The charge of the knights from Re-Robel initially created a considerable gap on the battlefield.
The rebel ranks were torn apart into several pieces. Some groups collapsed immediately, a few people threw down their weapons and ran toward the rear. For a brief moment, many might have thought that this battle was about to end.
But then something wrong began to reveal itself.
The farmers who had just run… turned back.
Not as scattered individuals. Entire groups.
When one person fell, someone behind stepped forward. A gap appeared in the formation, only to be filled minutes later by different faces.
They had no clear formation. Nor any recognizable command.
And yet, they kept advancing.
Even when facing cavalry.
Even when the man beside them had just been cut down.
The sight began to make many knights feel uneasy in a way that was difficult to describe.
Ordinary peasant troops rarely fought like this.
From a distance, Philip noticed the same thing.
At first, he simply thought the rebels were more numerous than expected. But after watching a little longer, that feeling slowly changed.
Those people were not trying to survive.
Some clearly saw their comrades killed right before their eyes.
Yet they still moved forward, almost without hesitation.
Philip was no expert on battlefields, but this… still made him uneasy.
War always contained fear.
If fear disappeared, what remained was usually not courage.
On the walls of Re-Robel, Armand Valcere was observing the same scene.
At first he only thought the rebels were numerous.
But the longer he watched, the more obvious the abnormality became.
Those peasants had no intention of retreating.
Even when the front line was crushed.
Armand watched the battlefield for a moment longer before turning to the officer beside him.
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“Do you notice anything strange?”
The man nodded.
“My lord… they’re not like soldiers. But they’re not like peasants either.”
Armand fell silent.
A name suddenly appeared in his mind. To be honest, he hoped he was wrong.
Not long afterward, a scout was brought to the wall.
He had just captured someone trying to leave the battlefield.
Beneath the worn farmer’s clothes, they found a small object.
A dull metal pendant engraved with a spiral symbol.
Armand stared at it for several seconds.
He did not need any further explanation.
Zurrernorn.
A secret society of necromancers.
Most nobles only knew of them through rumors. Some even believed they were merely a frightening story.
Armand did not think so.
He had heard of several rituals practiced by this group.
Rituals that cared little about victory or defeat on the battlefield.
What they needed… were corpses.
A great many corpses.
A mage from the city was quickly summoned.
After examining the pendant and listening to the scout’s report, he made a conjecture that immediately made the atmosphere on the wall heavy.
The rebels were not fighting out of loyalty.
They were being forced.
It might be mind-affecting magic, or some ritual that dulled their sense of fear. Not complete control, but enough to leave them with no choice but to keep advancing.
But the greater concern lay behind it.
If the number of deaths on the battlefield became large enough, negative energy would accumulate.
The mage hesitated before continuing.
“There is a ritual mentioned in several ancient records.”
“The Spiral of Death.”
A ritual that gathers the necrotic energy from countless deaths.
If completed, the battlefield could become the focal point of necromantic energy. From there, the dead would begin to rise one after another.
Not a few dozen.
Possibly thousands.
Armand said nothing for quite a long time.
If this was true, the entire battle before them was merely a tool.
A giant meat grinder built to accumulate corpses.
Armand looked down at the battlefield once more.
The nobles were still fighting. Some formations had begun to slow down, perhaps considering retreat in order to preserve their forces.
That was reasonable.
But if they retreated…
The battlefield would turn into a rout.
An enormous number of corpses.
And exactly what Zurrernorn needed.
Armand let out a quiet breath.
This situation did not allow for comfortable choices.
If they wanted to break that ritual, the battle had to end here and now— as quickly as possible.
No retreat.
No delay.
Armand turned to the standard bearer.
“Bring the banner.”
A flag was brought from the city’s armory.
Its background was dark black, almost swallowing the light. In the center was the symbol of a gate locked by two crossed swords.
This banner had an ancient name.
The Black Gate Banner.
In the military tradition of the Re-Estize Kingdom, it was only used in special circumstances.
Its meaning was simple.
The gate behind had been closed.
There was no road of retreat.
Once this banner was raised, every noble participating in the battle would be bound by the kingdom’s laws of war.
The battle must continue until one side achieved complete victory.
Anyone who fled after the banner appeared would be considered a traitor to the kingdom.
Armand stared at the flag for a few seconds.
Perhaps this was the first time in many years that he had been forced to use it.
“Raise it.”
On the battlefield, Philip was commanding his soldiers to block a small group of rebels.
A soldier beside him suddenly pointed toward the city wall.
“My lord, look.”
Philip raised his head.
On the walls of Re-Robel, a black banner was slowly being raised.
At first he did not recognize it.
But when the banner fully unfurled, several nearby nobles immediately changed expression.
A knight standing close to Philip muttered softly, his voice nearly losing its composure.
“The Black Gate Banner…”
Philip stared at the flag for a few seconds longer.
He swallowed.
A very simple thought appeared in his mind.
Perhaps from this moment on…
This place would become a real battlefield.
