Chapter 36: River of Blood

The soldiers of Flanders charged toward the city walls, heedless of life or death, driven by a single, unwavering conviction: to seize this city for the sake of their families and their future. Meanwhile, the defenders and citizens of Tournai resisted with grim tenacity, fighting to protect their homes, their loved ones, and the land they held dear.

As the battle raged on, both sides paid a harrowing price. On the battlefield, corpses piled high in heaps, and blood flowed like rivers, staining the earth crimson. The pungent, nauseating scent of carnage hung heavy in the air. Yet, neither side showed the slightest intention of retreating; they continued to slaughter one another amidst the fire and blood. It was as if life itself had lost all meaning, replaced entirely by the singular importance of their goals and beliefs.

Just as the two sides reached a desperate stalemate, rain began to fall from the sky. The downpour was bone-chilling, as if the heavens were weeping in pity for this cruel war. Still, the soldiers did not falter, continuing their fierce struggle in the rain, where the water mingled with blood to carve a shocking, crimson river across the landscape.

"Is this rain... God weeping for Tournai?" Carlo gazed at the sky, lost in a trance.

"Regardless, we cannot give up!" Lesarit replied.

As time slowly dragged on, the fighting grew ever more intense. Both sides were exhausted, yet they persisted with stubborn resolve. On this field of blood and fire, life had become as fragile as a flickering candle in the wind, ready to be extinguished at any moment. Yet, their convictions remained iron-clad and indestructible. Every man fought for the belief held within his heart, unsure if he would survive the day. But they knew they could not retreat, for behind them lay their families, their kin, their dignity—everything they held most precious in life. In this brutal conflict, there were no true victors for the common man; they were merely fighting desperately for a chance for their people to survive.

War brought only endless death and destruction, shattering countless families and quietly snuffing out countless lives. At this moment, however, there was no turning back for either side; they were condemned to fight on this field of fire and blood until the very end.

At the northern wall, the battle had reached a fever pitch of deadlock. Immersed in the cruel slaughter, the soldiers failed to notice that dawn was slowly breaking. On the southern wall, Lesarit, Carlo, and their men had long been stunned by the spectacle unfolding to the north. Raging fires lit up the night sky, illuminating half the heavens and the bloody battlefield below. The sounds of combat and screams drifting from the north struck their ears like thunderclaps, shaking their very souls. Then came the torrential rain, like heaven’s sorrowful tears, quenching the flames but blending with the blood to stain the earth a sickening, dark crimson.

In the war-torn city of Tournai, the shadow of conflict pressed down like a heavy leaden veil upon every inch of soil. The feudal army beneath the southern wall was equally startled by the uproar to the north. They stood in silence, faces etched with complex expressions, weighing the gains and losses of the war as they calculated the opportune moment to intervene.

Not far away, within the ranks of the French cavalry, the atmosphere was starkly different. This unit consisted mostly of exiled Flemish nobles and knights. In their hearts burned a deep, fiery hatred for the English and those they deemed "renegades." This hatred, born from the loss of their homes, their honor, and their kin, had only grown more intense over time, becoming an inextinguishable flame. When they had marched out the previous night, every man knew it might be their final journey, yet they felt no fear. They had already prepared themselves to die in the charge, if only to show the people of Tournai that they had not been abandoned.

Fate seemed to offer them an unexpected smile. Their advance went smoother than imagined, and they entered the city without a single blade drawn or a single casualty. This stroke of luck felt as though they had stolen one more night of life from the very edge of death.

However, they knew the march of war never truly halted; the true test had perhaps only just begun. After relieving the armed citizens, they took up positions on the southern wall, where they stood in defiance of the enemy under the command of the Count of Alençon. At the forefront of the cavalry was a knight who had recently risen to fame on the battlefield—Lesarit of Boulogne.

His gaze was fixed firmly on the northern wall, where smoke billowed and the cries of war thundered. To him, this was not merely a battlefield, but a stage to fulfill his mission and defend his honor. At this dawn hour, amidst the rain, the sky was veiled in a thin mist, and the morning light struggled to pierce the clouds. Lesarit slowly drew his sword; the blade gleamed with a cold, sharp light as rainwater slid down the steel like a divine baptism for the coming charge.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the tension and murderous intent in the air, then suddenly raised his blade and shouted: "Seek not to live, but to die! Knights of Flanders, follow me!"

His voice, like a thunderclap, shattered the veil of rain and mist. It was filled with such resolve and indomitable courage that it echoed endlessly, shaking the soul of every man present. At Lesarit's command, this well-equipped cavalry unit surged forward like a torrential flood of steel, throwing themselves without hesitation into the most brutal theater of the war. The sound of hooves thundered against the earth, kicking up spray that sparkled in the morning light. Though their forms were slightly blurred by the rain, their momentum was like lightning cutting through the darkness, illuminating the entire battlefield.

Under the grueling defense of the northern garrison, the battle upon the walls had reached a white-hot intensity. The defenders were exhausted, yet their eyes still burned with stubborn light. They gritted their teeth, exerting every ounce of strength to battle the enemy. The English longbowmen, meanwhile, were so ravaged by fatigue and injury from the prolonged fighting that they were no longer able to draw their bows.