"Melasma!" someone cried. "He's wounded!" "Don't touch him!" Brian barked. "I'll assess his injuries. Keep firing." He handed the rifle to the new recruit responsible for loading and bent over to approach the wounded man. Godzhi, still conscious, trembled and asked, "Captain, I... will I die?" A short spear had pierced his chest below the ribcage, though it was unclear if it was a through wound. His breathing remained steady, suggesting the lungs were unharmed. During cultural studies, His Royal Highness had briefly explained the functions of human organs and first aid measures for injuries. In such cases, the best approach was to leave him undisturbed until Miss Nanawa could treat him after the battle.
"Does it hurt?" Brian asked.
Freckles nodded hesitantly.
"Being able to feel pain means you won't die," Knight said, placing his hand on his forehead. "You know Miss Nanawar's abilities, don't you?" "Well," the freckled man forced a smile. "Everyone usually... wants to see her. So... I, too, can finally meet her." "Exactly. You must persevere," Blair said, returning to the firing range. The recruit looked back anxiously. "Don't you need to draw the short spear?" "Drawing it would cause massive blood loss. You'll understand when you learn this," he paused. "All we can do now is crush the enemy as quickly as possible."
From the high platform, Roland could clearly see the enemy surging toward the town like a tidal wave.
Every time they crossed a bunker, they slowed down a lot, and when they crossed the third bunker, the enemy's flank was completely exposed to the crossfire of the gunners.
The echo's effect was unmistakable. Though the formation had stretched into a long line, most still charged down the avenue, obeying the Witch's relentless 'Charge!' orders.
In every moment, waves of people fell, and they were powerless to resist. Confronted with fortifications impervious to blades and spears, the militia of Tefiko could only endure casualties and press on.
Three hundred meters beyond the third row of bunkers lies the artillery position—a zone within this range that is a deadly area under shrapnel coverage.
The lightning in the sky has changed the flag into bright red.
The twenty cannons were leveled, unleashing flames and thick smoke into the air. Roland made a rough estimate: the most skilled crews could fire a single shell of shrapnel within twenty seconds, while less proficient ones took about half a minute. At first glance, this seemed comparable to the rapid fire rates of elite artillery units during the American Civil War. However, the latter's three-shot-per-minute performance was achieved with solid shot firing, as much time was spent on repositioning and repeated aiming. Shrapnel firing required no aiming or barrel cleaning, allowing for even higher rates of fire.
To the enemy, this was a terrifying rate of fire. The shotgun bullets inflicted devastating damage on armored targets, with nearly every iron projectile capable of piercing two or three men. Though the bullets could dull the pain, they couldn't suppress the primal fear. Watching comrades fall like a sieve, even the thrill of combat and thirst for blood could no longer contain the instinctive dread of life itself. These soldiers were no steel-hardened warriors to begin with—without the bullets, they were merely untrained civilians with no combat experience. As half of them lay on the path of the charge, the enemy began to flee.
The fear spread like a plague. The first one was followed by the second and third in quick succession. The vanguard halted its advance entirely, turned around, and began retreating in disarray. The artillery crew switched to solid shells, firing at the center of the road, while the musketeers in the bunker kept their guns blazing without pause.
The road was littered with bodies.
...
Le Wen's anger gradually cooled, and he began to feel afraid.
At first, over twenty people spotted the Witch who had caused the chaos. Dressed in bizarre attire, she blended so seamlessly into the forest that her presence would have gone unnoticed—unless the others had been moving forward with the main group, leading the crowd toward the road's center.
Even so, she caused Levin considerable trouble—he noticed the Witch's imitations drifted unpredictably, never coming from his mouth, sometimes from the left, sometimes from the right, and at times even from behind his head. The content varied wildly, from mimicking his own accent to issue commands, to a militiaman's agonized cries for help.
But just as they were about to surround and seize the other party, the woman in white reappeared.
Levin recalled the shocking scene of Lehman Brothers being wiped out in an instant.
She held a silver-white 'light crossbow' in her hand, and with a flash of sparks and a thunderous blast, one would fall.
The encircled pockets were instantly torn apart, leaving everyone in a state of panic. Neither armor nor shields could withstand the assault. The round iron shield in Levin's hand shattered into two pieces, its metal surface revealing tiny gaps that exposed the enemy's formidable weapons. The only comparable weapon was a heavy crossbow. Had he not instinctively ducked to avoid the impact, he would have been reduced to a lifeless corpse.
But a heavy crossbow cannot fire consecutively!
The White Witch's elusive abilities, paired with her terrifying weapons that require no reloading, made Raven realize he stood no chance. Once this realization took hold, his fury was extinguished as swiftly as a cold wind.
"Take the pill and kill her when she shows up!" Levin shouted, but he stepped back instead. As she focused on the militiamen, he suddenly bolted out of the woods.
It's safer to stay with the group—she wouldn't dare attack me in the crowd!
The forest grew in a bizarre manner, its thick wild grass nearly knee-deep, with vines sprawling below. A single misstep could send you tumbling. Struggling through the woods, Levin looked ahead, hoping to rejoin the main group, but the scene before him left him utterly stunned.
The militia, still reeling from the drug's effects, were retreating... or rather, fleeing. The slower ones, or those who hadn't yet reacted, were trampled to the ground by the relentless stream of pursuers. They charged like galloping horses, and fled with the same ferocity. The surging crowd stirred up a dust storm, and he dared not step forward to stop them.
What the hell had happened? Levin stood frozen in disbelief. How could 1,500 men have been completely routed in such a short time? And that was after taking the pills! Were Prince's men all monsters?
Just then, the sound of footsteps on weeds came from behind. Clenching his teeth, he thrust the sword backward with a sudden, lightning-fast motion—this strike was sharper than ever, like a bolt of lightning, only to be met by blinding fire. The blade shattered into fragments, sparks flying, when a sharp pain shot through his right hand, and the sensation in his fingertips vanished instantly.
When his gaze shifted to his arm, Levine realized that half of his arm had vanished, leaving the red and white muscles and bones exposed, resembling a blooming snake grass flower. The woman in white approached him with an expressionless face, and he involuntarily took several steps back, stumbling to the ground in panic.
Witch's foot pressed against his shoulder, the cold weapon pressed against his forehead. From this angle, Leven glimpsed the face hidden beneath the hood.
Okay... beautiful.
This was his last thought before the gun went off.