The army came to a halt at the crest of a sprawling hill. Thousands of soldiers fanned out behind Garin, their formation a sea of glinting steel and fluttering banners. At the forefront sat Garin atop his horse—a sturdy, commanding beast larger than the one he had once struggled to mount as a young recruit. Now, he rode with ease, his posture confident as he held the reins in one hand and surveyed the landscape before them.
They had reached the escarpment. It was a breathtaking sight, one that silenced even the most boisterous soldiers. The sheer cliff stretched endlessly, as if carved by a divine hand to split the world in two. In front of them, the land of Ridge sprawled below, its rolling hills and sparse forests now firmly under the Holy Empire's control. To the left, the dense jungle loomed above the escarpment, an untamed wilderness that seemed to breathe with its own life.
Far in the distance to the right, beyond the forest, a faint glimmer caught Garin's eye—the Hoover River. A narrow band of silver snaking its way through the horizon, it marked their destination. It seemed so small from here, almost peaceful, but Garin knew better. That river would be their greatest challenge, a natural barrier guarding the Hoover Kingdom.
He inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp air at this height. The view was perfect, almost serene. Garin adjusted his grip on the reins and turned his gaze back to his troops. For a fleeting moment, he wished they could linger here, to simply exist in this rare moment of peace.
The locals from the Ridge Kingdom led the way through the serene forest, their movements confident as they navigated the well-trodden dirt path. This route, once frequented by merchants and travelers, now bore the heavy tread of an army on the march. The towering trees offered a canopy of dappled sunlight, their gentle rustling masking the distant murmurs of soldiers.
The army had spread out, its formation thinning to accommodate the narrow road. Garin rode at the forefront, his eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance. To their right, the forest stretched endlessly, its peace deceptive to those unfamiliar with the land. To their left, the escarpment loomed ever-present—a sheer wall of rock and earth that seemed to stretch to the heavens.
Though the path kept a safe distance from the escarpment's edge, its imposing height served as a constant reminder of their isolation. Climbing it was unthinkable, yet its shadow seemed to press down on the men as they marched, a silent testament to nature's indifference to their mission.
Before long, the army emerged from the dense forest onto a vast plain. Though the area was still dotted with tall trees, their scattered placement provided just enough space for the soldiers to close ranks. The army's formation grew tighter, their steps echoing a new readiness.
"Halt!" Garin's voice cut through the rhythmic clatter of marching men. His horse came to a stop, its nostrils flaring as if sensing the tension.
At the far end of the plain, another army began to take shape—slightly smaller in number but no less imposing. Their banners waved in the wind, the colors stark and vivid against the muted green of the field.
Garin inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the advancing force. For a moment, silence stretched over the plain as both armies became aware of one another, the hum of distant murmurs growing louder.
"You think they see us?" his captain asked, breaking the stillness.
"Hmm," Garin replied, his tone unreadable. Without another word, he urged his horse forward, its steady trot drawing all eyes.
Tradition dictated what came next. In moments such as these, before the chaos of an all-out battle, commanders often met alone at the center of the field. It was a gesture of mutual respect—an attempt to gauge their adversary before swords were drawn.
The soldiers behind him watched in silence as Garin advanced, the weight of expectation settling heavily over the plain. The other army's formation shifted, and a single figure broke from their lines, riding out to meet him.
"You are of the Holy Empire? Their crusade trophy, Garin the Commander," the opposing commander called out as his horse drew near, his voice steady but tinged with disdain.
"This does not have to end in bloodshed," Garin replied calmly. "If you surrender now, you will be assimilated into our Empire."
The opposing commander let out a sharp laugh. "Don't give me that same crap your messengers spew. You're Garin the Commander, the one the Holy Empire sends when blood must be drawn."
"In every battle I've led, I've always offered mercy," Garin countered, his gaze unwavering.
"Mercy?" the man spat. "You speak of mercy as if your reputation means nothing. As if you truly desire no bloodshed."
"If I had not led this army," Garin began, leaning forward slightly in his saddle, "another reckless commander would've taken my place. Some offer no chance of surrender before battle. They seek only glory, where I seek peace."
"Peace?" The opposing commander's voice rose, incredulous. "You bring thousands of men to our border under your banner for peace? Do you even hear yourself, Garin the Commander?"
