Chapter 59: The Fate of Ireland

"Charge, these enemies are no longer a threat."

John ordered the officers behind him. Immediately, the knights behind him shouted and spurred their warhorses, charging at the Irish.

These knights, appearing from the flanks, delivered a devastating blow to the Irish morale. They were unprepared, exhausted, and almost incapable of organized resistance. Their fight with Little Roches had already been tough, and John's arrival shattered any remaining hope of victory.

The memories of countless previous defeats resurfaced, accelerating the Irish retreat. After all, as long as one could run faster than their comrades, survival was possible.

Driven by this thought, the Irish suddenly found immense motivation, each transforming into a marathon champion. Shedding and discarding their armor, they began the "Irish Marathon."

Meanwhile, on Little Roches' side, the appearance of reinforcements boosted their morale significantly. It was as if they were injected with adrenaline, pushing the enemy off the camp walls and even pursuing them aggressively.

Victory was a sweet reward for everyone, except John. He watched the hunt from the hilltop, as Norman knights encircled the Irish like game, driving and slaughtering them at will. Of course, some managed to escape. However, those who did might never again serve under High King Rodri.

"Go and capture Rodri for me," John ordered his personal guards. "I want him alive, or his body if he's dead."

The guards swiftly obeyed the order, relieved to leave John's side and partake in the fight. Now, they were sanctioned to cut down the enemy. The personal guards sliced through the fleeing Irish like a hot knife through butter, heading directly towards where High King Rodri was.

By now, only a dozen or so personal guards remained with Rodri. They weren't there out of loyalty but because they had no idea where else to go. In this chaos, separating could mean never finding their way home again.

Such a recognizable group was quickly found by John's guards. Guillaume led the charge, directly targeting Rodri. Seeing the Norman knights approaching with great momentum, Rodri's guards realized immediately that they were coming for Rodri.

Thus, the survival instinct drove the guards to make a decision — to run.

With the guards fleeing, Rodri was left completely unprotected.

This was the end.

This was the only thought that crossed Rodri's mind as his horse was pierced by a lance, collapsing with a shrill cry and trapping Rodri's right leg beneath its body. Several guards dismounted and quickly tied Rodri up.

This High King, once the most authoritative figure in Ireland, was now bound like a pig awaiting slaughter, stripped of any semblance of his former dignity. He was thrown onto a horse and taken to John, facing him for the first time.

John looked at Rodri. Despite being Irish, Rodri's appearance did not strongly reflect his heritage. His brownish-grey hair hinted at Nordic ancestry. However, his broad forehead and not-so-prominent nose still suggested some Irish lineage.

"Rodri, do you remember what you once told me?" John waved the whip in his hand.

The High King bowed his head, remaining silent, as if this would preserve his dignity.

"I have no envy or need for the crown on your head," John said, his words dripping with humiliation. "I have no interest in becoming the king of the Irish, Rodri. I am not you."

John's words made the veins on Rodri's face bulge, but he was utterly helpless in his bound state.

Rodri could only curse, "John, you bastard son of a bitch!"

Before he could finish, Guillaume slapped him hard, bringing him back to his senses.

"Watch your mouth."

John smiled at the scene. "You see, Rodri, now you are nothing. What use is the title of High King? It is people who bring glory to titles, not titles that bring glory to people. The Irish submit to me because I have power, because I hold true authority, not some false title. What good is an empty title?"

These words were a tremendous shock to Rodri.

The Irish had lived on this island for generations, deeply understanding their hierarchical system. Although the Vikings often invaded, they did not destroy the Irish system and even showed signs of integrating into it. 

John's attitude revealed his intention to dismantle centuries-old Irish rule completely. He aimed to turn Ireland into his own, not Ireland's Ireland.

Only at this moment did Rodri realize that his struggle with John was not just for the crown of the High King but a battle between the entire Irish people and the Norman invaders. But what could he do now?

Rodri lay on the ground, ceasing to struggle, contemplating his life. The most significant achievement of his life might have been becoming the High King in his youth. After that, one troublesome event after another, always rushing around, always embroiled in conflicts and invasions.

Ever since Rodri could remember, these fair-haired, blue-eyed men had been relentlessly encroaching on Irish land. Their greed and brutality had brought immense suffering to Ireland. John, standing before him, embodied all of these traits. More cunning and insidious than any other Norseman, John was even more dangerous precisely because he lacked the overt violence of the berserkers.

If only he had been smarter, holding out in the castles.

Rodri sighed softly, his breath causing a ripple in the small puddle before him, which disappeared in an instant.

"You've won, John." Rodri didn't lift his head.

John sneered and did not respond to Rodri. He merely gestured slightly, and Guillaume understood his intent. Just as Melus had been for Lombardy, and Harold for England, today, Rodri would be the sacrificial banner for their conquest of Ireland.

Guillaume skillfully drew a small knife from his belt, grabbed Rodri's hair, and exposed his neck.

"You killed the king of Ireland as if slaughtering a chicken, haha..." 

Rodri mocked as Guillaume swiftly brought the knife down, slicing a deep gash across Rodri's neck. Blood immediately gushed from the wound, spraying onto the land he loved so dearly.

He only struggled for a moment, his life draining away with the blood from his severed veins. He quickly grew still, lifelessly collapsing onto the ground.

Just like the fate of Ireland.