Drawing Cards in the Middle Ages to Rise in Ranks-Chapter 457 - 239: Little Dragonling

Torle clutched the bruises on his ribs, his face looking quite unpleasant.

The Crusaders erupted in a thunderous cheer.

It was already afternoon, and the sun above was no longer so scorching. Many soldiers were watching the duel with complete focus.

Those without horseback combat experience watched for fun.

Experienced Knights and riders were filled with shock, thinking that if either of these two faced them on the battlefield, they’d likely be knocked down in a single round—the disparity in skill was too great.

That Hans was actually wielding an iron spear that looked like it was made of solid iron, what a monster!

Even a solid heavy lance made purely of wood usually wouldn’t weigh more than ten pounds.

At this, even Knights couldn’t use a lance with such ease and skill, as described in fanciful tales.

The description of wielding a sixty to seventy-pound polearm on horseback like a whirlwind is often made by minstrel poets with no understanding or exaggeration.

On the other hand, the Saracen camp was silent, clearly having suffered a blow to their morale.

Over the years, while there were victories and losses in the wars between the Crusaders and Saracens, in most cases, if the Saracens did not outnumber them, their win rate was pitiful.

After all, before Saladin, the Guram Cavalry in Western Asia had transitioned from Turkic mercenaries to a force that really used lower-class slaves for combat, generally leading to lower morale and combat effectiveness.

It was Saladin who reformed or, rather, revitalized the Guram system.

Seeing Hans’s fierce bravery, the heart of the Saracens skipped a beat, many recalling their or their ancestors’ past defeats.

"These barbaric Franks, did they acquire their power from the Devil?"

"Eternal holy flames, please bless us to win this war and expel the traces of the heretic Devils from the sacred Goodes (Holy City)."

A soldier dropped his weapon and prayed devoutly towards the Holy Land.

Losa, who was watching the duel, asked, "Venezia, what do you think of Hans’s fighting?"

Recently, Venezia and Hans sparred daily with each side winning some and losing some.

Venezia had reached level fifty, ten levels lower than Hans. It was said that Hans had an advantage; however, Venezia’s talent and combat experience surpassed Hans’s, perfectly balancing it out.

Venezia replied somewhat insincerely, "Not bad. But, sir, I don’t really understand knight duels; I’ve never even ridden a horse. After all, a four-legged animal runs slower than my two legs."

Venezia was not particularly interested in the so-called knight duel. Coming from a "family background," he excelled at fighting in cramped indoor spaces or alleyways in the form of gang warfare, having no experience in large-scale military battles.

Eclipse snorted, looking at Venezia with some disdain, as if challenging, "Want to see who’s faster?"

Venezia, not to be outdone, glared back at it.

In the open plains, his speed might be slightly inferior to Eclipse, but in short-distance sprints or complex urban terrains, he definitely had the edge since he could scale walls and leap across rooftops, which Eclipse couldn’t.

Venezia was unaware that Eclipse also had the ability to wall-run and leap across rooftops, even able to defy gravity and stand on the upside-down deck of the Ocean Disaster.

"No worries, the second match we’ve agreed on is foot combat."

Losa patted Eclipse’s head, soothing the restless mount.

Compared to Eclipse, even Jeanne’s grape seemed less untamed.

Jeanne suddenly exclaimed, "Oh no."

At this moment, the situation in the field had changed dramatically.

Just when it seemed Hans had the upper hand, he suddenly saw the enemy’s body across from him swell, the armor he wore ballooning outward, and the scent of the Giant Dragon spreading several times more intensely than before.

Roar—

A dragon’s roar echoed from a distant camp.

In this, Losa felt the "encouragement of the boss to the little brother." He frowned, suppressing his instinctual urge to confront this as his Dragon descendant bloodline recognized the Karelian Fire Dragon, a superior dragon to the Tyrannical Dragon and on par with high-level dragons like the Norwegian Thornback Dragon and the Copper-Horned Red Dragon, which could provide nourishing energy for his Dragon Bloodline advancements.

Jeanne voiced concern, "The opponent transformed, yet Hans cannot?"

Losa replied somewhat heavy-heartedly, shaking his head, "I advised him before the battle; whether he wins or loses this duel doesn’t matter, but he absolutely must not reveal his true Werewolf form as it pertains to my next plan." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

"What plan?"

