Amber Sword

The sunlight refracted on the ivory white Lion Heart Street of Ambeser. This road was first built in the Year of the First Lunar Eclipse (Chaos. 1437), where Charles, the Chief Priest of Ambeser, inscribed these words: ’The long street shines like snow, as if leading to the Holy Ladder of the clouds’.

Four hundred and sixty-five years ago, the White Lion Legion once marched down this long street to be reviewed by Former King Eck; yet four hundred and sixty-five years later, they appear once more on this land.

The long spears shine, the armor whiter than snow.

"The enemies have all arrived."

Sir Franz stands on the temporary position, watching a line of silver-white spear tips appear on the horizon at the other end of Lion Heart Street. The corners of his mouth slightly droop, and a cold gleam appears in his eyes.

If the enemy is the White Lion, then who are we? Karen’s failure is still in front of him, he slowly raises his right hand, five fingers merged, like a blade cut by the morning wind.

But Karen is just a waste.

The White Lion’s motto, to the death we rest; but regardless of the enemy, the legion defeats all—whether true or false, it will be revealed under the sword, it’s a blade stained with blood, praise-filled words are by no mean empty phrases; Sir Franz looks up at the battle banner of the White Lion, this is a fortress built with the blood of the enemy and ourselves, but how could the young understand.

He never believed that this kingdom would have an army that could defeat today’s White Lion Legion, not any other legion, nor the past White Lion Guard. Denying today is betraying history, Sir Franz would never forget those comrades who died in the November War.

Their blood surely would not flow in vain.

So today he will prove it all with swords and longbows, from now on, the White Lion Legion shall forever stand on this land, and their banner will never fade because of it. And how could the fate of today’s people be bound by history.

Not everyone has to live heavily burdened by the ideals of yesterday, merely continuing to exist is also a form of pride.

History speaks based on power.

"Prepare—"

The command, bringing with it the thick accent of the Northern Plateau, echoes in the wind.

Behind Sir Franz, the light infantry of the Kingdom’s White Lion Legion steps forward, like a grey-white wall of people advancing one by one, each raising their longbows, the angles of the iron bow glinting in the sunlight, forming a shimmering, trembling light band.

The command officer squints to estimate the distance.

The archers of the Kingdom’s White Lion Legion held their breath, adjusting the coordination between their heartbeat and hand-eye to unite.

The command officer finally nods.

"Distance one hundred steps, no wind—"

"Distance one hundred steps, no wind—"

Sir Franz raises his hand high with the stature of a flag, slashing it forward fiercely:

"Release!"

Buzz—

The air seems to be vacuumed, the bowstrings trembling slowly at an extremely low frequency. The arrows leave the strings, three hundred archers of the White Lion Legion release their arrows simultaneously, then seem to slowly turn sideways, drawing another arrow from the quiver behind them...

In an instant.

Barbed arrows fill the sky like locusts.

The young officer cadets of the Royal Knight Academy watch the feathered arrows rise, the orderly cavalry ranks creating a ripple like that on water. Brand observes coolly, having experienced many wars, he knows that although dense longbow volleys in battles may not cause the most casualties, they are indeed a huge test of army quality.

Many battle cases in Erune show that when low-quality armies face dense remote attacks, morale drops sharply. Because instinctively, people seek to escape plight, cowardice and haste tear the formation and even induce rout.

But war is the process of overcoming instinct.

"Maintain speed!"

"Maintain speed!"

Mou Ke, Breson, and even Loka shout hoarsely, while officer cadets manipulate their horses, raising their small shields.

On horseback, Camer takes a light breath, his gray-brown eyes fixedly staring at the arrows soaring higher and higher in mid-air, his head tilted up higher and higher accordingly

Although they’d previously experienced a few engagements, this was the first time they were formally thrown into the frontline battlefield, where the clashes between the two sides held no tactical demands, only a pure test of combat will.

And their opponents were no longer the feeble Harbor Guards—but those wearing gray-white battle armor, solemn in expression, moving uniformly, the Kingdom’s White Lion Legion.