Master, You're So Strong...

The three Imperial Archer Squads under Henry unleashed a sharp whistling barrage, firing a mass of arrows at once and directly breaking the Goatmen's terrifying charge.

As for the twenty archers Mais had brought, their attacks barely seemed to have any impact compared to the Imperial Archer Squads.

At the same time, Vasco deployed four New Recruit Squads along both flanks of the formation. He himself led the Elite Veteran Infantry Squad as overseers, herding several hundred serfs in front of them.

Philip raised his shield and shouted, "Crossbowmen, kneel and prepare! Archers... fire!"

The archers loosed another volley, and this time, even more arrows found their targets.

With the enemy too close, the archers swiftly scattered and fell back. No matter how strong their arms were, they could not be sent into melee combat. That would have been far too wasteful.

Henry was wearing two layers of armor, with no time to put on a third. In his hand was an enormous battle axe once used by a Minotaur. It looked like the executioner's axe used in the Southern Desert—heavy and razor-sharp.

Fas held his lance and stared wide-eyed. "You're using that?"

"Of course."

Fas nodded admiringly and said enviously, "Then you really are immensely strong. An axe like that would exhaust me after four or five swings."

Sure enough, people could not be judged by the same standard. Fas had heard many tales of mighty Warriors among the Royal Guards, but this was his first time seeing one in person.

As they spoke, the Goatmen at the front drew short javelins and hurled them at the crossbowmen standing ahead.

Dozens of javelins flew in a dark cloud toward the crossbowmen's formation, chilling everyone to the bone.

"Not good, raise your shields!"

Fas and Mais shouted almost simultaneously, but it was already too late.

Only a minority of crossbowmen had shields. Only veteran crossbowmen were qualified to carry them, and now that the javelins had been thrown, there was nowhere to dodge.

Squelch! Bang! Bang! Bang!

More than a dozen crossbowmen were pierced straight through the chest, falling into the snow with their eyes wide open. A few unlucky ones were struck through the face, a bloody and horrifying sight.

A handful reacted quickly enough to pull off their shields. Seeing the iron javelin heads embedded through the wooden shields right before their eyes, cold sweat streamed down their foreheads. They had barely managed to save their lives.

Philip silently stepped back, swung his Knight Sword, and shouted, "Crossbowmen, fire!"

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Whizz! Whizz! Whizz!

The two sides were only a few dozen paces apart. The battered crossbowmen angrily raised their crossbows and pulled the triggers hard, instantly knocking dozens of Goatmen to the ground.

"Fas, something feels wrong. Why would these roughly five hundred Goatmen dare to charge a force of over three thousand?"

Henry looked at the Goatman army, which had already lost more than half its numbers, and found it deeply unreasonable.

If they had been Kobolds, it would have been normal. Those creatures truly had no brains. But Goatmen were different. They were the backbone of the Half-Orc army.

Fas warily scanned the surroundings. "How about this? I'll take the Retainers and Cavalry north to investigate. We'll see whether the other two Noble Private Armies have been attacked."

Since the two great legions had always been ahead of them, Henry's force had not sent its Scouts too far out.

"Fine. There's no real danger here. Be careful."

During the time Fas was away with his cavalry, the Goatman army slammed viciously into the "embrace" of the serfs.

Though these serfs had received no professional military training, the spears, hoes, and pitchforks in their hands filled them with courage, because large numbers of regular troops were overseeing them from both sides and behind.

The serfs widened their eyes, their faces twisted with savagery as meaningless roars constantly burst from their mouths, spittle flying everywhere.

They seemed to have lost their minds and gone mad, wildly swinging their weapons. Some held hoes and pitchforks, some carried spears, and others had tied kitchen knives to the ends of wooden poles, making for a clumsy and feeble sight.

Some serfs even swung too widely. A hoe strike missed its target and injured a serf beside them instead.

This made the scene even more chaotic, but the New Recruit Squads on both flanks remained steady, forming Shield Formations without budging.

Watching the numbers of Goatmen and serfs dwindle frantically, Henry could not help dismounting, eager to join in himself.

Wielding his Great Axe like a raging beast, Henry charged into the clash between the two sides.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He shoved aside a trembling serf, then sent a Goatman wielding a Spiked Club flying with an Iron Mountain Lean.

The Goatmen stared at Henry in terror. What kind of technique was this? Why did he look like one of the Minotaurs from their tribe?

They tried to surround and kill Henry, but before his Great Axe, everything seemed so fragile.

Every swing of Henry's Great Axe struck a Goatman's vital point with perfect accuracy—or rather, before Henry, the Goatmen's entire bodies were vital points. It made no difference where he struck.

Goatman blood sprayed through the air, forming a bloody mist that mingled with the white vapor of breath brought by the snowfall.

Vasco and the commanders of the other loyal units exchanged glances, then could only quickly close in and join the battle.

Something was wrong. Was this really how Lord had taught them during training?

Henry was covered in blood. The rusty, fishy stench constantly assaulted his nerves, yet he showed no intention of stopping and continued his frenzied slaughter.

The Goatmen began to collapse. They fled in every direction, but Henry had no intention of letting them go. He pursued relentlessly, using his Great Axe to cut down every Goatman who tried to escape.

Vasco and the others refused to be outdone. Waving their swords, they targeted the Goatmen's legs and lower backs, snatching whatever battle credit they could. Being soldiers like this was truly stifling.

In the end, more than thirty Goatmen fell beneath Henry's Great Axe.

Henry panted heavily, blood continuously dripping from his armor onto the ground. The white snow had been trampled black and mixed with blood, making it look like red-black earth.

Bain arrived late with the cavalry squad. Looking at the battle that had already ended, he seemed at a loss.

Huh? Weren't you going to have me charge hard from behind? I'd only just circled around!

Bain swung off his horse and ran over, checking Henry for injuries. When he found Henry still completely unharmed, with only a few iron rings knocked loose from his chainmail, he finally let out a breath of relief.

"Master, you can't..."

Henry patted Bain on the shoulder and said without the slightest sincerity, "Next time. You can fight next time."

Bain could only head over to the carriage to find Claude and help direct the cleanup of the battlefield.

Philip watched Henry from afar, feeling a pang of desolation. Next time, he absolutely would not take on the job of commanding the crossbowmen. He wanted to fight the Half-Orcs head-on!

So tired. When your superior was too powerful, the pressure on subordinates multiplied. How could he prove he was useful without losing his livelihood? Urgent, urgent, urgent!