"A not very honorable but potentially highly effective plan."

Under the astonished gazes of the Crusaders.

Hans was pulled off his warhorse by Torle, lifted by the arm, and thrown over the shoulder, displaying his formidable physique. Including all his gear, Hans, who weighed at least two hundred pounds, was like nothing to him.

Bang—

Hans fell heavily to the ground. Although such injuries were inconsequential to the enduring Life Force of the Wolf Race, it still made him dizzy for a moment.

Under the closed helmet, Hans vaguely heard gasps of astonishment from far away.

Before he could shake off the dizziness in his head, the enemy pounced again, removing his Iron Gloves to reveal a ghastly, sharp Dragon Claw aimed straight at Hans’s heart.

Crack—

The iron armor withstood the enemy’s fatal blow with a sound of unbearable breaking.

Hans tried to break free from the enemy’s grasp, but Torle’s power now held overwhelming dominance. His struggle couldn’t move it an inch.

Behind Torle’s faceplate, two amber vertical pupils filled with cruelty and brutality, like a lizard’s, stared at Hans.

He tore away Hans’s faceplate and pressed a golden dagger directly to Hans’s face.

He whispered, "Die, you little bastard."

Clearly, it was a Demon-blocking Gold Weapon.

...

Eira Port.

The clanking footsteps of iron armor echoed in the deep night.

"Lord Mueller hasn’t rested yet?"

Holding a torch, Andreas said,

"Not yet, Eira Port is the most critical part of the Lord’s territory; how can I rest easy?"

Mueller smiled bitterly.

Although he was a member of the Losa Imperial Knights, he rarely truly participated in wars. His main business still lay in the caravans he previously ran, the shipyards, and later, the Eira Port Tax Office he managed.

Nowadays, Eira Port is an essential engine for the war machine of Transjordan; even when war descends, it remains the kingdom’s only maritime passage to the East.

Many merchants wanting to profit from war bring goods from

even though most of them belong to the Zoroastrian World.

The furthest reach of Genoese merchants is the banks of the Tigris at Tarsus and Baghdad. For Europeans, the entire Crescent Fertile Land is the limit they can touch; the farther East is often a backdrop of legend.

To merchants.

These golden coins, which produce pleasing sounds upon collision, are just as delightful whether they are named Jesus Christ or Eternal Holy Fire.

While Eira Port’s bulk wartime supplies are selling well, it would be a shame not to make a good profit considering the Saracens are reputed for their business acumen.

"Lord Mueller should rest early; I’ll be here tonight."

Andreas advised.

Now, Losa’s territory’s defenses are weakening to an unprecedented degree, a prime time for external enemies to exploit. Even if the enemy doesn’t intend to establish a stronghold, merely looting can be devastating to Losa Territory.

Andreas remained vigilant until the middle of the night, still full of spirit.

The bright moon shone on his face, darkened by the sun in the Holy Land, yet at some point, it had become white as snow.

No need for sleep, just a cup of fresh blood, and he could stay energetic every day.

If not for needing to drink a bottle of human blood every week, Andreas might feel this was a blessing from the Heavenly Father.

At this moment.

Behind Andreas, clear footsteps sounded.

Like stepping in water.

With each step, there was a plodding splash.

Andreas turned, looking at the visitor bathed in moonlight, surrounded by a ghostly green glow, frowning slightly: "Are there enemies?"

The visitor’s body appeared partially decomposed, a turban favored by sailors wrapped around his head, his face bearing a cocky, indifferent look, clearly one of Captain Hog’s zombie sailors.

"Yes, that’s right, the boss wants me to tell you, a Saracen fleet will arrive early tomorrow morning. The number of enemies is large; we might not be able to eliminate them all. If any slip through, you need to prepare in advance."

Andreas asked nervously: "Exactly how many enemies?"

The visitor scratched his non-existent back of the head—Andreas even worried his finger might poke into his gray brain.

"Let me think..."

"Maybe—ten thousand ships."

Andreas paused, clenched his fist, thinking, what nonsense are you spewing; even combing all active merchant ships and warships on the East Mediterranean Coast wouldn’t amount to ten thousand.

"I will prepare in advance."

Andreas sighed: "Also, please tell Captain Hog... No, don’t bother, I’ll write a letter for you to deliver."

The message: Next time, choose a more reliable messenger.