Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

Hilter barely managed to deflect the incoming strike, but his arm was slashed in the process. He gritted his teeth, pain searing through him as he lashed out with a vicious kick, sending the attacker stumbling backward.

Without a moment's hesitation, he retreated, clutching his bleeding arm.

The horsemen let out wild cheers as they charged through the convoy, their bloodlust unrestrained. The handful of pikemen stationed at this section of the convoy stood no chance. They were cut down within seconds, their cries drowned out by the thunderous galloping of horses and the screams of the innocent.

Chaos erupted. Carriages rammed into one another as terrified families scrambled to escape. Women and children screamed in terror, while soldiers tried to rally against the ambush.

One horseman yanked a young girl by her hair from a carriage, dragging her to the ground. She thrashed and screamed, but the brute pinned her down, his hands tearing at her clothes. He laughed as he fumbled with his belt, savoring the moment.

Nearby, another marauder snatched a crying baby from its mother's arms. The woman shrieked, lunging forward, desperation painted on her tear-streaked face. But the horseman simply tossed the infant through the air. Another raider caught it on the tip of his pike, impaling the helpless child in a sickening display of cruelty. The baby's cries ceased instantly.

The young mother froze in horror, her mind unable to process the nightmare unfolding before her. The killer grinned before seizing her by the throat. She let out a bloodcurdling scream and bit into his arm with all her strength.

"Argh! You little—!" The horseman roared in pain before driving his pike through her stomach. She choked on her own blood as another rider trampled her beneath his horse's hooves, leaving nothing but broken bones and mangled flesh.

An old man clutched his grandson to his chest, shielding him from harm. A rider impaled them both with a single thrust, pinning them to the ground. The horseman cackled as he swung his sword, beheading the old man in one clean stroke.

Within minutes, the once-orderly convoy had transformed into a blood-soaked hell.

—

Rage boiled within Allen as he and Seraphine approached the carnage from the hilltop. His heart pounded like a war drum. His grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles white with fury.

"Faster!" he barked, urging his mount forward. He left Fredrick and the knights behind, driven by nothing but unrelenting wrath.

Seraphine, riding beside him, extended her hands and cast a silent spell. A soothing light enveloped Hilter in the distance, sealing his wounds. Then, she turned her magic on Allen. Power surged through him, elevating his strength from two-star to four-star Gold Rank in an instant.

Behind them, Elrod also felt the surge of magic, his strength soaring to the peak of Silver Rank.

The rest of the convoy had finally begun to react. Stroud rallied his troops, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Serena loosed a flurry of arrows from her vantage point. Two horsemen who had been trampling the mother's corpse fell, her arrows piercing their throats. Another arrow whistled through the air, striking the would-be rapist just as he was about to violate the young girl. He collapsed, writhing in pain, blood gurgling from his mouth.

Allen arrived like a storm. He drew his longsword, his first swing severing both a horse's head and the upper torso of its rider. Blood fountained into the air.

A second horseman barely had time to react before Allen's sword cleaved through his neck. His head spun through the air before landing with a sickening thud.

The third enemy thrust his pike forward, aiming to skewer Allen. But with impossible agility, Allen twisted his body mid-gallop, avoiding the strike. His blade flashed, carving a deep gash across the horseman's chest. The man fell from his mount, gasping as life drained from him.

Two more raiders threw a net at Allen, confident in their trap. They laughed—until Allen, infused with battleforce, pulled them toward him instead.

"What the—?!" one of them yelped as they were yanked from their saddles.

At that moment, Elrod appeared. He hooked a fallen pike with his foot, caught it, and impaled both men in midair. They hit the ground like discarded dolls, blood pooling beneath them.

Within moments, five men lay dead.

The remaining horsemen realized they had underestimated their enemy. Their leader let out a shrill whistle, and dozens of riders surrounded Allen and Elrod, circling them like vultures. They jabbed at them with long pikes, keeping them at a distance.

Then came the reinforcements.

Fredrick and his knights thundered into the fray, splitting into two groups. One unit crashed into the riders surrounding Allen and Elrod, while the other charged at the remaining raiders.

The impact was devastating. Twenty horsemen fell beneath the lances of the charging knights. Only two knights sustained minor injuries, their armor protecting them from fatal blows.

Hilter, his arm now healed, grabbed a fallen pike and drove it through multiple enemies in one swift motion. His body pulsed with the magic Seraphine had gifted him, temporarily elevating him to Gold Rank.

The tide turned.

From the initial hundred, only sixty raiders remained. But instead of fleeing, they regrouped and launched a desperate counterattack.

Fredrick's knights met them head-on, their blood-soaked swords cutting through man and beast alike.

Allen wielded both a longsword and a pike, carving through his enemies without hesitation. Within minutes, ten more horsemen fell to his blade. The battlefield reeked of blood and burnt flesh.

The remaining fifty attackers realized they had no chance. Fear finally overtook them. They turned tail and fled.

Allen's face was grim as he dismounted. Eman arrived with a fresh horse. Without hesitation, Allen mounted it.

Fredrick rode up beside him. "Milord, where—?"

Allen pointed at the retreating enemies. His voice was ice. "I'll hunt them down to the last man."

Fredrick hesitated but then nodded. "Understood. We'll clean up here. Jasper, take the cavalry and go with him! Serena, cover them with your archers!"

Jasper and his riders surged forward, spears at the ready. Serena and her archers followed.

—

The chase lasted less than half an hour. The enemy horses were exhausted, their stamina drained. Allen's fresh mount closed the distance rapidly.

Several raiders turned, realizing they had no escape.

"Come, then!" one shouted, brandishing his weapon.

