"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Heavy, orderly drumbeats, as if pounding against his soul, one after another, traveled through the frozen ground into Peter's feet, intertwining eerily with his own frantic heartbeat.
Mechanically, he followed the movements drilled into him thousands upon thousands of times with absolute precision: left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot... Keeping pace with that rhythm of death, he moved forward, then farther forward.
The gleaming triangular bayonet fixed to the muzzle of his rifle rose and fell faintly with each step, reflecting the bleak daylight. It no longer gave off the glorious cold gleam of a march to war, but a pure, icy aura of slaughter.
Eighty paces... seventy paces... The distance shrank mercilessly. Peter could make out the details of that "wall of men" opposite them ever more clearly: disorderly clothing, terrified and twisted faces, Matchlock Rifles and Hunting Bows of every kind raised and aimed their way, along with trembling gun barrels that plainly belonged to men with little training.
From the enemy ranks came chaotic, hoarse commands and shouted rebukes. Officers could be seen kicking and shoving the panicked soldiers, forcing them to stand straight and raise their weapons.
"They... they're going to fire..."
A powerful urge, one that nearly made him turn and flee, surged up into his throat—only to be crushed by an even stronger sense of discipline and the presence of his comrades at his side. Breathing became harder. His palms were slick with sweat, and he could barely hold onto the stock of his rifle.
But the drums did not stop. The fifes still rang high and clear.
The entire blue square formation, like a vast, merciless machine of steel, continued to roll forward according to its set rhythm—steady, resolute, unstoppable. There was no pause, no hesitation; not