Berserk, Total War: Second Son of Nobles

Chapter 654 The last fight

Griffith's Eagle Cavalry charged through the camp gates opened by an inside agent with lightning speed. The commotion was quickly noticed by the patrols inside the camp and spread throughout the camp.

"Enemy attack!"

The sleepy Yoda soldiers rushed out of their tents, disheveled, some even being knocked to the ground by the galloping cavalry before they could even grab their weapons.

Dester was awakened from his sleep by the earth-shattering commotion, and a strong sense of unease instantly welled up in his chest.

His intuition, honed by years of battlefield experience, told him that the Midlanders outside must have launched a major offensive, and that the camp might even have been breached.

Without thinking twice, he quickly put on the custom-made armor, which gave him a fleeting sense of security.

He then grabbed the flintlock pistol leaning against the corner of the tent, ran his fingertips along the grooves of the barrel, quickly checked the gunpowder and lead bullets inside, then securely fastened his sword to his waist, and abruptly pulled back the heavy felt tent flap.

The sight before him made his pupils shrink. Soldiers were running around like headless flies, campfires were overturned, and sparks sizzled on the snow. In the distance, the sound of rapid hoofbeats could be heard, sometimes approaching and sometimes receding, like the drumbeats of death striking his nerves.

"Sir, retreat quickly."

A centurion, covered in blood, stumbled along, his armor riddled with knife marks and his helmet hanging askew around his neck.

"The camp gates have been opened. Enemy cavalry have broken through the defenses. We can't hold out any longer."

Upon hearing this, Dester looked around and saw that his own soldiers had suffered heavy casualties, the camp's fortifications had long since fallen apart, and the enemy cavalry were whistling in the light of the campfire, their movements painful to the eyes.

Clearly, the situation had reached a point of no return, and he gritted his teeth, no longer hesitating.

"Pass down the order: follow me to break through to the east."

Before he finished speaking, he grabbed his flintlock pistol and charged toward the edge of the camp. The centurion followed closely behind, gathering the remaining soldiers to form a thin human wall, trying to create a way out.

At this moment, Griffith sat upright on his warhorse, his silver armor reflecting a cold light in the firelight. His longsword swung like the scythe of death, each strike bringing forth a spray of hot blood.

He slaughtered the Yoda soldiers who fled their tents in panic, but his eyes remained sharp as a hawk's, scanning the battlefield for truly valuable targets.

Suddenly, he noticed a group of Yoda soldiers tightly surrounding a man wearing strange armor, moving him towards the breakout direction. The man's armor was exquisitely crafted, with patterns and style completely different from ordinary soldiers, clearly indicating his noble status.

"Charge forward and grab that person in front."

Griffiths gave a low shout, squeezed his legs tightly around his horse's flanks, and led a squad of cavalrymen in a fierce charge toward the group. The snow kicked up by their hooves flew like white spray, leaving afterimages in the night.

The cavalry's iron hooves kicked up snow, and the Yoda soldiers blocking their way were instantly scattered.

A soldier raised a spear to try to stop him, but Griffith dodged the blade, his longsword severing the spear shaft, and with a backhand slash, he cut the man's throat.

Warm blood splattered onto the cold armor, quickly congealing into dark red ice crystals.

Another soldier lunged forward to grab the horse's leg, but the horse kicked him, shattering his sternum. He coughed up blood and collapsed in the snow, convulsing a few times before falling silent.

The soldiers surrounding Dest put up a desperate fight, forming small shield formations in an attempt to stop the cavalry charge. But the Eagle Band cavalry were all brave and skilled in battle, their long swords slashing through the shields, and screams of agony filled the air.

With fewer and fewer guards around him, Dester had no choice but to draw his sword and fight personally.

With a flash of sword light, he pierced the chest of a cavalryman, but was forced to retreat repeatedly by the longsword of another cavalryman.

The cold blade grazed his shoulder armor, leaving a deep scratch.

Griffith seized the opportunity, spurring his horse forward, his longsword aimed directly at Dest's face, its fierce aura seemingly capable of tearing the air apart. Dest hurriedly raised his sword to parry, a loud clang rang out, sparks flew, and he felt his arm go numb, his hand nearly split open by the impact. A tremendous force traveled through the blade, causing him to stagger back two steps.

The two clashed several times amidst the chaos of battle. Griffith's swordsmanship was sharp and ruthless, each move aimed directly at vital points, as swift and fierce as a hunting eagle.

Dest managed to hold on with his steady defense, using his sabre to defend against Griffiths' attacks from different angles.

The sounds of fighting around them gradually faded away, and as the last guard fell, only the two of them remained facing each other on the battlefield.

The snow was covered with corpses, and blood meandered through the snow, congealing into dark red ice crystals. The cold wind swept by, carrying the stench of blood and a biting chill.

"Who are you."

Griffith reined in his horse, looked down at the enemy before him, and spoke in a voice as cold as ice.

Dester stood up, leaning on his sword, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, a hint of defiance in his eyes.

“I am Dester, the military advisor of the Kingdom of Heldran.”

Griffiths frowned slightly, quickly calculating in his mind.

Since gaining independence, Hilderan has maintained neutrality in the war between Midland and Yoda, while also sending military advisors to both countries. Killing the other would inevitably provoke the kingdom's hostility, which would be extremely detrimental to the Band of the Hawk's development.