Garin remained silent for a moment, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. "I hear myself, just as I hear the screams of every soldier who fell under the command of men who cared only for conquest. I march here to ensure the chance for peace—even if it comes after a fight neither of us wants."
The opposing commander studied him, his face full of skepticism. "We will fight this war to protect our lands. Our king is aware of the respect you claim to have for innocent lives. However," he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing, "just how far does that respect go for those who don't believe in your god?"
Garin's jaw tightened. He knew exactly what the man meant. The majority of those who lived in the Hoover Kingdom worshiped no god, embracing atheism—a belief that was anathema to the Holy Empire's doctrine. It was a situation similar to Salaman, a kingdom where he'd heard many are atheists. At this height, Garin knew little of whether the Holy Empire had declared victory in Salaman, but he did know that many of the Holy Empire commanders showed no tolerance for atheism.
Garin hesitated for a moment, the silence stretching between them. "Belief or disbelief does not justify slaughter," he finally said, his voice low but resolute. "I am not here to enforce faith. My fight is to ensure a peaceful resolution, not to punish what your people hold in their hearts."
The opposing commander snorted, though a flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Bold words, coming from the sword of a holy crusade. But tell me this—what happens when your Empire orders you to do more than simply march forward? What happens when they demand you punish us for our lack of faith? Will you, and you alone, protect all of us?"
Garin's grip on the reins tightened. He wanted to speak, to offer reassurance, but the truth weighed heavily in his chest. The opposing commander saw it, his expression hardening.
"You hesitate, Garin the Commander. That hesitation tells me all I need to know."
Without another word, the man turned his horse, signaling the end of their parley. Garin remained where he was for a moment, staring after him. He could feel the eyes of his own men in the distance, waiting for his return, waiting for his decision. The question the other commander gave echoed in his mind as he finally turned his horse and began the slow ride back to his army.
The horns of war rang out, their deep notes vibrating through the ground like an ominous heartbeat. Garin turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as the opposing commander's sword glinted in the sunlight. Off in the distance, their army surged forward, a massive wave of soldiers charging with reckless determination.
Quickening his horse's pace, Garin pushed through the last stretch back to his lines. His captains were already on edge, their hands gripping weapons as they awaited his orders. With a single nod and a sharp, commanding yell, Garin called for the U-formation.
The response was immediate. Horns on their side sounded, signaling the shift. Thousands of men shuffled into position with precision, the well-rehearsed maneuver a testament to Garin's leadership.
The U-formation quickly took shape. Garin rode at the base of the "U," where the line was thinnest, but accompanied by his most disciplined soldiers. The sides of the formation extended outward with cavalry positioned at the forefront, their banners fluttering in the wind. Behind the cavalry came the lightly armored knights, swift on their feet and ready to exploit gaps. Further back, we're archers.
It was a formation that carried risk—Garin's position at the base was the most exposed. But it was deliberate. The design drew the enemy inward, leaving their flanks vulnerable to the cavalry's devastating charge.
Garin had chosen the U-formation specifically for this occasion. His sharp eye during the parley had assessed the opposing forces with precision. The enemy had a mass of foot soldiers, far outnumbering their mounted troops, with only a sparse presence of anti-cavalry units. Their archers, while present, were poorly positioned, and their scattered ranks suggested a lack of cohesion.
As the distance between the two advancing armies closed, the tension grew almost unbearable. The enemy commander's strategy became clear when their soldiers raised pikes, forming a deadly barrier aimed to counter any cavalry charge. Garin instantly recognized the trap—a calculated ploy to bait his mounted forces into a disastrous advance.
"W-formation when we get close!" Garin bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The captains relayed his command to the signalers, and the horns sang out a new, deliberate call. The other commander furrowed his brow, confusion evident on his face as Garin's formation seemed to remain unchanged.
"Hold formation!" the opposing commander shouted, his men stiffening their ranks.
Garin's pace remained steady, his horse's hooves thudding rhythmically on the plain as the gust of wind carried dust and tension alike. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, their trust implicit and unwavering. Every knight had been trained for this moment—for adaptability, for precision.
As the armies neared each other, mere seconds before contact, the Holy Empire's formation shifted with breathtaking precision. From above, the U-formation morphed seamlessly into a W. The transition was swift and flawless, a testament to the Knights' discipline.
The cavalry, once at the sides, halted their advance, their horses pulling back in unison. The foot soldiers behind them surged forward, forming the sharp tips of the W's wings. Archers, initially positioned farther back, moved to the bottom points of the formation, ready to rain arrows from relative safety.
