These were not mere mounts, but living weapons of extraordinary design.

Each bird stood nearly twice the height of a human, with thick, armour-like feathers that looked capable of deflecting standard weaponry. Elaborate crests adorned their heads, a natural crown that spoke of some primordial nobility.

These were Grosbek birds, known for their speed and durability.

The birds moved in perfect synchronization, their movements so precise it seemed they shared a collective consciousness. Their talons could likely tear through steel, their beaks capable of piercing the strongest armour.

Each rider was equipped with specialized gear—armour that seemed to blend seamlessly with their mount, weapons that looked as much a part of their body as their own limbs.

From the sidelines, moving further back into the streets, Preeyonka's expression changed when she saw the arrival of the general. It was no longer amusing to her. She looked serious and told her men to retreat on her command.

Seeing them, Yilar smiled, "That was what I was talking about."

Dagur's reaction was visceral. His face drained of colour, the confident strategist suddenly looking like a child confronted by an overwhelming force.

Yilar's earlier warning echoed with brutal clarity—"You have wasted too much time."

"Shut up," Dagur muttered, but the words lacked his previous conviction.

Jolthar, still in the midst of the battlefield, watched with extraordinary focus. His ability to maintain composure in the face of such an overwhelming arrival was itself a testament to his remarkable character.

The arrival of General Remin was no mere reinforcement—it was a statement of imperial power.

Remin descended from his dragon with a movement that suggested decades of martial training. Every step was calculated, every gesture deliberate.

He was a man in middle years but possessed the physicality of someone in their prime—lean, muscular, with eyes that seemed to calculate multiple strategic scenarios simultaneously.

Soon after his descent, another arrival was incoming.

At the centre, the air swirled in the void, and soon a portal materialized in the square—not a crude tear in reality, but a precisely constructed magical gateway that spoke of immense magical sophistication. Green-coloured energy swirled in a circle as it stretched out into a big circle, vertically.

From it stepped out a man named Wymar, a tier 9 mage who moved with the confidence of someone intimately connected to power.

After he came out, he looked towards his lord, the general Remin. He walked to him.

"My lord," Wymar said, his tone a mixture of deference and mild reproach, "how could you leave just like that?"

Remin's response was casual, almost dismissive. "Well, you have come anyway."

"Don't fuss over small things."

The portal remained open, a conduit of military might.

Cavalry and infantry began streaming through—not in a chaotic rush, but in a disciplined, almost mechanical progression. Each soldier moved with perfect coordination, their equipment standardized, their formation suggesting years of collective training.

Within minutes, the square transformed.

What had moments ago been a battlefield of desperate struggle was now a staging ground for imperial power. One thousand additional soldiers materialized, joining Remin's hundred Grosbek knights. Their arrival changed everything—the numerical advantage, the strategic possibilities, the very momentum of conflict.

The portal closed, sealing away whatever magical mechanism had enabled such a remarkable transportation. It was already a great feat to bring that amount of soldiers out through the portal, and it only showed just how strong Wymar was. To hold the portal for that long showed his control over mana.

They came in such a hurry, only bringing their best men.

Jolthar watched.

The assassins paused.

The Barony's remaining soldiers held their breath.

Dagur and Yilar observed with entirely different expressions—one of fear, one of calculated interest.

The true battle was about to begin.

-

The battlefield fell into an uneasy silence as General Remin turned his attention to Prince Milan. His movement was deliberate, each step carrying the weight of decades of military discipline. The way he held himself spoke of someone accustomed to wielding immense power, yet his bow to Milan was executed with perfect court etiquette—neither too deep to suggest servility nor too shallow to show disrespect.

"I came as soon as I heard you were here, Prince Milan," Remin said, his voice carrying across the battlefield with natural authority.

Prior to coming here, Remin had learned that Prince Milan had an outing, precisely near the Barony, and his interest in coming here was still unknown, and his greeting towards Milan was not without meaning.

The words were simple, but they carried layers of meaning.

For someone of Remin's stature to respond personally to a prince's situation suggested either remarkable loyalty or carefully calculated political manoeuvring.

Milan and Arvant exchanged sceptical glances.

Jolthar was observing Wymar and Remin keenly.

The timing was too perfect, the response too dramatic.

The presence of both the dragon and the elite Grosbek unit—resources that Remin was known to deploy only in the most critical situations—suggested hidden motives beyond simple rescue.

Yes, it did seem like a rescue rather than a reinforcement to the barony soldiers.

In the first place, the emperor himself ordered Remin to repel the forces of Chittera but Remin had used thi situation to his advantage, or not. That we have to yet to know.

And this was what Jolthar thought.

The assassins' reaction to Remin's arrival was equally telling.

They withdrew with swift efficiency, leaving no trace of their presence—not even their fallen comrades. It was as if they had never existed, their retreat so complete it bordered on the impossible.

This wasn't mere tactical withdrawal; it was the kind of disappearance that spoke of extensive training in arts beyond conventional warfare. They didn't want to make themselves seen or known to the general. They have already failed their mission, and giving the enemy any more clues about them would only bring horror to them and their organization.

Despite his doubts, Milan maintained diplomatic courtesy. "Thank you, General Remin, for coming here," he said, his eyes noting the impressive array of forces. "It looks like you have put a lot of effort into coming here."