Amber Sword

The final counterattack plan was quickly approved—

Frey was unsure how Senior Nemesia and Balta managed to persuade those nobles, perhaps Wood High Priest indeed saw it as an opportunity. In any case, she had finally managed to temporarily hold back the army’s retreat.

This was the last chance.

In the next twenty minutes, it would be determined whether the human alliance could secure the power to confront the demons for another hour. It sounded incredible, but today, Erune’s hopes were nothing more than this.

An ice-cold chill permeated through the pouring rain, as if clinging to a steel blade.

Marquis Balta divided the garrison of Bunoan Guard City in half, integrating the main force of the White Lion Legion into the officer cadets of the Royal Knight Academy, then handed this army over to Nemesia to command personally.

This was something that would never have happened in the past in Erune; the nobles would never relinquish their armies and power, their greed making them cling to their holdings like cold ghosts.

But as Balta transferred command, this commander said to the female knight, "I’m handing the White Lion Legion over to you, milady."

A simple sentence that moved even the cold expression on the female knight’s face. She thought for a moment, then silently accepted the battle banner of the White Lions.

The rain was heavy; whether those who remained or those about to head to the frontline, the future seemed equally bleak to them, yet the peril was so insignificant.

The command sounded long and clear, the city gate slowly opened.

The battlefield, filled with blood and fire, seemed particularly vivid and close to Frey’s eyes at that moment, with bright flames cutting through the night like bringing the battlefield closer, the tremors from explosions periodically swept across the area, she saw the city gate creaking and swaying.

Senior Nemesia rode ahead on horseback not far away, just a step ahead of her. Among the troops, there were several familiar faces: Owen, Beth, and the future Erune’s trio Callo, Enrock, along with the older Caglis leading his White Lion Guard.

The gray silhouettes of the troops filed out, and the demons quickly noticed the human movements, a Hellhound army appeared on the battlefield. But Frey gazed into the distance, the sky showing traces of the barbarian demons again, the demons seemingly aimed at Bunoan Guard City. Just as expected, they wanted to seize the opportunity of the human army splitting to attack this pivotal point on the battlefield.

Everyone held their breath.

Nemesia halted her battle horse one last time before ordering the army to march; this cold female knight took a final look at Bunoan Guard City, the flag on the low city wall standing out amid the heavy rain.

The New Moon of Erune on it seemed to have just risen.

Even her consistently indifferent expression softened slightly.

"Senior Sister?" Frey noticed the female knight’s unusual behavior.

Nemesia glanced at her without correcting her address: "Frey, someone is trying to provoke us."

"Huh?"

"Have someone raise the battle flag of the White Lions, and I’ll let them see. Seven hundred years ago, with help from the mountain people, the White Lion Legion defeated the Cruz people’s last army here; seven hundred years later today, we can do the same."

Nemesia replied coldly.

Marquis Balta’s eyes slightly warmed when he saw that familiar flag unfurling in the rain, despite having nearly fifty years of military experience. He suddenly recalled the old commander personally teaching him the glory of the White Lions under that flag for the first time.

That past glory seemed so dim at this moment, yet still slightly shimmering.

Like sparks erupting from the warmth beneath the ashes.

The marquis stood in the rain, reflecting on many things at that moment.

His first time donning the White Lion’s battle armor, first knight duel, first time mounting a horse, first time inhaling the chilly battlefield air into his lungs, and all subsequent myriad conspiracies and struggles, yet every victory seemed less pure than the thrill of defeating the enemy on the battlefield for the first time.

For nearly two centuries, the White Lion Legion experienced glory not from victory but from defending something, returning to the purpose for its establishment.

He inhaled the slightly sanguine wind mixed with the scent of soil on the face of Bunoan’s frontline battlefield, as if transported back to that grand battlefield facing the Wind Queen Temple’s army.