His cry was cut short as Serena's arrow buried itself in his throat. He tumbled from his horse, gurgling.

Allen skewered another enemy, lifting him off the saddle with his pike. The dying man screamed as Allen dragged him across the ground, his body breaking apart.

The remaining horsemen saw no hope. Their leader turned, terror in his eyes.

Allen's voice rang across the battlefield, cold and merciless.

"Not one of you will leave here alive."

The air was thick with the scent of blood. Another two horsemen flanked Allen from both sides, their pikes aimed straight at his body like venomous vipers. Their eyes gleamed with the certainty of their kill.

But in the blink of an eye, Allen's silhouette vanished from horseback.

The pikes pierced nothing but air.

The horsemen, thinking Allen had dismounted, instinctively looked downward—only to see him still on his horse, as if he had never moved. A ghost.

With an explosive slash, the horseman to his left was severed in half at the waist. A scream of pure terror tore from his lips before his upper body slid off the saddle and crashed to the ground.

The horseman on the right barely had time to react before his legs were cleaved from his body in one swift stroke, his mount cut into two along with him. The blood from their sundered forms sprayed across Allen and his horse, dyeing them a horrifying shade of crimson.

The fifth horseman, paralyzed with fear, released his pike and raised both hands in surrender. He clasped them together, his lips trembling as he begged for mercy.

Allen's expression did not change. Without a word, he leaned down, retrieved a fallen pike, and rode forward. His arm shot out, thrusting the weapon into the horseman's open mouth and through the back of his skull.

"Fuck your mercy."

The lifeless body slipped from the saddle, crashing into the blood-soaked dirt below.

The sixth horseman had already lost all courage. His face pale, his body shaking, he turned tail and fled. His only thought was escape. But before he could put much distance between them, his horse began to slow. His eyes widened as he realized Allen was closing in.

When he turned back, what he saw nearly stopped his heart.

Allen's face, streaked with fresh blood, was twisted into a nightmarish grin. His eyes glowed with malice beneath the moonlight, his teeth gleaming white against the crimson mask of his own making.

The fleeing man let out a panicked cry and thrust his pike backward in a desperate attempt to hold Allen at bay.

Allen caught the weapon midair with one hand and gave it a powerful yank. With the hilt of his sword, he struck the back of the horseman's head, rendering him unconscious. The man slumped forward, his body limp and defenseless.

Allen secured a rope around his captive's neck, tying the other end to his saddle, and dragged him behind his horse as he resumed the chase.

With each new group of horsemen he caught, he repeated the cruel act, using their own nets to strangle them, letting their corpses trail behind him.

The remaining horsemen, seeing this horrifying display, fell into panic. Some turned their weapons on their own mounts, stabbing them in their flanks to force them into a frenzied sprint. Others screamed for help, hoping someone—anyone—would come to their aid.

But no one would.

The exhausted horses, driven past their limits, collapsed one by one. Those that survived were shot down by Serena's precise arrows.

Allen rode on, his horse dragging chunks of lifeless flesh behind it. The ground was littered with butchered remains, the scent of death thick in the night air.

The remaining horsemen, now beyond hope, screamed curses at Allen. Their hatred and despair blended into one final, desperate cry.

But before they could act, arrows rained down upon them, silencing their voices forever.

"Even a swift death is merciful," Allen thought as he cleaved through the dying men, ensuring their agony ended in blood and steel.

Beyond the tree line, he spotted a military encampment in the distance. The remaining few horsemen, seeing salvation within reach, let out frantic shouts and stabbed at their mounts, forcing them into one last desperate charge toward the camp's open gates.

"Not a single one of you will escape."

Allen dug his heels into his horse's sides, urging it forward. The ground trembled beneath him as he closed the distance.

The slowest rider turned, his face wild with desperation. He lashed out wildly with his pike, not to strike Allen but simply to delay him. He didn't care if his attacks connected—he just needed to slow Allen down long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

Allen caught the flailing weapon with his bare hands. With a powerful tug, he pulled the man toward him and swung his sword in a ruthless arc.

A guttural scream tore through the night as the horseman's left leg was severed from his body. He fell headfirst to the ground, writhing in agony.

Allen paid him no mind.

Another rider ahead had already lost his weapon. His hands trembled as he turned to face Allen, helpless to stop the inevitable. Allen thrust his sword forward, piercing straight through his chest.

The lifeless body slid from his blade as he turned his gaze toward the last two remaining enemies.

The camp ahead had fully mobilized. Ten fresh horsemen emerged from its gates, galloping toward the battlefield.

One of the two remaining escapees suddenly let out a choked cry as his horse, finally spent, collapsed beneath him. The beast crashed headfirst into the dirt, its legs kicking weakly before it stilled forever.

The horseman, to his credit, reacted swiftly. He leaped from the saddle before impact, rolling across the ground before rising to his feet, his pike gripped tightly in his hands.

Allen was nearly upon him.

With a wild battle cry, the man rushed forward—not at Allen, but at his horse.

His strategy was clear: take down the mount, force Allen to fight on foot.

But before he could reach his target—

Thwip!

An arrow pierced his throat.

Serena.

The dying man clutched at his wound, his voice reduced to a gurgle before he collapsed in a twitching heap.

Jasper and Serena's forces were close behind now, ensuring that none of the enemies Allen left in his wake could rise again. They cut down the wounded, struck down any who tried to flee.

Allen did not slow.

The last surviving rider ahead of him screamed for his comrades in the camp to save him.

But they would not.

There would be no salvation.

Only the crimson phantom riding toward them, bathed in the blood of their fallen.