Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

The air was thick with the acrid smell of sweat, blood, and burnt flesh. The battlefield had transformed into a hellscape, the cries of the fallen mingling with the triumphant roars of the Styles Family's army.

The once-proud mercenary and slaver group, the Steven Slaver Group, had been reduced to nothing more than a shattered remnant of their former self.

Allen stood amidst the carnage, his sword still dripping with the blood of his enemies, surveying the aftermath of the fight. His troops, a mix of seasoned veterans and newly recruited warriors, were busy securing the battlefield, tending to the wounded, and collecting the spoils of war.

His soldiers had fought like wolves, unleashing the beast within them and tearing through the slavers' ranks without mercy.

The slavers' forces, now broken and leaderless, scattered in all directions, their once-organized formations crumbling under the onslaught. Allen's army pursued relentlessly, pressing the advantage, and forcing the disorganized remnants back towards their main camp. The battle had been swift, but brutal. The strength of their assault, the sheer power of Hilter's force, and Serena's deadly accurate arrows had ensured that the enemy was not allowed even a moment's respite.

"Let them run," Allen muttered, watching the slavers retreat in chaos. "We need to take over their main camp first."

With a final rallying cry, Allen's forces surged forward, sweeping through the last remnants of the Steven Slaver Group, driving them into the heart of the slavers' stronghold—the Steven Bastide.

The walls of the Steven Bastide were tall and imposing, but they weren't enough to stop the juggernaut that Allen's army had become. The slavers, in their panic, had no chance to mount any sort of effective defense. By the time Allen's troops had reached the gates, the few remaining guards were already trembling in fear, weapons lowered in surrender.

"Open the gates!" one of the guards shouted, his voice barely above a whisper. His trembling hands released the bar on the massive wooden doors, and they creaked open to reveal the heart of the bastide.

The sight before them was stunning—an entire central plaza teeming with people. From the common folk to the elite of the Steven Slaver Group, it was clear that the bastide was home to a sprawling operation. Merchants, slaves, and soldiers all bustled about, unaware of the devastation that was about to befall them.

But that was all about to change.

Allen signaled his forces, and they flooded into the plaza with precision. There was no hesitation, no mercy. Every single one of the slavers who had been involved in the operation was either captured or killed, their resistance snuffed out before it could even begin.

Serena, perched atop a nearby tower, was already at work, her silver arrows slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. She picked off Silver Rank mercenaries and high-ranking slavers one by one, each arrow finding its mark with lethal precision. Her assault was relentless, and soon, the plaza was littered with bodies.

Hilter, having already fought through his own battles, led the charge into the heart of the plaza, his blade cutting down any who dared to challenge him. His newfound strength was evident in every swing—his strikes were faster, deadlier, and more precise than ever. He moved like a force of nature, carving through the remaining slavers with little effort.

By the time they reached the heart of the Steven Bastide, Allen had made his way to the central hall, where the Steven Slaver Group's leaders had once held court. The room was empty, the throne now abandoned, and the once-proud slaver chiefs were either dead or in chains.

The battle was over, but the work was far from done. Allen's forces quickly began the process of managing the spoils of war. Stroud, despite his 'injuries', was overseeing the logistics from the rear, ensuring that everything from supplies to prisoners was handled with care. He had been instructed not to participate in the battle for now, but his role in organizing the logistics and overseeing the acquisition of loot was crucial.

As the spoils were gathered, Allen turned his attention to the captured slaves. More than 2,000 people, mostly women and children, had been freed from the cruel shackles of the slavers. Their faces were a mixture of fear and relief, unsure of what their future held, but Allen knew exactly what to do with them.

He had captured valuable slaves, some of them with useful skills, while others were simply in need of care and rehabilitation. The key was how he would manage them moving forward. They would need to be organized, trained, and integrated into the Styles Family's growing forces. Their fate, as much as the fortunes gained from this raid, rested in his hands.

A week had passed since the Styles Family had taken control of Steven Bastide. The bustling hub of slave trade had now fallen under Allen's control, and the place was beginning to change. What was once a den of despair was slowly being transformed. The marketplace was being restructured to support Allen's new ambitions, and the captured slaves were beginning to work for the family's cause—either as laborers or in other roles that would help support the growing empire.

