Charging the Formation

The Wolf Riders, being the most agile, were the first to react. They whistled sharply, fingers in their mouths, signaling to each other as they charged the Centaurs, scimitars flashing alongside their companions.

It was no exaggeration to say that swarms of Wolf Riders were the most formidable hunters in the wilderness. They were skilled horsemen, masters of the scimitar, and could endure hunger and thirst for days during a raid, patiently waiting for their enemies to expose a weakness before launching a decisive, fearless charge.

To the average Pompeian, Wolf Riders galloping under the moonlight on a full moon night were practically a symbol of the wilderness.

But this time, they had surely chosen the wrong opponents.

Direwolves were extremely aggressive mounts, powerful in close-quarters combat and tearing, but they had a fatal flaw in cavalry-on-cavalry engagements—their short-burst speed was quite ordinary, far inferior to warhorses.

The Centaurs had no intention of clashing head-on with the Wolf Riders. Following Hert, they easily pulled away, their hooves pounding.

Then, they drew their arrows, strung their bows, and released, turning to pick off the reckless riders one by one with their longbows.

The Wolf Riders' horsemanship was undeniably superb, with endless tricks like hiding in the saddle. Their martial arts were also highly skilled, able to parry arrows shot at close range from longbows with their scimitars. But these skills merely extended their lives by a few breaths.

The Centaurs' response was direct: if a Direwolf was used for cover, they shot the Direwolf first; if a scimitar was used for defense, three archers aimed at the same target. The bandits' only cavalry were quickly decimated with almost no chance to retaliate.

Richard was still a hundred yards from the enemy.

At this distance, the bandit infantry could already feel the oppressive presence of a three-blade-tall giant beast charging towards them—like a mountain collapsing before their eyes, rocks and earth flowing down, about to bury them, yet they were helpless.

Under Richard's deliberate control, the Iron-eating Armadillo wasn't fast, but each time its foot landed, it caused a slight tremor in the ground. The bandits felt their hearts tremble with the earth; such heavy cavalry could directly snap a tree that two men couldn't encircle. Could mere flesh and blood obstruct it?

If they had the heavy steel mountain shields equipped by Pompeii's elite legions, were well-trained, and unafraid of sacrifice, perhaps. Unfortunately, the bandits present possessed none of these conditions.

Fifty yards...

The hand axes and javelins thrown by the bandits rained down, all aiming for the knight on Windchaser's back. Among them were many skilled individuals with excellent accuracy and power, creating a continuous shower of bright sparks against the outer armor.

However, Richard wore three layers of armor, and with ten points in his Iron Bone skill, his defense was no weaker than a troll's. This ridiculously tough shell was far from something a few thrown weapons could break.

Ten yards...

Some clever Hobgoblins tried to combine forces, bracing a long spear to resist the impact—a standard infantry anti-cavalry tactic. But their attempt now, against a three-thousand-pound beast charging, was even more feeble than a straw.

The spear shaft twisted and shattered the instant it hit Windchaser, at most managing to chip off a few scales. The Hobgoblin holding the spear met a tragic end; the rebounding wooden shaft, imbued with immense force, struck its body, directly causing its intestines to explode from its back!

The last few steps passed in an instant, and close combat finally began.

If the bandits were a slab of streaky pork, then the charging cavalry general was a razor-sharp boning knife.

The giant beast crashed into the crowd like a child knocking over dominoes, and huge gaps appeared in the bandits' formation. The Barbarian warriors following on either side surged in, and face-to-face clashes and slaughter began.

During daily training, Richard often explained concepts beyond mere techniques, such as:

"As a commander, achieving strategic objectives is, of course, more important than annihilating the enemy. But you must remember, even for a lowly soldier, achieving tactical goals is often more valuable than simply killing enemies."

Due to his absolute authority among the Barbarians, this combat philosophy was implemented most effectively at this moment.

The wedge formation continued to advance without stopping; no one paused to kill the critically wounded opponents, as that was pure waste of time. The heavily armored Barbarians at the front had even abandoned defense, striving to punch through the formation as quickly as possible.

Those who survived in this lawless land were no pushovers. In critical moments requiring desperation, the wilderness bandits' performance was certainly not cowardly; they counterattacked their enemies without fear.

It was just that the bandits themselves were more accustomed to chaotic brawls. When their blood was up, even the most disciplined Hobgoblin warriors couldn't be restrained, and their precarious discipline vanished instantly.

After defeating the Wolf Riders, the Centaur archers quickly circled back.

They drew arrows from their quivers, sticking them into the muddy ground in front of them, ensuring they could nock and fire as quickly as possible.

As Richard drove the giant beast headfirst into the crowd, all the Centaurs simultaneously released their taut bowstrings.

These natural marksmen had extraordinarily precise aim; arrows flew in two waves, left and right, towards the gap created by the charging vanguard. The bandits fighting the Barbarians had no time to react before the sharp arrowheads claimed their lives. Each volley of arrows that fell made the Barbarians feel the surrounding pressure suddenly lighten.

But compared to their comrades blocking the front, these bandits' experience was incomparably fortunate.

Richard didn't use his lance by holding it flat and thrusting; he found that inefficient. Instead, he wielded it with both hands, like a long staff.

With superhuman strength, each swing of the lance broke the air, creating a violent sonic boom that even momentarily drowned out the groans and screams of the dying. Bandits struck head-on by this long staff didn't show obvious external wounds, but a terrifying gash would explode open on their backs, internal organs and blood gushing out in a torrent!

Annie stood on a nearby hill, watching it all, her hands and feet icy cold. She had told her subordinates during their discussions that the Lord of High Mountain Keep would be an unstoppable meat grinder on the battlefield.

But merely knowing and seeing with her own eyes were two different matters. The visual impact of such simple, direct power was something reason could not easily comprehend.

"Franz, is this what a hero from legend looks like?" Annie's voice was hollow.

"My lady, this is a devil from hell," the One-Eyed Dragon mercenary's voice was even more hollow.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the bandits would find it difficult to resist this powerful general leading an elite squad in a flanking and splitting maneuver. It was only a matter of time before their formation was completely breached.

Unfortunately, there were no "ifs" on the battlefield.

Beneath the thick scent of blood, Richard suddenly noticed a faint, almost imperceptible smell of sulfur wafting through the air.