, "Charge!"

The cavalry surged forward, their warhorses kicking up dirt as they thundered toward the enemy horsemen. The enemy riders lowered their pikes, bracing for impact, but Jasper and his men showed no fear. The first collision was brutal. The sheer force of the charge sent men and horses flying.

Loud booms rang out as the pikes struck armor and flesh. Blood sprayed in arcs as Jasper's men cut through the enemy, their swords and spears sinking deep into their foes. In the first exchange, seven of the thirteen enemy reinforcements were struck down. Five died instantly, their bodies crumpling to the ground, while two more groaned in agony, clutching at their fatal wounds.

The remaining six enemy horsemen struggled to regain formation, fear evident in their eyes. They hesitated, gripping their weapons tightly but refusing to charge.

That hesitation was their downfall.

Serena's voice rang out. "Archers! Loose!"

A wave of arrows sliced through the air, whistling as they rained down upon the enemy. The remaining horsemen barely had time to react before they were impaled by steel-tipped death. Some slumped in their saddles, others fell from their mounts, but all met the same fate—death.

Jasper pulled his horse back, glancing toward the enemy camp. The fleeing attackers were now only a hundred meters from the camp's main gates. More than forty additional enemy horsemen rode out to meet them, galloping hard to counter Jasper's forces.

Allen frowned. Something wasn't right.

The enemy camp was large, yet only a handful of men had come out to fight. By now, hundreds of soldiers should have stormed out like a horde of hornets defending their nest. Instead, only a few dozen had emerged.

"Where are the rest of them?" Allen muttered.

Still, there was no time to dwell on suspicions. Jasper had already turned his cavalry to face the incoming enemy horsemen.

Allen's attention was pulled away as another group arrived from their own camp. A knight named Armen approached, leading four silver-ranked knights at his side.

They dismounted and saluted Allen. "Lord, we are ready for battle."

Allen nodded sharply. "Join Jasper and cut them down. No mercy."

The knights mounted their steeds once more and charged toward the enemy without hesitation.

As the forty enemy horsemen closed in, the battle erupted again. Jasper's cavalry, Armen's knights, and Serena's archers worked in deadly harmony. Swords clashed, arrows struck true, and men screamed as steel met flesh.

One after another, the enemy fell. Some were slashed from their saddles, others were crushed beneath the hooves of charging warhorses. Serena's archers continued to rain death from a distance, ensuring that even those who attempted to flee would not escape.

Soon, only twenty enemy horsemen remained. They hesitated, their formation breaking apart as they watched their comrades die. Fear settled in their hearts. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and outmaneuvered.

The battle continued in bloody chaos. The two sides clashed, the sounds of combat echoing through the night. The enemy guards at the camp's gates, witnessing the massacre before them, scrambled to shut the gates.

Allen's sharp gaze caught the movement.

They were closing the gates?

A slow smirk spread across his face as realization dawned. If they were truly a fully stocked garrison, they would be sending reinforcements, not closing themselves off.

"They're hiding something," Allen murmured.

If the enemy's true force were here, they would be flooding the battlefield with soldiers. Even if they lacked enough horses, there should be infantry. But there was none.

Allen's smirk deepened. This camp was vulnerable.

"Jasper!" Allen's voice cut through the battlefield like a blade. "Send your fastest rider to our main camp. We're taking that camp tonight!"

Jasper didn't hesitate. He turned to one of his younger soldiers—a boy barely in his twenties. "Ride like hell," Jasper ordered. "Tell them the Lord wants the attack force mobilized. Now go!"

The young soldier saluted before kicking his horse into a full sprint, disappearing into the darkness.

Allen's bloodlust surged, he would make sure no one inside that camp lived to see the morning.

Now, there was no turning back. Allen raised his sword. "Charge!"

His knights and soldiers surged forward, weapons gleaming under the pale moonlight. The guards at the gate, realizing the danger too late, scrambled to grab their pikes. But before they could mount a defense, a deadly volley of arrows from Serena's archers rained down on them. The sound of steel-tipped shafts piercing flesh echoed across the battlefield. The guards slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Allen led the charge through the open gates. Inside, the camp was eerily empty. A few torches flickered in the wind, casting long shadows over the dirt-packed ground. It was clear now—the ones who had come out to fight earlier had just been unlucky enough to be near the entrance at the time. The real threat had never been here.

