Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!

Laris and the Main Assault

The eastern gates of Frostveil stood before Laris and his sixty knights, their breath misting in the freezing air. The town beyond lay quiet, but not for long.

A sharp blast of a war horn shattered the silence. A northern sentry, perched atop the battlements, had spotted them.

"Alarm!" the man bellowed. "Imperials at the gates!"

The deep, echoing cry of the horn sent the town into chaos. Men shouted, doors slammed, and the sounds of weapons being hastily grabbed echoed through the streets.

Laris cursed under his breath. So much for complete surprise.

Before the sentry could sound the horn again, an imperial archer loosed an arrow. The shaft struck the man's throat, cutting off his next cry as he toppled from the wall into the snow below.

But the damage was done. Frostveil was awake.

Laris wasted no time. He lifted his sword. "Break the gates."

A mage stepped forward, his hands glowing with arcane energy. He slammed his palm against the frozen ground. The earth trembled beneath them, and with a deafening crack, the wooden gates exploded inward—splintering into shards of iron and timber.

"Charge!"

The knights surged forward, a wave of steel and fury.

Inside, the town was a storm of motion. Peasants ran for shelter, dragging their children indoors. Men scrambled for weapons, yanking spears and axes from racks, their movements frantic.

"Hold the line!" a northern captain bellowed, trying to rally his forces. But his words barely left his lips before an imperial spear impaled his throat.

The first wave of Lord Adrian's soldiers rushed down the narrow streets, desperate to meet the charge. They were strong men, hardened by the north, but untrained compared to the imperial knights.

Laris moved through them like a reaper through a wheat field. His sword carved through flesh and bone with merciless precision. Three men fell in a single motion, their blood darkening the snow.

A warrior lunged at him with an axe, roaring with fury. Laris sidestepped the blow, pivoted, and drove his blade through the man's throat. Blood splattered across the frost-covered ground.

The knights pressed forward, their discipline and skill cutting through the disorganized defenders.

"To the keep!" Laris shouted, raising his bloodied sword.

Laris pressed forward, his knights advancing in a deadly formation. The defenders, though fierce, fell beneath the disciplined might of the Imperial forces. Their resistance crumbled as steel met flesh, and the cries of the dying echoed through the narrow streets.

Arrows rained down from the rooftops, imperial archers thinning the ranks of the desperate northerners. Some townsfolk had taken up arms, wielding rusty blades and hunting spears in a futile effort to protect their homes. Laris ignored them, focusing his blade on those who posed a real threat.

A bearded warrior, clad in chainmail, swung a greatsword at him. Laris ducked low, letting the massive weapon sail over his head before driving his blade into the man's ribs. The warrior gasped, eyes wide with pain, before Laris twisted the blade and ripped it free. Blood spilled onto the snow, staining it crimson.

Behind him, his knights cut a brutal path through the defenders. A northern axeman tried to break their formation, charging wildly—only to be impaled on a knight's spear. Another fighter, wielding a pair of daggers, darted toward Laris. Quick. Skilled. But reckless.

Laris deflected the first strike with a sharp parry, then caught the man's wrist as he attempted a second stab. With a swift twist, he broke the attacker's arm and drove his knee into his gut. The man crumpled, groaning in pain, and Laris ended his suffering with a clean thrust to the throat.

A new sound broke through the chaos—the deep, rhythmic pounding of war drums. Laris turned toward the keep, where the enemy banners still flew atop its black stone walls. The drums signaled that Lord Adrian's elite guard was preparing to make their stand.

"Form up!" Laris barked, raising his sword. "Prepare for the counterattack!"

The knights adjusted their ranks, shields locking together as the northern warriors regrouped. The defenders might have been caught off guard, but they would not surrender easily.

At the far end of the town square, a group of heavily armored warriors emerged. Unlike the ragged town guards, these men wore well-forged plate and bore the sigil of House Lord Adrian—a silver direwolf on a field of blue.

The elite guard. Lord Adrian's best.

The leader stepped forward, removing his helm. A grizzled warrior with streaks of gray in his hair, his face bore the hardened lines of a man who had spent his life in battle. He pointed his longsword at Laris.

"Imperial dog!" he roared. "You will not take Frostveil!"

Laris smirked. "We already have."

With a furious battle cry, the elite warriors charged.

….

….

Inside the dimly lit war room of Frostveil Keep, Lord Adrian Velmont slammed his gauntleted fist against the oak table.

The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows on his face, the tension in his eyes unmistakable. His wife, Lady Evelyne, stood beside him, clutching the hands of their two daughters, Lysara and Elyse, whose young faces bore expressions of fear. His eldest son, Ian, and younger son, Darius , stood nearby, their swords strapped to their sides, awaiting orders.

The distant clash of steel echoed through the stone walls, punctuated by the dying screams of their men. The imperial knights had breached the eastern gates.

"This shouldn't be possible," Darius, Adrian's eldest son murmured, his fingers tightening around the pommel of his sword. "How did they reach our gates so quickly?"

"Teleportation magic," Lord Adrian spat, his voice filled with fury. "Blasted imperials and their tricks! Damn it!" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "No time for regret. We are leaving. Now."

He turned to the armored retainers stationed by the door. "Prepare the escort. We ride immediately."

"What?" Ian's voice rang with outrage. He took a step forward, his pale blue eyes burning with anger. "You would abandon our keep, our people—without even a fight?" His fists clenched. "We are Velmonts! 'To yield is to perish.' Have you forgotten our house words?"