Viscount Ivanles led his troops over a snowy slope and saw a gray tide surging on the distant horizon like a mottled pattern on a white carpet—or a heinously large stain that fell into the eyes of Viscount Ivanles. The two sides discovered each other at the same time, and the gray tide stirred, the noise was compressed into a dull dark thunder, and the invisible and strong hatred grew like thorns. Viscount Ivanles raised his hand and signaled for the troops to stop advancing. There's no need to rush down the slopes, it's a natural position that's perfect for defense, with long, gentle slopes that effectively extend the enemy's impact and difficult to know the depths of the snow that make it difficult for them to walk. By seizing this place, Viscount Ivanles was confident that he would be able to buy enough time to wait for the support of a large army in the rear. He calmly gave the order, the heralds passed behind the old man, and the guardians methodically spread out the orderly phalanx of infantry. The iron curtain with white stripes on a blue background was erected, and the Cangyun Falcon Banner flew in the cold wind.

It's really not the same as it used to be. Viscount Ivanles looked at the marauding army that was approaching him. Although the scale is still as huge as before, it is no longer scattered, the front, middle and rear armies are clear at a glance, the formation cuts out neat wingers, and the regular army is generally strict. Quantity and quality resonate together, and the oppressive force produced is as majestic as a mountain, making people wonder if it is the shadow cast by the Misty Mountains on the Vaal Snow Field. What could it be to keep this rabble so disciplined in such a short period of time—or had he been planning it for half his life?

As the raiding army approached the slopes, a crimson figure appeared in the sight of Viscount Ivanles, shirtless, standing at the forefront of the grey tide, out of place with those clad in grey-white leather armor. It was not artificially painted ochre, but a blood red that naturally radiated from the depths of the muscles and carried the breath of life, flowing unabashedly, terrifying as a demon crawling out of the depths of hell. As if sensing Viscount Ivanles' gaze, the man turned his head slightly, pinpointing the position of Viscount Ivanles on the snowy slope.

Is that the Omenwolf wolf? The two were clearly separated by a long distance, but Viscount Ivanles clearly felt the vicious and cruel gaze of the other party, and at that moment there seemed to be a group of snakes around him. A cool air rushed up his back, and under the close-fitting cotton armor, a cold sweat flowed uneasily.

At this time, the black reef broke through the gray tide, and the knight of the black horse and black armor walked out of the array, surrounding the blood-red man in the center. It was—Viscount Ivanles' pupils shrunk in shock—the Death Knight! It wasn't the Honor Guards who surrounded the demon, but the most sophisticated combat power of the infidels. His hypothesis with Duke Alexis was finally confirmed, and Ereda Oxser's minions had colluded with the followers of Vijovis to force Livingston into a head-on battle with an army of Misty Mountains, which was several times his size.

Viscount Ivanles suddenly noticed that a death knight had handed a throwing spear to the man, and then the man raised his hand and threw it!

Thunder falls!

So fast! Viscount Ivan Les was creepy. The throw and the hit occurred almost simultaneously, and when the man's arm reached the end of the force, the dark purple thunder also slammed down the snow slope. The shrill whine of the air obliterated the distance, which far exceeded the range of the heavy crossbow. Viscount Ivanles didn't even have time to lock on to the trajectory of the spear in the air, and could only catch a sharp arc of dark purple light out of the corner of his eye. If he had only consciously wanted to raise his shield at this time, he would have already been pierced by that spear. But Viscount Ivanles' vast experience and keen instincts saved him, and the moment he saw the other man holding the spear in the palm of his hand, he subconsciously raised the shield in his left hand to block it. It was as if a rhinoceros was rushing into his arms, and the force of the impact forced Viscount Ivanles to retreat again and again, and the aftermath was transmitted along the bones of his arm, almost shaking his aging body apart. The wrestling with the Thunder only lasted for a moment, but Viscount Ivanles had already felt the absolute difference in brawn between the two sides. But he is the commander, and he cannot be brought down by the opponent with a spear in front of the soldiers. On the ever-changing battlefield, information is transmitted only by the binary of life and death, and if it falls, it is death, and there will be no room for secondary interpretation. If he were to fall, the rumors of his death would spread like a plague to the entire Guardian Legion, and the formation might even collapse on its own.

Can't pour! Viscount Ivanles gritted his teeth fiercely, war drums beat in his chest, his heart beat violently, and blood flowed at high speed along his veins. But he is already rotten wood, a broken candle, and his physical strength and passion are long gone. The more desperately he tried to squeeze strength out of the depths of his body, the more he felt the erosion of the years. His former vigor seemed to be just a psychedelic light and shadow in the water, and it was shattered in the river of time with a slight stirring.

Those shadows...... The shadow who drank and laughed in the tavern of Silverlake; and the shadow that perfectly mastered the "wing return" in only three days; And the shadow of the cavalry spear wearing the falcon heraldic armor and wielding the sword at the front line of the battlefield one after another!

Resist Lao Tzu! Viscount Ivanles, no, it was the Knight of Ivan Les, the "Falcon" of Finbre, let out a silent roar. He was forced to take two more steps back, almost hitting the Guardian in the first row, but he found a solid fulcrum with his heel deep in the snow. He still held his shield in a defensive stance, but the tip of the spear pierced through the upper part of the shield, almost touching his forehead, and the coldness of the metal gently licked his brow less than a finger away.

Viscount Ivanles raised his right hand, struggled to pull the discarded shield from his unconscious left arm, and threw it into the snow with a spear, the silver-white skull grinning at him. Only then did he see that the hook on the spear was stuck in the shield, so he didn't let the spear shoot through the shield in one fell swoop. The sinister design that was supposed to tear the wound saved his life.

The feeling of detachment came over him, and the drum beat in his chest was still high and coherent, like a hammer pounding his heart. He coughed heavily, opened his mouth, and breathed in the cold air for a long time, then swallowed hard a mouthful of cold saliva.

It was as if a piece of ice had fallen into his abdomen, and then a solid chill spread to his limbs, and his restless heart rate gradually subsided. But there was still a certain intoxicating pleasure lingering in his mind, and for a moment he seemed to be back thirty years ago, and there was still the residual warmth of the heroic anger in his veins. He forced his attention to focus on the blood-red figure in front of the gray tide, reminding himself that he had no more strength left to face the next throwing spear. But the other party didn't do this, just turned around wordlessly and disappeared into the gray tide.

Is that the Omenwolf wolf? Why don't you see the honorary guards in white wolf skins? The Death Knights showed obvious submissiveness, and the man was more of a heretical priest than the spiritual leader of the Misty Mountain tribe surrounded by them. He suddenly remembered the isolated Boinbru, and a terrible thought was churning in his mind—his attention was drawn to the dark purple thunder just now, and he almost ignored that the scale of the plundering tide below the snowy slopes was actually much smaller than usual. Both he and Duke Alexis initially estimated that they would encounter a 100,000-strong raiding tide in the Vaal Snow Plains, but the gray tide under the slopes, though immense, had nearly doubled in number than expected—although the exact number was still appalling, it was a bit chilling for the Misty Mountain tribes.

If the enemy did not have all the forces on the Vaal Snowfield, where would they be?

Could it be ...... Viscount Ivanles' musings were interrupted by a scattered rain of arrows, a crooked shaft smashing against his shoulder armor, the tip symbolically sharpened. He looked up and saw that the gray tide had reached the bottom of the snowy slopes, and the first wave of the enemy's offensive had begun.