Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 43: No Mercy, No Retreat 2

The Aragonese army, confident in its overwhelming numbers, began a full-scale assault with a singular objective: to shatter the Pendralis defensive line with sheer brute force. At the head of the charge, Duke Pedro Arias rode astride his warhorse, his keen eyes dissecting the enemy's formation. What he saw only deepened his confidence.

Arthur's battle line was thin—too thin. For an army so outnumbered, the only logical course of action should have been to extend the line wider to avoid flanking. Yet in doing so, Arthur had sacrificed depth, making his formation fragile. A smirk tugged at Pedro's lips. This was folly. A child's attempt at war. His knights, clad in plate armor and mounted on powerful destriers, would crash into that feeble line like a tidal wave against sand.

He raised his sword high.

"All forces—advance!"

A great roar erupted from the Aragonese ranks. Thousands of heavily armored knights surged forward, their banners snapping in the wind, their lances gleaming in the sun. The earth trembled beneath the thunderous gallop of thousands of warhorses, their ironclad hooves drumming a death march across the field. Behind them, ranks of swordsmen and pikemen followed in tight formation, their voices joining the battle cries that echoed across the vast plain.

Arthur watched from his position, seated atop his horse, his expression unreadable. To his officers, he spoke a single word.

"Hold."

His captains relayed the order, and the Pendralis troops—rank upon rank of infantry clad not in armor, but in sturdy uniforms—remained still. They did not raise shields. They did not lower spears. Instead, they gripped strange, slender weapons in their hands, knuckles white with tension.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. Where were their pikes? Their shield wall? Their archers? It made no sense. His knights would ride them down like wheat before the scythe. Had Arthur already resigned himself to defeat?

A thousand meters.

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The knights picked up speed, their charge transforming from a trot into a full gallop, the rhythmic pounding of hooves drowning out all other sound.

Arthur remained still.

"Hold."

His men tightened their grips.

Eight hundred meters.

Pedro felt the thrill of imminent victory coursing through his veins. His knights were the finest warriors in the land. Unstoppable. Unbreakable. No army, no formation could withstand a fully armored cavalry charge at full tilt.

Arthur exhaled slowly.

"Artillery—fire."

A sound unlike anything the battlefield had ever known tore through the air. A deep, guttural thunder rolled from the Pendralis lines, and a moment later, the heavens themselves seemed to split apart.

Cannon fire erupted in a relentless volley. Iron shot, explosive shells, and deadly shrapnel scythed through the charging knights like a god's wrath made manifest. The first rank was annihilated in an instant—horses and riders alike ripped apart, their bodies torn asunder by the sheer force of the blasts. Blood and steel rained across the field as lances shattered, limbs were severed, and the once-proud banners of Aragon were consumed by fire and smoke.

But the charge did not falter.

The second wave thundered forward, leaping over the smoking remains of their fallen comrades, their eyes wide with shock but their hands still tight upon their reins. They had never faced such a weapon before. They did not understand it. They did not fear it—yet.

Another volley.

This time, the carnage was even greater. The shells struck in precise, calculated intervals, tearing gaping holes in the oncoming ranks. Horses screamed as they collapsed mid-gallop, their flesh flayed by shrapnel, their riders hurled through the air like ragdolls. The once-glorious charge had become a desperate, stumbling crawl.

Five hundred meters.

The survivors pressed on, their armor blackened with soot, their faces streaked with horror. Pedro, still galloping near the center, could barely believe what he was seeing. His magnificent cavalry—his invincible knights—were being slaughtered before they had even reached the enemy line.

Three hundred meters.

Arthur's voice rang out again.

"Infantry—ready."

The Pendralis soldiers stepped forward in unison, their weapons raised. Long, slender barrels glinted in the sunlight. They did not wield swords. They did not carry bows.

Pedro's breath hitched. What were those?

One hundred meters.

Arthur lowered his sword.

"Fire."

A roar unlike any before it erupted across the battlefield. Thousands of rifles discharged in perfect unison, unleashing a storm of lead. Bullets screamed through the air, slamming into the oncoming knights with horrifying precision. The front rank disintegrated in an instant—plate armor proving useless against the relentless hail of gunfire. Men toppled from their saddles, their chests punctured, their skulls bursting like overripe fruit. Horses crashed to the ground, their bodies riddled with holes, their riders trampled beneath their own brethren.

The survivors barely had time to comprehend what had happened before another volley followed. And another. And another.

Then the machine guns opened fire.

From behind wooden barricades, the Maxim guns unleashed their terrible fury. The air filled with the mechanical chattering of death as an unending stream of bullets ripped through the Aragonese ranks. Knights who had somehow survived the initial volleys were now cut down in droves, their bodies reduced to bloody pulp beneath the merciless onslaught.

The charge collapsed.

Screams of agony and terror replaced battle cries. Some knights attempted to flee, only to be cut down before they could turn their horses. Others threw away their weapons, begging for mercy. There was none. The field was no longer a battlefield—it was a slaughterhouse.

Pedro sat atop his horse, frozen, his face pale as death. His army—his proud, unstoppable knights—had been butchered like cattle. He had not just lost the battle. He had walked into something beyond his understanding.

Arthur's sword gleamed in the sunlight as he raised it once more.

"Close the trap."

The Pendralis flanks surged forward, encircling what remained of the shattered Aragonese host. The killing continued without mercy. Bodies fell by the hundreds, then by the thousands, until the once-proud banners of Aragon lay trampled in the mud, soaked in the blood of its warriors.

Pedro turned his horse, heart pounding. He had to escape. He had to warn the king. This was no ordinary army. This was something else. Something terrifying.

Arthur watched him flee but did not give chase. The battle was already over.

The ground was littered with corpses, the smoke of burning flesh thick in the air.

Pendralis stood victorious.

As Arthur rode past his men, they erupted into deafening cheers, their voices shaking the very earth:

"Pendralis! Pendralis! Pendralis!"

Then another chant arose, swelling like a storm, more powerful, more unified:

"Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!"

Arthur did not smile. He did not celebrate.

He turned his horse toward his war tent.

There was still one final move to play.

The war was not over yet.