The Exiled Lord: My Maid is a Battle Goddess-Chapter 101: Long time no see, Adrian—here’s my first punChapter

Chapter 101: Long time no see, Adrian—here’s my first punch.

Although ordinary people could, through sheer numbers, theoretically kill a Divine Chosen, it would never happen in open-field combat—and certainly not with expendable fodder troops.

"Fuck. This is even more brutal than I imagined."

Phield spotted rebel archers being brought forward and immediately shouted, "Raise shields!"

The First Army of Nightfall Domain, already highly focused, lifted their shields at once and continued advancing slowly. The dull, rapid thuds of arrows striking shields echoed in succession. A few arrows slipped through the gaps, felling several soldiers.

Fortunately, most of the rebels’ bows were simple hunting bows—good enough for shooting rabbits, but with very limited lethality against leather-armored troops. Only three or four men were hit, and all were lightly wounded.

"Return fire!"

Phield had no intention of suffering losses without retaliation. Seizing the brief gap after the enemy volley, he ordered his men to shoot. The supplies they had received earlier now proved timely.

After a sharp chorus of crossbow triggers snapping, over a dozen rebels fell immediately. There was no time for a second volley—the foremost allied troops had already slammed face-to-face into the rebels, and the battlefield instantly devolved into chaotic, savage close combat. Blades, spears, swords, and halberds harvested lives in a frenzy. Blood and flesh sprayed everywhere.

Even knights and seasoned warriors, once swallowed by the crush of bodies, had no space to maneuver. Front, back, left, right—even underfoot—there were people. Combat techniques and martial skills meant nothing. With bad luck, one couldn’t even raise an arm. In that moment, only raw strength and solid armor were reliable.

Phield personally witnessed a burly warrior unleash second-tier magic, sweeping down swathes of rebels. But once his mana ran dry, he was overwhelmed by a storm of spears, stabbed to the ground, and finally beaten to death in humiliation with crude farm tools.

There were no formations left on either side—just flesh colliding with flesh. In less than ten minutes, severed heads were kicked across the ground, and blood pooled thick enough to form crimson ponds.

"Hold the formation!"

Phield had come for gains—not to bury his entire army here.

He had already dismounted; there was no room to charge anyway. Safer within his own ranks, he ordered the First Army to maintain their defensive spear formation and halt their advance.

Soon, Phield made a startling discovery—he was face-to-face with the rebels!

The allied troops ahead of him had either collapsed or been wiped out.

Howling rebels rushed forward with broken weapons, morale terrifyingly high. Controlled as they were, they had no right to flee—like walking corpses.

Phield was stunned. Did he have some kind of feud with "corpses"? But now that the enemy was at his doorstep, avoidance was meaningless. He drew his greatsword sharply and commanded, "Ready—thrust!"

The soldiers’ spears overlapped and lunged in unison. The lightly built rebels were instantly skewered in rows, blood spraying.

"Keep the rhythm—thrust!"

Another synchronized strike. The rebels fell like onions being peeled layer by layer.

The hysterical screams had not yet faded when more rebels surged forward, crashing against the spear wall like waves. Fortunately, their thin hemp clothing and crude farm tools were no match for a disciplined spear formation. They fell in swathes, like wheat cut down in harvest.

Both sides fought without coherent tactics. The battlefield descended further into chaos, the two forces grinding into each other like black and white grains in a pot of porridge.

Divine Chosen had also entered the fray—but they had moved to the rebel rear to engage enemy Divine Chosen, offering no relief to the main frontline. Only the distant roar of thunderous clashes could be heard.

Soon, magic began to fade from the battlefield. The earlier earth-shattering spells almost vanished. Occasionally a mage managed to squeeze out a spell, only for it to be dispelled or purified.

The ordinary soldiers—once mere cannon fodder—gradually became the absolute main force.

After an hour, most mages were spent and had retreated to replenish their mana. Knights, relying on sheer physical endurance, continued fighting.

The battlefield had become pure hand-to-hand slaughter. Because of the governor’s bold tactics, there were no reserves. Many soldiers collapsed from exhaustion—especially heavy infantry clad in armor.

