The Holy Banner broke, and it looked like nothing had changed.

But Kaler knew that the change was far greater than what the naked eye could see.

The Holy Banner was broken, the Saintess was gravely wounded, the Saint's Grandson was being chased by the Blood Knight and fleeing in disgrace toward the river.

The lances pierced throats even more smoothly now, the warhorses tore apart the horizontal ranks even more easily, and even the bullets of the gunners were no longer as accurate as before.

To the Imperial Knights, this was something far too abnormal, but to Kaler it made perfect sense.

All the toughness of these Holy Alliance soldiers rested on one thing alone: their absolute faith in that Mad Pope.

That battle standard was the symbol of the Pope's invincibility, and now, it was broken!

......

When Kaler pulled his lower leg out from under the horse's body, he hadn't even managed to stand when a piercing, drilling pain hit him.

The pain was so sharp that even his blurred vision after fainting cleared up.

His calf bone was broken.

Clenching his teeth, he bound the scabbard of his saber to his calf, and, propping himself up with a tree branch, he finally managed to stand on one foot.

Yet when he saw what lay before his eyes, Kaler felt as if he were still trapped in a post-fainting dream.

On the grassland, covered with wildflowers and berry shrubs, footsteps staggered about in chaos; the scorching sun burned armor and stream alike.

The grassy stench of horse dung, the rusty tang of congealed blood, and the sour rot of sweat-soaked leather twisted together into one.

Stretching as far as the eye could see were wounded and corpses fallen crisscrossed all over the ground, fresh blood squeezing out of their wounds.

Crows were already circling in midair, even swooping down to peck at the wounds of unconscious wounded men.

Mengse was commanding the Guard Battle Group to use their specialty—leapfrogging withdrawal—retreating toward the camp.

In the rear, Dass was constantly rallying the routed troops, trying to re-form the regiments.

But anyone could feel that something was wrong.

After the Holy Banner broke, every regiment was making mistake after mistake, big and small, with constant coordination failures.

After several charges, aside from the two Holy Armor Forbidden Army regiments still holding on with bitter determination, nearly ten other regiments, including the reinforcements, were all on the road to collapse.

The infantry's horizontal line, torn open by the cavalry, was like rotten wood split by a giant axe; the six-rank-deep square formation exploded from the center into dozens of whirlpools of flesh and blood.

The Imperial Knights were still charging into these whirlpools of flesh and blood, broken spear shafts whirling in the flood of cavalry.

Like slingshots striking birds, every time the Great Knights charged through a whirlpool, the men inside scattered like beasts and birds.

Kaler was not good at arithmetic, but even he could see that more than half of the other regiments had already scattered.

His gaze turned to the Holy Banner lying on the ground, and Kaler's heart clenched in pain.

How many times had Horn arrived bearing the Holy Banner and led them to defeat the enemy?

How many times had they taken heart from the Holy Banner and vanquished terrifying foes?

All the Priests knew that when Horn arrived, victory arrived.

Until now, His Holiness had never once been defeated.

They could win, the Holy Alliance could win, all because they had His Holiness!

But now the Holy Banner had fallen, the Saint's Grandson was not here. They were nothing but soldiers made up of farmers, yet they had to face the Empire's mightiest Great Knights.

Can they still win?

This question haunted not only the hearts of all the battle group Priests, but Kaler's heart as well.

Can they still win?

Can they win?

Trembling, Kaler limped toward the broken flagpole.

He walked faster and faster, faster and faster, until he was practically ignoring the pain in his calf, tiptoeing as he rushed forward.

"What are you doing? What battle group are you from?"

The Military Chaplains drawing their bows noticed this young man, but had no hands free to stop him, and could only watch as he ran to the Holy Banner.

Both hands grasped the flagpole as thick as a cup's rim; the heavy weight of the pole and the pain in his calf nearly made Kaler black out.

His face flushed red as he raised the Holy Banner from the ground to shoulder height under the dull gazes of the routed and wounded all around.

"We can't lose!" Kaler's voice carried a sob.

He didn't know whether they could still win, but—

"We can't lose!"

Clenching his jaw, Kaler's shoulder was rubbed raw and bloody by the flagpole, yet he still shouted with all his strength.

If they lost, what would become of his sister and brother-in-law? If they lost, who would pay Old Laver's death gratuity?

He shouted the words, but the Holy Banner still wouldn't lift; his strength alone was still too feeble.

He struggled to raise the pole, but he couldn't get a firm footing on the ground, and no matter what he did, he couldn't hoist it up.

"Up, get up for me!"

Before the words had even left his mouth, Kaler felt the once-heavy flagpole on his shoulder suddenly become lighter.

He turned his head and saw an unfamiliar officer.

Volovitz nodded to the young cavalryman he didn't know and used his remaining left hand to lift the flagpole.

"We can't lose!"

His left hand straining, Volovitz also clenched his teeth and cried out.

His newly built home, his wife, his unborn child—all were sheltered beneath the wings of the Holy Alliance.

They cannot lose, cannot lose! Even if he died, he had to stand firm; even if he died, he had to protect them. His child must never suffer the same fate as Sister Desiree.

"We can't lose!" Dieterbert, his face covered in blood and dust, rushed over and gripped the flagpole with both hands.

The Holy Alliance was a good place, the Saint's Grandson was a good man; they were the only ones who never withheld wages and even paid death benefits.

Only in the Holy Alliance was he a valiant battle group Priest, not a beggar-soldier; here he had dignity.

He actually had dignity—this was the first and only place in the entire world that had ever given him dignity.

"We can't lose!"

"Raise the Holy Banner!"

"One, two, three… put your backs into it!"

One hand after another reached out, one shoulder after another pressed in; a dozen Holy Alliance soldiers supported the flagpole.

Amid the maelstrom of routed troops, as if time were turning back, the Holy Banner once again slowly rose upright.