Their opponents, on the other hand, were a group of practically unorganized "armies."
Most were commoners, dressed only in tattered leather armor, patched cotton armor, or even just thin cloth clothing.
Generally, they were thin and pale and carried a variety of weapons.
Most of the swords and knives were modified agricultural tools or were crudely made, and compared to the standard equipment of the regular army, they looked like children's toys.
The battle situation was obvious: with overwhelming superiority in equipment, training, and physical condition, the battlefield had turned into a one-sided slaughter.
The ground was already soaked with thick blood, dirty and foul, and layers of corpses lay on it, the vast majority being civilians who had risen in revolt.
They fell like stalks of wheat harvested by a scythe, one after another, under the onslaught of the Nilfgaardian knights and infantry chokehold.
On the other side, Nilfgaard had suffered minimal losses, and most of the bloodstains on their armor belonged to civilians.
However, despite the constant deaths of their comrades and the slim hope of victory, these civilians seemed to know nothing of fear.
Their eyes burned with an almost fanatical flame, and they uttered hoarse but unified cries.
Hail the Sun!! For my God!
They advanced tirelessly, using primitive weapons and their own blood to desperately attack the empire's defenses.
Each fall inspires those who follow to charge forward with even greater desperation.
Behind the battlefield, a small squad of elite knights guarded two men.
One was Menno, a Nilfgaardian general, riding a magnificent warhorse, with a stern face and neatly trimmed mustache.
The emblem of the Black Sun on the flag beside him fluttered in the firelight.
The other was a bishop of the Church of the Sun, dressed in a magnificent robe embroidered with golden human faces and a sun motif.
His brows were furrowed, and his face showed disgust and deep bewilderment.
"General Menno, these wretched people… they have gone mad!" The bishop's voice was full of suppressed anger and confusion.
"They sang praise to the sun and to our God."
"But such behavior is a flagrant defiance of the Emperor's will, which... is the most heinous blasphemy against the teachings of the Sun!"
Menno's gaze swept over the blood-soaked battlefield ahead, his expression serious. After a short pause, he spoke slowly.
"According to intelligence, the leader of this rabble is a farmer named Gil."
"He was a devout follower of the Church of the Sun, at least outwardly, but later, for some reason… he broke away from the church."
"Rumour has it that he claims to have witnessed a 'miracle' and encountered the 'true Sun God,' and therefore concluded that... the state religion established by His Majesty is a lie designed to deceive the world."
"Absurd! Utterly shameless!" Hearing this, the bishop was first stunned, then sneered, his face reflecting contempt and anger.
"There is only one archbishop, and that is His Majesty, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis!"
"How dare a simple farmer claim an audience with His Majesty? And how dare he organize such a large-scale uprising!"
"This is clearly a conspiracy to undermine His Majesty's authority! This is heresy!"
Menno shook his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic battlefield.
He then singled out a figure in the distance, fighting in a bloody battle and desperately defended by the remaining crowd – that was Gil.
"Regardless, the evidence irrefutably shows that he incited rebellion and killed imperial nobles and soldiers."
"According to imperial law, this is an unforgivable crime of high treason. It is our duty to rid His Majesty of these malignant tumors."
Menno spoke without any emotion, as if addressing some official matter unrelated to him.
"What a pity about these serfs… They could have lived and given their labor and taxes to the empire."
"Now they will die for the lies of a hypocrite."
In the center of the battlefield, Gil felt his strength ebbing. His vision began to blur, and the sounds of battle around him became distant and distorted.
Each breath aggravated the countless wounds all over his body, causing excruciating, burning pain.
Blood continuously seeped from his torn leather armor, turning him into a horrifying, blood-soaked figure.
The steel sword in his hand was as heavy as a mountain. Each time he lifted it and swung it, it exhausted all his strength, and his arm was so sore and numb he almost lost feeling.
He felt his life waning: blood flowed from his wounds, his body temperature dropped, and darkness crept in at the edges of his vision like an incoming tide.
Around them, their few remaining comrades fought desperately, shouting: "Hail the sun! For our god!"
He shielded with his whole body the piercing spears, using his flesh and blood to slow the knight's attack.
Then one by one, they collapsed, letting out muffled groans, their faces splattered with hot, dazzlingly bright blood.
These primitive weapons struck the gleaming plate armor of the Nilfgaardian knights.
It could only produce a few weak sparks, unable to stop the slaughter wrought by the enemy.
In Gil's heart, about to be extinguished, burned a flame of anger, not because of imminent death.
Instead, they were slaughtered like cattle for their compatriots who followed him, trusted him, and had the most elementary faith in the "true sun"!
THWIP!! A long halberd, taking advantage of his exhaustion, suddenly broke through his futile counterattack, and the cold tip of the halberd pierced his chest.
The agonizing pain instantly overwhelmed all senses. A sweet taste rose in Gil's throat; he coughed, spat out a mouthful of blood, and staggered backward.
In the end, he could no longer hold on and fell to one knee, barely keeping himself from falling with the cracked steel sword in his hand.
His vision gradually dimmed, and his hearing dulled. In the last moments of consciousness, he saw the endless crimson expanse and the unseeing faces of his comrades.
"Is it all over?.." Endless grief and resentment filled his heart.
Mustering his last strength, he slightly parted his bloodstained lips and mumbled barely audible whispers.
This was the last echo of his faith, his final prayer: "My God… I have failed You… I could not spread Your glory…"
"I beg You… grant me… Your mercy…"
"Please give me one last hope… to defeat these… blasphemous enemies…"
"My God… allow me… to be faithful to You…"
This incredibly pious prayer transcended the barriers of flesh and blood and even the boundaries of space.
The next moment, a cry came: BOOM!!! To the astonishment of the surrounding Nilfgaardian soldiers, Gil knelt in a pool of blood.
From this mutilated body, a pure, dazzlingly golden halo suddenly burst forth.
The golden light was not dazzling, but it gave people an indescribable sense of majesty and sanctity, instantly dispelling the surrounding darkness.
"What the hell?! Is he casting a spell?!"
"Quick! Kill him! Don't let him finish!" a knowledgeable knight captain shouted sharply.
Initial surprise turned into murderous intent. The surrounding soldiers reacted quickly, and over a dozen swords and halberds whistled through the air.
They struck and slashed again at Gil, enveloped in golden light, determined to end his life.
However, as soon as the weapons barely touched Gil's body, all approaching weapons instantly slowed in his eyes.
In the depths of his consciousness, a solemn and majestic voice sounded, drowning out all the noise.
"You are my divine warrior, and they have given their lives for me."
"I will carefully forge him and create him in the fire of war."
"He is considered a bulwark against fear, a divine guardian of humanity."
"Arise, my child!"