In front of the army of Hantu City, preparations were still being made nervously - the centurions waved the wooden sticks in their hands and gathered their soldiers, and the knights in various robes patrolled back and forth in front of the formation. And in the rear of the line, the light infantry, who had long been ready, had already raised their bows and crossbows, and the ground in front of them was full of arrows, ready to shoot at any time and place.

Not to be outdone, the battle banner legion on the opposite side was not to be outdone - the howling cold wind swept overhead, the hunting blood cross battle flag had been erected, and the cavalry of the Black Eagle clan roamed on both sides of the infantry phalanx, waiting for the horn to blow at any time and place, and reaping the lives of the enemy with javelins and long knives.

Only two hundred paces apart, even the coats of arms on the enemy's shields could be clearly seen, and the atmosphere of slaughter in the wilderness was almost substantial, oppressive—no one knew exactly when the negotiations would break, but everyone was ready for war.

All eyes were focused on the tent in the center of the two armies, waiting for the final news to come - the knight with the spear in hand, the soldier standing behind the shield, and the archer with the bow and crossbow in his hand were all ready to attack.

The banner has been raised, the bowstring has been taut, the war horse is neighing, and the sword has long been unsheathed!

And in the next moment, a small group of cavalry suddenly galloped from the tent in the direction of the army of Hantu City, and almost every knight held a swallow-tailed flag in his hand.

All the centurions and officers tightened their heartstrings, staring closely at the rapidly approaching cavalry, their swords already raised, waiting for the moment to swing down.

"It's His Highness Anson Marcherus—!"

One of the knights in front of the formation suddenly shouted in surprise. Immediately, the soldiers who were still nervous just now were all stunned - His Royal Highness Anson. Isn't he still in Hantu City?

Anson Marcherus was still grim on his horse. The flaming goshawk banner draped over his body as a cloak enveloped the slightly thin figure in it, making him look unusually tall.

Then the young little prince, as if he was really like a flaming goshawk, galloped towards the sword and spear army surrounded by the knights behind him, and there was not even the slightest hesitation on his face.

It wasn't until this moment that the soldiers in front of the army really saw clearly - there was a bloody human head hanging on the flagpole of the swallowtail flags, all of which were noble generals who had just gone to negotiate!

Anson paused. Raising his arrogant head, his sharp gaze fell on the faces of every knight and soldier in front of the military formation: "I know that each of you wants to ask why I am here, but I want to ask you even more, do you know why we lost to a group of lowly Hantu barbarians?!"

"Why are there ten thousand brothers who have thrown their bodies in the wilderness in vain, and why is the glory of Turin insulted in this savage land?!" the little prince roared angrily, "because there is a group of traitors, who will do whatever it takes for their own goals, to let your brothers, your chief flag bearer, send them to their deaths, and they have the audacity to think that they can escape the punishment of the Radiant Cross!"

There was an uproar in front of the formation, and the color of horror appeared in the eyes of every soldier. They looked at each other at a loss, and then turned their eyes to the little prince Anson in front of the battle. There was an expression of disbelief on his face.

"They are even ready to kill me, Anson Marchelus, son of Horace, Duke of Hamtu, the object of your allegiance!" Anson looked angry, drew his knightly sword and pointed at the soldiers in front of the formation, "So now I kill them!"

"What about you, what are you going to do? Are you going to kill me too?! I will stand here, and whoever has the courage will stand up, and whoever has the courage will stand up, and I will not let anyone accuse him, nor will anyone stop him, for you are Turine, and you are the descendants of the land of knights, and it is your natural right to challenge a knight!"

"You are Turinees, you are proud, proud Turinese, you should not hide like a mouse in the gutter and ditch, scheming behind your back, with intrigues, with poison and daggers - warhorses and swords are your weapons, and it is your creed to duel the enemy head-on!"

Suddenly there was a dead silence, and the little prince who snorted coldly waved behind him, and the knights holding the swallowtail flag threw the heads on the flagpole to the ground one after another, rolling all the way to the front of the shields of the first row of infantry, the blood-stained heads still had hideous horror on their faces, and their desperate faces were already dead gray.

At this moment, almost everyone was sweating - every soldier, every knight was tensing their heartstrings, holding on to the huge pressure, and the soldiers standing in the first row did not even dare to look directly into the sharp eyes of the little prince, as if the monstrous anger would burn them all!

Greene Turn, too, was holding on motionless, but his hands were shaking—the distance was too close, and even if even one soldier was tempted, they couldn't be sure that they would be able to bring Anson back intact, and who could guarantee that none of these people in front of the battle were diehards of the rebel generals?!

He couldn't help but turn his gaze to Edward beside him, looking at this guy's calm face, Green Turn's couldn't help but shout - how crazy is this guy to come up with such a risky plan, and dare to claim to be completely sure?!

But in the face of a dead army, the little prince Anson decided to believe Edward Witwood, his right arm clenched the hilt of his sword did not even tremble, his high head did not bow half a minute, and he confronted the army of tens of thousands without timidity: "Turines, give me your answer!"

"Do you decide to kill me here with the sword in your hand and kill those you are loyal to, or do you decide to follow me and retake Hantu City and use your sword to execute all the traitors who betrayed you and betrayed the kingdom?!"

"I want to tell you that this battle is not over - if I don't die here, then I will never stop, I will fight the enemy until the last moment, even if I die, I will take back the glory of the people of Turine, and burn the flames of revenge throughout the land, so that they will be reminded of the fears of three hundred years ago!"

"Answer me, knight!" Anson suddenly pointed the sword in his hand at the flag bearer who was riding a horse in front of the formation, his eyes were extremely firm and decisive: "Which one do you choose?!"

The flag officer who was pointed at stiffened suddenly, and the knight in his hand suddenly fell to the ground, his body trembled violently, and he suddenly quickly turned over from his horse, knelt down on one knee with his long sword, and roared out loudly: "God bless Turin!"

There was a moment of silence, and then all the hundred-man teams in the first row, all the knights, drew their swords, knelt down on one knee, and bowed down in front of the little prince's warhorse. As if they were infected by the atmosphere, immediately after, the entire army of Hantu City started from the direction where Anson was standing, and the soldiers of the entire army knelt down in an orderly manner, kneeling under the flaming goshawk flag.

Everyone went crazy, one after another flaming goshawk flags hunted in the wind, and loud horns echoed in the air.

Mountains roar and tsunamis, and waves rise one after another.

The trumpet sounded, and the thunderous shouts spread throughout the wilderness, like a storm that swept through the sky!

"God Bless Turin - !!! God Bless Turin - !!! God Bless Turin - !!!!"

With frenzied cheeks, excited eyes, and heart-rending shouts, Anson Marcherus stood solemnly in front of the formation, raising the golden sword in his hand and accepting everyone's cheers.

Gently dropping the long sword in his hand, the little prince's expression was still a little composed—at this moment, he was no longer Anson Marcherus, but the Duke of Hantu City, the future king of Turin!

"In the name of Marcherus, march to the city of Hantu-!" (To be continued.) )

PS: It's the New Year, and I'm rolling here to ask for a reward