At the center tip of the W stood Garin, leading the charge. His heavily armored figure, flanked by elite soldiers, became the focal point of the formation, daring the enemy to meet them head-on.
The enemy commander's face twisted in frustration. The maneuver had caught him off guard, disrupting his strategy before the battle had even begun. Garin's forces advanced with renewed confidence, their formation now perfectly adapted to counter the enemy's tactics.
The gap between the two armies shrank to mere meters, and with it, the air grew heavy with anticipation. Suddenly, the Holy Archers released a synchronized volley, their arrows slicing through the sky in elegant arcs. The timing was impeccable, the projectiles striking the enemy front lines just before the two forces collided—a calculated tactic to ensure maximum damage with minimal risk to their own troops.
Chaos erupted as the opposing soldiers scrambled to adjust. Having dropped their pikes moments before, the enemy front lines struggled to switch to swords in time. Their movements were frantic, disorganized, and slow—a fatal error against the well-disciplined Holy Knights.
Then came the clash.
The sound of steel meeting steel and the cries of men filled the plain as the armies collided. The opposing front faltered under the precise assault of Garin's forces. The W-formation worked its magic, its pointed tips driving deep wedges into the enemy's ranks. The center, led by Garin himself, struck like a hammer, while the sides pressed relentlessly, encircling and isolating pockets of resistance.
The battlefield roared with chaos as swords clashed, arrows whistled, and war cries filled the air. The Holy Knights surged forward, their W-formation carving into the enemy ranks with surgical precision. Cavalrymen tore through scattered infantry, while archers fired methodically from the rear, thinning the enemy's reinforcements.
Garin fought at the forefront, his blade a blur of silver as he cut down soldier after soldier. Each swing was calculated, each parry precise, his movements like a dancer amid the carnage. Around him, his men pressed onward, a tide of steel and determination.
The enemy commander, however, refused to yield. Rallying his forces, he called forth a reserve of pikemen hidden within their ranks. At his signal, these soldiers surged forward, their long weapons designed to disrupt cavalry and halt the Holy Knights' advance.
Garin saw the shift too late.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of movement. A pike. It struck his horse's flank, a brutal thrust that sent the animal rearing in agony. The commander barely had time to react before he was thrown from the saddle.
He hit the ground hard, the impact forcing the air from his lungs. Stars danced in his vision as the battlefield blurred around him. His horse bolted, wounded and wild, disappearing into the fray.
Garin struggled to rise, but the weight of his armor and the pain from the fall pinned him. Around him, chaos reigned. His men pressed forward, unaware their commander had fallen. The Holy Knights' momentum carried them deeper into the enemy ranks, their disciplined assault overwhelming the faltering defenders.
Garin's chest rose and fell heavily as he lay among the blood-soaked earth, his breaths shallow and labored. Around him, the remnants of the battle painted a grim tapestry of broken weapons and lifeless bodies. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustling of the wind through the trees.
His vision swam as he scanned the battlefield, seeking any sign of his men. But the horizon offered no answers. No banners waving triumphantly, no glint of armor catching the sunlight. Only the lifeless forms of the opposing forces remained.
Where are they? Garin wondered, his thoughts sluggish and clouded. Did they abandon me? Or did they press forward? The questions clawed at his mind, but he had no strength left to find the answers.
He felt the warmth of his blood pooling beneath him, seeping into the soil. His hand instinctively moved to the wound in his side, the jagged edge of his armor exposing torn flesh beneath. The sight of his crimson-stained fingers brought a bitter smile to his face.
"Hah... so this is it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted of iron and regret.
The weight of his sins bore down on him as he stared at the overcast sky. Faces flashed through his mind—innocent conscripts and desperate warriors—all lives he had taken in the name of peace, in the name of protecting his men. Yet peace had never come, only more bloodshed.
He coughed, crimson splattering his lips. "This is where I die, then," he chuckled. "No warm bed. No final prayer. Just... dirt and blood."
The idea of an afterlife offered no solace. He had long since abandoned the notion that he could find redemption. His god would not welcome him; the atrocities he had committed were too great. He had marched under the banner of righteousness, but his hands had always been stained red.
Garin closed his eyes, the blurring world around him fading into darkness. "Forgive me..." he whispered to no one, his final words a plea to the void.