She Is Not a Witch

47: Blood Battle in the Rain



Loranhil rose from her tent, already prepared with form-fitting hunting attire for ease of movement.

 

Lifting the tent flap, she was met with the deafening roar of rain. The six riders guarding her tent were startled by her appearance. Before they could inquire, Loranhil rang the large bronze bell hanging at the tent entrance. Its distinctive sound cut through the rainy night, rousing many guards who weren’t yet asleep.

 

The young woman instructed the nearby riders to immediately notify all personnel to don their armor and prepare for battle.

 

As the merchant association’s guards were awakened one by one in their tents, the distant hoof beats grew ever closer.

 

There was no time to waste. Surprised that the enemy’s marching speed hadn’t decreased in the rain but rather increased, Loranhil made a swift decision. She ordered the prepared guards to form three rows on the main road, with 3 meters between each row. This way, even if cavalry broke through the first line, the entire formation wouldn’t immediately collapse. They would still face the long spears and crossbows of the rear ranks.

 

Several squad leaders quickly mobilized their men. Amid the pouring rain, shouts echoed throughout the camp, accompanied by hurried footsteps and movements.

 

Twelve spearmen formed the first line of defense behind the wooden barricade. By now, the approaching hoof beats were quite distinct, and even they sensed the ill intent of the arrivals. Cool rainwater soaked their clothes and armor, running down from their heads and shoulders. The wet spear shafts made their grips slippery as they anxiously peered into the dark, blurry rain curtain ahead, as if ferocious beasts might leap out at any moment to devour them.

 

The second and third rows were also spearmen, while sword-and-shield fighters suitable for melee combat stood behind the third row, protecting the archers and non-combatants behind them. Several attendants set up large fire basins, pouring in oil and igniting them to ensure they would burn fiercely even in the rain.

 

Loranhil, wearing her black hooded cloak, sat astride her horse, watching the blurry dark shapes in the distant mountains. She held a matte crossbow, a parting gift from the Agdelin family—the [Matte Black Crossbow] (Excellent Silver grade).

 

Like a narwhal breaking through surface ice, a group of riders in black armor suddenly emerged from the bend ahead, charging towards the camp.

 

They wore unidentified black masks specially designed to allow breathing even in the rain. The dark red patterns on the masks added a touch of terror to their appearance.

 

These black riders all seemed to be around Sequence 2 in power, but their professions had excellent synergy with rain. Not only were they unaffected by the downpour, but they actually seemed stronger than usual. In contrast, Loranhil’s riders and guards, though including over 10 Sequence 2 and over 30 Sequence 1 individuals among the total of over 100, were negatively impacted by the rain and not as formidable as their opponents.

 

The leader hidden among the cavalry noticed the guards in the camp standing ready for battle. His pupils contracted slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. A special whistle sounded, and the black riders each took out a javelin, hurling them rapidly through the rain.

 

In the blink of an eye, the charging cavalry reached the front lines. Several spearmen in the first row grunted and fell, clutching javelins embedded in their flesh.

 

A dense volley of crossbow fire rang out, but due to the rain, most bolts missed vital areas, merely lodging in thick armor without penetrating. Only one found its mark, piercing through a rider’s eye socket and brain. That black-clad rider fell from his horse, lifeless.

 

The first black riders to reach the front lines raised their lances, already poised to strike. Murky water swirled around the lances as they smashed into the wooden barricade, shattering it to clear the way for the troops behind.

 

The remaining spearmen in the first row hesitated no longer. With a roar, they raised their spears and stepped forward, thrusting fiercely into the horses’ chests. The horses’ massive momentum dragged the spearmen down, but they also slipped and fell in the rain, throwing their riders heavily to the ground.

 

The second row of spearmen then met the violent charge. Spears clashed against lances, neither side dodging—or rather, having no time to dodge. The sound of steel piercing flesh followed as several black riders were skewered like rag dolls, lifted high from their saddles by the long spears before falling to the rain-soaked road, lifeless.

 

The spearmen fared no better. Even when the swirling water-wreathed lances missed vital spots, they still ruptured internal organs. Those hit lay sprawled on the ground, unable to rise again.

 

A second volley of crossbow fire rang out in quick succession. At this extremely close range, several black riders clutched at arrow shafts in their necks, falling reluctantly from their mounts and rolling into the roadside puddles.

 

The next wave of black riders charged into the third row of spearmen. Amid the neighing of horses, the clash of armor, and the impact of weapon blades, the tight human wall was thrown into disarray. The sword-and-shield fighters behind immediately rushed forward to fill the gaps, preventing the line from being completely scattered.

 

Seeing the breach about to close, the black riders’ leader let out a great shout. Rainwater within nearly a hundred meters was rapidly drawn to his lance. The water flow spiraling around the weapon began to rotate at high speed, then shot forward like a cannonball, raising a huge wave and creating a violent sonic boom. The camp’s formation was split open as if cleaved by a giant axe, revealing a wide gap.

 

Thus, the vulnerable archers and protected core personnel were exposed before these fierce black riders.

 

Was it too late? In the time it took to fire just two crossbow bolts, the riders had broken through the lines and reached them.

 

Witnessing this shocking scene before her, Loranhil tossed aside her crossbow and drew the sharp sword at her waist.

 

She was not one to admit defeat easily. Her clear voice rang out through the rain curtain:

 

“Raise lances, charge with me!”

 

The 10 lance riders at her side lowered the visors on their helmets and followed this brave young lady. Their warhorses began to gallop at full speed, lances dipping slightly as pale blue light began to gleam along the blades.

 

Seeing this, the black riders opposite said nothing, but their advance quickened. The riders on the flanks continued to scatter the guards trying to close the formation, while the central twenty or so horses charged at full tilt, murky water beginning to swirl around their lances. Their armor reflected flashes of watery light.

 

The two groups of cavalry collided like roaring trains. From the moment of impact, over a dozen figures were thrown high from their saddles, then tumbled to the ground.

 

The two formations rapidly passed through each other, only managing to halt after nearly a hundred meters. In the pouring rain, Loranhil’s face was ashen, a long gash on her right arm. Blood had soaked through her clothes and cloak. She breathed heavily before taking out a potion from her bosom and drinking it.

 

The black riders’ leader, however, lay forever in a pool of blood, sealing the outcome of this battle.


Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.