At this moment, Nightfall Domain’s army displayed extraordinary resilience.

"Thrust! Thrust!"

An unbroken storm of spears maintained perfect rhythm, mercilessly harvesting rebels. The First Army secured a small hill, the wolf banner flying high. Soon, a wall of corpses formed around them.

The soldiers’ expressions remained unchanged.

They realized this was no different from the Nightfall Domain they were used to. In fact, it was almost more comfortable—the rebels were far less terrifying than corrupted corpses.

More and more noble troops—along with scattered soldiers whose lords had fallen—gathered beneath Phield’s banner, stabilizing the position together.

"Fuck. I was planning to keep a low profile."

Phield felt awkward as a cluster of minor nobles assembled around him, everyone staring at one another.

No one had expected these dirt-poor peasants to become so ferocious when driven mad.

Fortunately, Phield sensed the rebel formation beginning to waver.

After two more hours of bloody fighting, someone suddenly cried out, "The rebels are retreating!"

"The rebels are retreating!"

Like a receding tide, the rebels withdrew amid chaotic shouting, trampling through pools of blood. Only the strong adult men retreated—the elderly, women, and children who had been dragged along were left behind as mangled corpses.

"Annihilate them! Glory bows before me!"

With an excited roar, the fortress gates opened once more. Shouting about glory, the governor mounted a magnificent lion-like magical beast and led his well-rested personal guards and three thousand light cavalry in pursuit of the fleeing rebels.

The crimson sunlight illuminated the blood-soaked earth. Corpses lay everywhere. Blood ran like rivers. Riderless warhorses wandered, and wounded soldiers wailed.

"Damn, my arms are sore."

Phield dropped onto a mound of rebel corpses and gasped for breath. He had lost count of how many men he had cut down. Even with Rosalia’s enhancement, fatigue gnawed at him.

"Thanks to you, Baron Phield! I never expected the rebels to be this tenacious."

Laurent looked like a man drenched in blood himself, breathing like a bellows.

Phield’s throat burned. Licking his lips, he muttered, "This is the power of a fifth-tier divine artifact. Tens of thousands turned into fearless monsters. Truly... astonishing."

"My lord—water."

Sam approached. Somehow he still had energy left. He unfastened his armor, and a clatter of arrowheads spilled out. Grinning, he removed his inner armor, wiped the blood from his hands onto his clothing, and handed over a waterskin.

Glug, glug, glug.

After drinking, Phield felt much better.

"Bring water to the other lords as well." He didn’t mind earning a bit of goodwill. Mounting his horse, he rode forward to survey the field.

Beyond a small rise, he saw the governor’s light cavalry chasing down the routed rebels. Farther still lay the battlefield of the Divine Chosen—brilliant skills bursting forth, the once-scenic landscape flattened into wasteland.

Before he could watch long, the three rebel Divine Chosen fled.

"As expected—the stronger they are, the harder they are to kill. I hear the Empire hasn’t even deployed a sixth-tier Divine Chosen." Phield shook his head and planted the wolf banner atop the hill.

Sixth-tier Divine Chosen would not move lightly. Each guarded the Empire’s core.

Soon, the Imperial Divine Chosen returned.

"Damn it! That idiot actually sent heavy cavalry straight into a spear wall! I got surrounded by three Divine Chosen—almost died!" Livrasa’s red hair hung loose, half her shoulder rotted away, bone faintly visible. Her divine artifact had disintegrated. Mounted on a unicorn, she raged, "I nearly returned to the War Goddess! My artifact was gone for half an hour! And none of you came sooner!"

"We follow orders too. Why didn’t you just pull back?" another Divine Chosen said dismissively.

"I’m sorry, Livrasa. I’ll heal you," another companion offered reassurance.

"Keep your voice down. If he hears you, he’ll send you charging the walls next time."

"The Nibelungen family will provide you the best recovery conditions."

Phield also spotted Elsa. As a first-tier Divine Chosen, she walked at the rear, with little say in matters.

"So that’s the Divine Chosen who charged first. Took quite a beating."