Allen's summoned again, a Silver Rank Level 1 spearman, a powerful summon perfect for frontal assault further power by seraphine he can showcase the powers of a peak Silver Rank.

The summon would serve as another tool in his arsenal, a constant reminder of the growing power he now commanded.

But even more impressive was the progress of his allies. Hilter, after the battle, had broken through to Silver Rank Level 5, achieving the peak of Silver Rank strength. This new power was sure to make him an even more formidable force on the battlefield, and Allen knew he would need that strength as they moved forward in their plans.

By the time the Steven Bastide was fully under his control, Allen had gained much more than just land and resources.

His army had grown in both number and strength. The slaves he had freed were now under his command, and their loyalty, once earned, would be invaluable.

Money had flowed into his coffers—riches plundered from the fallen slavers, loot from the conquered camps, and various trade goods that would now be sold under the Styles Family's banner. The monetary gain from this conquest alone would ensure his plans could continue without hindrance.

Standing atop the walls of the bastide, Allen surveyed the lands before him, his eyes narrowing as he thought about what came next. This victory was only the beginning. The road ahead was long, but now, with his army strengthened and the resources to back him up, he was ready for what came next.

The Steven Slaver Group had fallen, but there were others—rivals, enemies, and obstacles still in his way. The Styles Family was rebuilding, and Allen's ambitions were only growing.

"Master." Stroud called out from behind, Allen kept looking atop the walls.

"Found them yet?"

"Yes, our platoon is also ready. We would be taking Serena, Seraphine, Fredrick, Hilter, myself and all of our archers and javelin throwers."

"Good, attack from a distance. No matter how powerful, Gold rank are also humans, there has been records of even Swords Saints falling surrounded by an army of Blademaster and Gold rank experts. Make sure to finsh them without giving them a chance to mount an offence, any and all possible dangers must be destroyed in its craddle."

"As you command, Milord."

____

The Fall of Steven the Slaver

A ship bearing the flag of the Steven Slavers approached Talbot Harbor. It was Steven's personal vessel, used for his excursions, and its crew—locals of the harbor—navigated the shallow waters with ease.

Standing beside Steven, Peak Gold Rank warrior his brother Roger surveyed the eerily silent docks. "The harbor is deserted," Steven grumbled, his bloated frame shifting uneasily.

"The people fear you like the plague," Roger replied with a smirk. "They probably ran at the sight of your flag."

Steven snorted. "Fear is better than kindness. It keeps them obedient."

As the ship docked, sailors secured the vessel, unloading large chests as Steven and Roger disembarked with twenty armed men. But the eerie silence unsettled Roger. His eyes scanned the surroundings. "Something's wrong."

A slow clap echoed through the air. Emerging from the shadows, Hilter stood at the head of Allen's forces. Behind him, 600 heavily-armored soldiers raised black diamond-shaped shields, while 400 crossbowmen took position.

"Who are you?" Roger demanded, stepping forward.

Hilter ignored the question. "Its irrelevant who I am, what matters is that I've come for your lives." His calm, aristocratic tone sent chills through Steven, who shrank behind his guards.

Roger sneered. "It's been a while since I have been challenged."

Hilter flicked his wrist. A rain of arrows darkened the sky. Roger's sword blurred, deflecting countless projectiles, his footwork a masterclass in evasion. But the onslaught didn't stop. The moment he saw an opening, he surged toward Hilter, lightning-fast.

Just then a javelin whistled through the air. Roger barely deflected it, the impact halting his charge. Another followed, then another, forcing him back step by step. His sword shattered incoming arrows and spears, but the sheer volume overwhelmed even his Peak Gold Rank reflexes.

Then—

"Agh!" Roger staggered. A javelin pierced his thigh, another embedded in his shoulder. An arrow punched through his torso, its tip emerging from his back. Blood poured from his wounds, yet he remained standing, gasping for breath.

"You… didn't fight me head-on," he rasped.

Hilter scoffed. "Only fools fight fairly."

With a final signal, the crossbowmen fired again. Roger collapsed, his body riddled with bolts, his legend ending in silence.

Steven and his guards hadn't even lasted the first volley.

Hilter turned to his men. "Clear the battlefield. Take the ship. Master would be pleased with the results."