Carl gritted his teeth but ultimately left with Tiberius.
Before leaving, he said, "If you die, I'll take care of your family. My brother!
Do you have any last words?"
Although Night had revealed his invulnerability on the battlefield, Karl doubted how much longer he could survive in such a terrifying encirclement.
Afterall, he didn't know the limits of Night's powerful body.
But this man was willing to fight for them, and for that alone, he deserved the respect of everyone present.
Night said, "I have no family..."
At least not in this world.
Night's words left Karl speechless, his voice stuck in his throat, trembling and unable to come out.
In that instant, he was so dazed that he didn't even remember how he left.
By the time he had swum a distance down the river with Tiberius, a strong, unstoppable guilt continued to surge from within.
In Carl's eyes, Night was just like them; a Roman soldier with the same experiences.
That's why he could say something that resonated with all of them.
But he still had a son to worry about—what about him?
He felt foolish; he had said something he shouldn't have, touching a scar on that man.
He had hurt his brother with his own hands...
Even though he originally intended to help him.
"Don't die!!" Karl took one last look back, staring at the fighting figure on the shore.
Even though Night was skilled, he couldn't guard the entire riverbank alone.
Under the enemy commander's orders, some rebels had already started drawing their bows and shooting arrows into the river.
Carl couldn't stay any longer.
Swimming with another person, he was the slowest in the group.
So he had to look away and continue to swim forward desperately.
Faster, faster—!!
He couldn't let his brother's sacrifice be in vain.
Survival became the only thought in everyone's mind.
Whether it was the enemy's blood or their own blood and tears streaming down their faces, the traces left behind by each wave painted patches of red on the Ebro River.
Some were even injured but gritted their teeth, enduring the pain that pierced to the bone, continuing forward.
On the shore, Night had already started his dance.
His longsword pierced through helmets, going straight through the brain, red and white matter splattering.
His spear, like a storm, stirred up a crimson tempest.
Kill! Kill any enemy! Kill any enemy!
At this moment, Night turned himself into a war machine without holding back, with nothing but the thought of fighting in his mind.
Like a beast in the wild, unleashing its bloodthirsty, frenzied instincts.
He knew that at least now, there was no need to conserve strength—only thorough slaughter was needed.
When the longsword broke, he used the broken blade to slit throats; when the broken blade shattered, he crushed skulls with his bare hands, trampling over the blood-soaked ground.
He grabbed a Spanish rebel, lifted his body, and kneed him in the head, splattering blood everywhere.
Then he stomped on another rebel's head, crushing it like a watermelon.
Night's brutal fighting style showed no defense.
Countless attacks landed on him, clanging off his body like striking steel, without moving him an inch.
He roared, spreading his arms wide, blocking the front of the Ebro River, turning his whole body into a killing machine, constantly changing weapons in his hands.
When one weapon broke, he picked up another from a fallen enemy.
No matter the weapon, once in his hands, it turned into a meat grinder, wreaking havoc on the battlefield.
Finally, after an unknown period of fighting, fear took hold.
Frightened by this beast-like ferocity, they surrounded Night, but no one dared to approach.
According to post-battle statistics, 969 Spanish rebels were killed or injured in this battle, with over 940 killed single-handedly by Night.
In a few short minutes of defending the riverbank, he nearly achieved the feat of killing a thousand enemies.
Night created another legend in the Roman army.
As for the 29 heads left on the ground?
Besides those unlucky enough to be struck by rampaging, naked Roman soldiers, many who had fallen but still breathed began to show the eyes of hungry wolves, pulling down rebels trying to reach the riverbank.
Knowing they wouldn't survive, they pinned their hopes and last wishes on their surviving brothers.
So—being already 'dead,' there was nothing more to fear.
They became ghostly hunters.
Using both hands and feet, with hands broken, they used feet; with feet broken, they used teeth to tear out throats, even crawling from hell to achieve a common goal.
