Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 37: The Crimson Knights Last Charge

Arthur's command echoed across the deck, sharp and decisive. At once, Pendralis landing craft surged forward, their metal hulls slicing through the surf, carrying the first wave of marines toward the blood-soaked shore. The boats rocked as waves crashed against them, but the iron-willed soldiers aboard remained steady, gripping their rifles, their minds focused on the battle ahead.

As the crafts neared the beach, the landing ramps crashed down, and Pendralis marines stormed ashore, their disciplined formations quickly securing the coastline. Smoke from the fortress bombardment still clung to the air, turning the scene into a battlefield of fire and shadows.

The Aragonese cavalry, still struggling to recover from the destruction of the fortress walls, failed to react in time. The knights, who should have been the first line of defense against an amphibious landing, were disorganized and dazed. Within minutes, the Pendralis vanguard had fully secured the beach, establishing a perimeter beyond the waterline.

Their orders were simple but absolute: hold the position at all costs until reinforcements, artillery, and supplies were offloaded from the fleet.

Any observer, even an experienced warrior, would have been awestruck by the sheer discipline of the Pendralis soldiers. Unlike traditional armies—composed of part-time soldiers who spent most of their lives farming or in trade—these men were warriors every single day. Their movements were not the wild chaos of medieval battle, but the precise mechanics of a perfectly engineered machine. They functioned as one unit, synchronized in motion, as if they were an extension of the same unbreakable force.

From within the ruined fortress walls, Commander Ricardo struggled to make sense of what he was witnessing. He pushed past the chaos, his breath still ragged from the thunderous bombardment that had collapsed the southern wall. He scanned the battlefield—most of his men who had occupied the walls were dead, but the cavalry had survived the destruction mostly intact.

Ricardo's eyes darted toward the Pendralis fleet, where landing operations were still underway. Then, his mind clicked.

If we allow them to complete their landing, the fortress will be lost.

Bombarding the fortress from a distance had already proven devastating, but now, the enemy would fortify and hold the ruins, using it as a strongpoint against the incoming Aragonese reinforcements. Ricardo knew that if the Pendralis forces established a foothold, there would be no way to dislodge them.

He had one opportunity to turn the tide—a full-scale cavalry charge before their troops could fully deploy.

Ricardo turned to his knights, his voice sharp with urgency. "Mount up!"

One of his senior knights, his armor gleaming despite the dust of war, hesitated. "My lord… their ships carry powerful cannons. If they fire, we will be massacred before reaching the shore."

Ricardo shook his head. "They won't risk firing on their own men. Look at their numbers. They haven't landed their full force yet. If they were willing to sacrifice troops, they would have sent more."

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It was a reasonable assumption—but a deadly mistake.

Ricardo believed the Pendralis soldiers fought with swords and spears, like the warriors of his time. He was about to learn how wrong he was.

He raised his sword. "Charge!"

The ground shuddered beneath the weight of a thousand warhorses as the Aragonese knights surged forward, their armor glinting like silver waves in the morning sun. Dust exploded beneath their hooves, the sound of thunderous galloping roaring across the battlefield.

A Modern Defense Against an Ancient Attack

On the beach, Captain Charles Lowe, commanding the Pendralis defense line, peered through his telescope. His face remained calm, emotionless.

Then, he saw them.

A tide of white-armored knights, charging with all the power and fury of the old world.

Lowe exhaled slowly. He had seen charges before. He had studied centuries of battle doctrine. But those knights… they were charging into a war they did not understand.

"Hold," he ordered. His voice was steady. Unshaken.

The Pendralis defensive line was built with ruthless efficiency. At the center, a solid wall of infantry, each soldier armed with Lee-Enfield rifles, stood ready. At the flanks, heavy machine guns were positioned, creating a devastating crossfire trap.

600 meters…

The knights thundered closer, faster than any infantry could hope to react.

500 meters…

The riflemen adjusted their aim.

400 meters…

The machine guns locked onto their targets.

300 meters…

The first shots rang out.

The initial volley ripped through the front ranks of the cavalry. Horses shrieked as bullets punched through their skulls, their massive bodies crashing into the earth, sending riders tumbling.

Ricardo, galloping at full speed, heard the crackling gunfire, but he did not look back. He did not see the knights behind him being torn apart.

At 200 meters, the fire intensified.

Bullets tore through plate armor, splintering bones, sending knights tumbling into the dirt, their lifeless bodies rolling under the hooves of their own cavalry.

Ricardo's warhorse let out a terrible scream as a bullet struck its chest. The beast collapsed mid-gallop, throwing Ricardo violently into the earth. His body slammed into the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.

Dazed, he staggered to his feet, turning—only to see less than fifty knights still standing.

His thousand-strong charge had been reduced to nothing in a matter of minutes.

And the Pendralis soldiers had not lost a single man.

Ricardo's chest heaved. He had been a warrior all his life. He had fought countless battles. But he had never seen slaughter like this.

His mouth opened, a final curse forming on his lips—

"Si—"

A single rifle shot cracked through the air.

The bullet struck Ricardo between the eyes, the force snapping his head back. His body collapsed backward, motionless.

The last great knight of Aragon was dead.

The battlefield fell silent, save for the groans of dying men and the distant crash of waves. The white-armored knights, once symbols of Aragonese glory, lay in heaps, their pristine steel turned red with blood.

This battle would be remembered for centuries—the final battle where knights had charged into war. It would be called "The Crimson Knights' Last Charge", not just because blood stained their once-pure armor, but because the Pendralis soldiers, clad in red uniforms, had written history in gunfire and steel.

From the deck of HMS Victory, Arthur lowered his telescope.

"It's over," he murmured.

He turned to Edward. "Complete the landing. The fortress is ours."