Tear

This cruel and direct slogan was like a shot to the heart, briefly pressing down some of the fear and igniting a twisted, ferocious gleam in their eyes, mingled with despair and greed.

For that faint chance of survival, for their families' way out, they had to become beasts!

"Archers! Ready!" the officer's roar rang out behind the barricade.

Sparsely scattered militia equipped with old Hunting Bows, along with the surviving archers, tremblingly nocked their arrows and aimed toward the area ahead shrouded in darkness, where killing intent already came crashing toward them.

"Musketeer squad! Check your slow matches! Wait for my order!" Elsewhere, the even fewer Musketeers nervously inspected their slow matches and priming pans, setting their heavy Matchlock Rifles on the gaps in the barricade. They were the most precious ranged firepower of this fragile defensive line.

The air was filled with the sharp, choking stench of saltpeter, sweat, and despair.

Time seemed to stretch thin, every second like torment in a pan of boiling oil.

Finally, at the far end of the street barely lit by the torchlight, the shadowy figures of Sauron soldiers, ghostlike and indistinct, surged in like a tide crawling out of hell!

Their savage faces and bright blades reflected cold light beneath the leaping flames!

"Loose!"

"Fire!"

With the officers' hoarse orders, the defenders launched their first wave—perhaps their last wave—of organized resistance!

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A ragged volley of arrows and sparse gunshots suddenly rang out, shooting into the enemy tide surging toward them!

The Berserkers at the very front charged toward the barricade with giant shields raised. The musketeers of the Iron Islands were different from Carnford's musketeers; because their Matchlock Rifles were old and poorly maintained, they were prone to bursting, and the musketeers did not dare