A fire burned in everyone's hearts.
Their actions might have been in vain, but their belief was noble and inviolable.
They chose to die as humans, not leaving captives to become slaves.
Captured rebels were terrified by the fighting spirit of these remnants.
Their madness scared the rebels so much that they dared not leave captives, only granting them death.
'What kind of will drives them to such lengths?' wondered the Spanish rebel commander, witnessing this from the rear, filled with confusion and deep fear.
He couldn't understand how these few dozen dared to charge his army, nor how some managed to escape by jumping into the river.
That terrifying will and combat power—if all Roman soldiers were like this...
How did we win before?
Having guessed the origins of these bare-chested warriors, the Spanish rebel commander continued his duty, directing his troops to pursue those who had jumped into the river.
After another roar of command...
At this moment, the Spanish rebel commander, who had probably already guessed where these shirtless warriors came from, gritted his teeth and continued fulfilling his last duty by directing his troops to chase down the people jumping into the river.
But after he roared orders one more time…
Suddenly, a chill ran up his spine, as if he were being stared at by a venomous snake.
The next moment, the commander saw only a flash of cold light descending from the heavens, like a judgment from above.
A spear, hurled from an unimaginable distance, pierced straight through his skull, nailing him to his horse.
It was Night's strike—a blow unleashed once he was finally free from the constraints of battle.
Night: Blame it on your soldiers for lacking the courage to stand in my way. Your life is now mine.
After delivering that final strike, although it hadn't exhausted him physically and merely involved a bit of throwing technique, the high-intensity combat that had lasted for so long…
Considering that he still needed to swim 25 kilometers afterward and noticing that most of the others had already escaped, Night killed another dozen soldiers who tried to approach…
And when he saw those men, trembling with fear, only daring to surround him but not brave enough to attack…
Watching the Spanish rebels' formation fall into disarray after their commander's death…
Night knew it was time to leave.
He turned his back and calmly walked toward the riverbank.
But even with his back turned, not a single enemy dared to launch a sneak attack.
His unmatched martial skills, raw strength capable of tearing through enemies, and an invincible body—undoubtedly, the traits inherited from the template of Achilles were indeed made for battle.
"Monster…" someone muttered under their breath, realizing they would never forget today's scene for the rest of their life.
The man who stood against a fiery sky, treating an army of thousands as if they were nothing.
Splash!
As Night leaped into the river and swam away at high speed…
It was as if everyone let out a collective sigh of relief.
The tension that had gripped each person's heart seemed to finally ease.
And from this night onward, the tale of 39 men breaking through thousands and allowing nearly 20 of them to escape spread rapidly across the Spanish frontlines.
This story would travel even faster than Night and the others, reaching the heart of Rome far sooner.
It would become the only recorded defeat on the Spanish battlefield, a loss that the Roman Senate would later exaggerate to restore what little morale and faith remained among its citizens and soldiers.
After all, they had been suffering heavy losses recently, and finally, they could use this story to salvage some of Rome's pride.
Even though Night and the others were technically retreating, they managed to kill at least several hundred enemies during their escape—a staggering kill ratio that could be seen as a victory by any measure.
When the news returned to Rome, many began to regard Night, the leader of the 39, as the last hero of Rome.
The gatekeeper of Rome's final dignity and glory.
And so, before even returning to the capital, Night unknowingly gained fame.
At this moment, he was wading through the river, taking turns with Carl to carry Tiberius forward.
Forward, ever forward—choosing a direction and relentlessly pushing on!
As if afraid that any wavering of will would cause them to lose their path, they pressed on tirelessly.
In the long crossing, their greatest enemy wasn't just their limited stamina and exhaustion.
It was also the challenge of maintaining their sense of direction!
Every person's body and mind were immersed in the icy cold lake water, feeling as though they were about to freeze, heavy and oppressive.
But, they absolutely couldn't sleep! If they collapsed now—then it would be…
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