After watching for a while and failing to see the figure he had hoped to spot, Phield felt disappointed. The metallic stench in the air made him nauseous, so he returned to the First Army of Nightfall Domain.

In this battle, the First Army lost seventeen men and had sixty-one wounded.

But impressively, they gathered over a hundred unattached soldiers—whose former lords had either died or vanished.

Night fell. The camp settled into uneasy rest.

Wails and sobs from the wounded echoed everywhere. "And we’ve only just marched out of the fortress..."

Phield rubbed his temples.

Elite casualties among the noble alliance were not high—equipment superiority ensured that. But many units had broken and scattered. In the era of cold steel, that was normal. Victors could regroup gradually.

The heaviest losses were Livrasa and her heavy cavalry—over three hundred sixty knights dead, mostly from exhaustion and encirclement. Livrasa herself suffered artifact disintegration and severe injury; recovery would take a long time.

In the very first battle of suppression, a Divine Chosen had already been forced off the field.

Arlya stirred a pot of vegetable soup, long hair draped over her shoulders. Worried a strand might fall in, she gathered it with one hand. To avoid exposing her draconic heritage and inviting mockery from dragonkind, she had asked Phield for a black robe and wore a veil.

"This girl really cares that much about dragon pride? Dressed like someone from the desert."

Phield shook his head helplessly, lowering his gaze to the parchment bearing new orders and the map of Itavon Province.

The cultists’ plan to break through the fortress and scatter into Morning Breeze Province had failed. The governor’s suppression strategy now involved six columns advancing simultaneously, seizing all fortresses and cities in the rebel-held territory, and finally encircling the cultists’ headquarters in the viscount’s domain.

"Phield. It seems you’ve found a new favorite. I’m delighted."

A familiar voice rang out.

Phield looked up and saw two unforgettable figures.

His younger brother, Adrian Ross—and his Divine Chosen.

"So you didn’t die after all. I thought you’d perish like a pig or dog under the cultists’ assault."

Adrian licked his lips, casting a greedy gaze toward the dragon-blooded girl cooking. His eyes lingered on her figure. Even veiled and cloaked, her allure stunned him, and he made no effort to conceal his desire.

"Heh. Long time no see, my dear brother."

Phield beamed and rose to his feet, not angered in the slightest. Instead, he regarded Adrian as if looking at a corpse, then smiled innocently and stepped forward slowly.

"You’ve changed a lot. Though... your nose isn’t as straight as it used to be."

When he had first arrived in this world, he had punched Adrian in the face.

"What did you say?" Adrian narrowed his eyes.

Phield shrugged. "Still as irritable and perverted as ever. I thought you might’ve matured."

"Mature? Like you? Afraid to take up your fief, hiding in someone else’s land, or coming here to muddle through?" Adrian raised his voice deliberately, wanting everyone to hear. "I’ll expose your cowardice."

Nearby nobles, ever eager for spectacle, gathered quickly.

"What’s going on? Aren’t they both from the Ross family?"

"I heard Phield is extremely cowardly. His lover was tortured to death by his brother, and he did nothing."

"That’s hilarious."

"I don’t believe it. Phield fought bravely today."

The nobles whispered among themselves.

Phield rolled his eyes—but inwardly he was thrilled. His brother’s Divine Chosen was here. That meant one thing: his brother’s territory defenses were dangerously thin.

He had methodically participated in the suppression campaign for this very moment.

"Do as you please."

With that, Phield waved a hand and turned to walk back toward his tent.

"You want me to stay quiet? Fine. Let me have your new favorite for a few days. I’m bored with the maids I brought. Don’t worry—I’ll leave her breathing."

The dragon-blooded girl had never encountered such a situation. Fury burned in her eyes.

Phield paused mid-step, then turned slowly, scanning his brother from head to toe.

"Didn’t you hear me? I order you—hand your woman over to me for a few days!" Adrian emphasized, savoring the provocation.

"Heh." Phield’s dark eyes gleamed like blades. His voice turned icy. "Play? Play your mother."

In a flash, Phield appeared before Adrian and drove a vicious punch straight into his brother’s face.