Further inside, two horsemen dismounted and rushed toward a large command tent. Their hurried steps betrayed their fear. They were going to report to their superiors.

"Armen, take the knights and follow me," Allen ordered.

Jasper and Serena held their positions with their troops, waiting in case reinforcements arrived.

Armen and his four silver-ranked knights followed Allen into the enemy's heart. As they approached the command tent, the sound of furious shouting reached their ears.

Allen didn't wait. He strode forward, pushing aside the heavy fabric of the tent entrance.

Inside, the two horsemen who had escaped earlier were kneeling, trembling before their commanders. A stout, bare-chested man with dark brown hair stood over them, his gray eyes burning with fury. Beside him, a middle-aged man was hurriedly pulling on a chainmail shirt.

The brown-haired man's expression turned to shock when he saw Allen, Armen, and the knights storm into the tent.

"You… Who are you? How did you get in here?" the chainmail-wearing man stammered.

Armen didn't bother answering. He stepped forward, his sword flashing in the dim light. With ruthless precision, he severed the limbs of the two kneeling men. They collapsed, screaming in agony.

"You dare harm my men in my presence?" the chainmail warrior barked, rage filling his face.

The brown-haired man didn't waste time with words. He lunged at Armen with shocking speed, his two-handed sword cleaving through the air in a deadly arc.

Clang!

Allen intercepted the attack with his own sword. Sparks flew as metal met metal. Allen's eyes narrowed.

"A Gold-rank?" he mused aloud.

The enemy leader grinned. "Afraid now, boy? Too late for regrets."

Allen smirked. "Regret? Hardly. A one-star Gold rank acting so high and mighty… I assume you're the leader? Then I'll make you pay for the sins of your men."

"You insolent wretch!" the man roared.

With a sudden kick, he sent a brazier flying toward Allen, embers scattering through the air. At the same time, the chainmail warrior moved to flank Allen from behind.

"You think my men are here just to watch?" Allen scoffed. "Armen, take the other one. I'll deal with this fool."

Armen nodded and turned to face the chainmail-clad opponent, who was now wielding a 30-centimeter blade glow—a sign of a peak Silver rank warrior.

Steel clashed as the battle erupted.

Inside the tent, the golden flashes of swordplay illuminated the brutal melee. Allen and the Gold-ranked warrior traded blows at an incredible pace, their movements blurring with sheer speed. To an outside observer, it looked as if lightning itself was crackling between them.

But while the enemy leader fought with brute force and anger, Allen moved with calm precision. Every strike was measured, every parry calculated. The power Seraphine had granted him made him stronger than before—he was now at the level of a four-star Gold rank, far outclassing his opponent.

The brown-haired man gritted his teeth, his confidence beginning to wane.

"How… how are you this strong?!" he gasped, sweat dripping from his brow.

Allen didn't answer. He saw an opening—and took it.

In a single swift motion, he severed both of the enemy's arms at the shoulder. Blood spurted from the wounds as the limbs dropped to the ground. A split second later, Allen followed up with a downward slice, severing one of the man's legs.

The leader crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud. He rolled onto his back, gasping in agony.

The chainmail warrior, seeing his leader fall, hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was all the time Armen needed.

With a powerful thrust, Armen's blade pierced the man's chest. The warrior's eyes widened in shock. He gurgled, blood dripping from his lips, and collapsed.

Silence filled the tent, broken only by the ragged breaths of the fallen enemy leader.

Allen wiped his blade clean and looked at Armen.

"You've improved," he noted.

Armen straightened, pride swelling in his chest.

"The vice-captain position in the Knight Brigade is still vacant," Allen continued. "I'll speak to Fredrick about it. You've earned it."

Armen saluted. "Thank you, my lord."

Outside, Jasper and Serena were holding their positions. The camp was theirs. The enemy had been crushed.

Allen stepped out of the tent, looking over the battlefield.

This was only the beginning.