Forty paces.
Thirty paces.
Carnford's blue battle line, accompanied by deafening yet perfectly synchronized drums and fifes, continued forward, forward again, like a silent, unstoppable tide.
They seemed utterly oblivious to the distance, to the lethal flashes and white smoke constantly erupting along Sauron's line, to the horrific sight of comrades being hit and collapsing with screams all around them.
Gaps constantly opened in the ranks as they advanced, only to be silently filled at once by soldiers from the rear. Aside from the heavy, synchronized tramp of marching feet and the groans of the wounded, the entire line maintained a heart-chilling silence.
That silent, relentless, rigorously disciplined pressure—so disciplined it was nearly cruel—inflicted unimaginable psychological strain upon the soldiers defending Sauron's line, especially the forcibly conscripted slave soldiers who lacked training and fighting spirit.
"W-why aren't they stopping?!"
"They're coming up! They're coming up!!"
"Fire! Fire already!"
Under the threat of the Carnford Army's "endless," utterly irrational advance, Sauron's ranks—especially the sections made up chiefly of slaves and conscripts—had fallen completely into chaos.
The initial illusion of "volley fire," barely maintained beneath officers' whips and bellowed orders, had long since shattered. Fear spread and grew through the packed crowd like a plague.
"Bang! Bang! Crack!"
"Ah! My face!"
"Don't shove! Fucking stop shoving!"
Shouts, scattered and chaotic gunfire with scarcely any rhythm, officers' frantic curses, the clatter of weapons, and staggering footsteps... every sound blended into one immense, disorderly wave of panic beneath the choking veil of white smoke.
With no unified command over the firing, soldiers in the front rank often fired blindly in their terror without waiting for orders, then scrambled backward to reload, colliding with the soldiers behind who were trying to move forward. The entire line was like a poked hornets' nest, thrown into utter