He sheathed his longsword and said in a deep voice.

"Advisor Dester, you are in dire straits. You might as well surrender sooner rather than later. The Band of the Hawk will give you the respect and treatment you deserve."

"surrender?"

Dester scoffed, his eyes full of disdain.

"As a soldier of the Kingdom of Hilderan, I have never uttered the word 'surrender' in my life. If you want me to submit, you will only do so if I fall and never rise again."

As soon as he finished speaking, he gripped his sword tightly, assumed an offensive stance, and exuded an aura like a lone wolf poised to pounce.

A hint of impatience flashed in Griffith's eyes. Since persuasion to surrender had failed, he had no choice but to capture him.

He spurred his horse on, and the warhorse neighed and charged toward Dester like an arrow released from a bow.

Just as the warhorse was about to charge at him, Dester suddenly raised his hand, his flintlock pistol already aimed at Griffith's chest.

With a "bang," the lead bullet shot towards the target with a sharp whistling sound.

From Dester's perspective, Griffiths was caught off guard and fell from his horse, landing heavily in the snow and remaining motionless.

"Hahaha, the captain of the Band of the Hawk, is nothing special!"

Upon seeing this, Dester burst into laughter, releasing all the pressure and frustration he had been feeling for the past few days.

He stepped forward and nudged Griffith's body with his toe. Seeing no reaction, he confidently prepared to fetch Griffith's magnificent warhorse, a horse with incredible speed that might help him shake off his pursuers.

However, just as he bent down and reached out, Griffith, who was lying on the ground, suddenly opened his eyes. There was no weakness or injury in his eyes, only a cold and piercing killing intent.

He suddenly stood up, and his sword pierced towards Dester's abdomen like a venomous snake, the movement so fast that only a blur remained.

Dester realized something was wrong and instinctively dodged to the side. His sword grazed his side, cutting his waist and leaving a deep bloody gash. The warm blood instantly soaked through his lining.

He was greatly alarmed and instantly realized that the other party had just faked his death to lure him in. He hurriedly drew his sword and confronted Griffith again.

"What a cunning guy!"

With a roar, Dester launched the first attack, his sword whistling as it pierced Griffith's throat.

Griffith dodged to the side, his wrist flicking as his longsword slashed down diagonally. Dester raised his sword to parry, and their swords clashed again with a crisp clang, causing the surrounding snow to fall in a flurry.

Griffith's swordsmanship was agile and graceful yet ruthless; each strike was as fast as lightning, with extremely tricky angles, as swift and fierce as a hawk swooping down on its prey.

He slashed, thrust, and parried, neutralizing all of Dester's attacks while constantly searching for his opponent's weaknesses.

Dester's swordsmanship was steady and powerful, with wide and sweeping strokes, allowing him to hold his own against Griffiths with his solid fundamentals.

The two fought back and forth in the snow, the sound of their swords clashing echoing incessantly. Their footsteps trampled the snow, leaving deep and shallow footprints mixed with dripping blood, which bloomed into dark red flowers on the snow.

Dester gradually began to struggle, and Griffiths's offensive became increasingly fierce. His arms started to ache, and his defense gradually began to show weaknesses.

Finally, Griffith seized an opening, his longsword piercing through the gap in Dester's left shoulder with lightning speed, and blood instantly stained his armor.

Dester screamed in agony, nearly dropping his sword as the intense pain made his vision blur.

Just as Griffith was about to press his advantage, Dester suddenly threw away his sword, a resolute glint in his eyes, and pounced on Griffith, pinning him to the ground in the snow.

The muscles in Dester's arms became more defined as he struggled, and his strength was astonishing.

He held Griffiths's shoulder firmly, his fists raining down on the man's head, each punch carrying the force of thunder, striking the helmet with a dull thud.

"I told you not to ambush me!"

"I'll teach you to go against me!"

Caught off guard, Griffith was struck so hard that he felt dizzy, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his vision began to blur.

But his willpower far exceeded that of ordinary people. He endured the excruciating pain and slammed his knee into Dester's abdomen.

Dester grunted and slowed his attack. Griffiths took the opportunity to flip over and try to pin Dester down, but was held tightly by the other man.

The two rolled and wrestled in the snow, tearing at each other's armor and hair with their bare hands, their fists raining down on each other's faces and chests. The armor was torn askew, and their faces and bodies were covered in snow and blood, making it impossible to tell whose blood was which as it quickly congealed in the low temperature.

With his superior strength, Dester gradually gained the upper hand. He gripped Griffith's neck tightly, pressed him into the snow, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his eyes filled with ferocity.

"Pretty boy, you're dead this time!"

Griffith's face gradually turned red, his breathing became increasingly difficult, his consciousness began to blur, and all he could hear was his own rapid breathing and the other person's roar.

Just then, hurried footsteps and familiar shouts came from afar.

"Commander, we've arrived!"

"Go help!"

It turned out that the other mercenaries from the Eagle Band had arrived, armed with weapons, and quickly formed an encirclement.

Dester was startled and tried to get up and run away, but Griffith used his last bit of strength to grab his arm tightly, his nails almost digging into the other's flesh.

Several mercenaries rushed forward and pinned Dester down in the snow. No matter how much he struggled and roared, he could not break free.