Afton Battle (IV)

Following the tight drumbeats, George's hands, gripping the rifle, were covered in sweat. His heart seemed to be pounding in time with the drumbeats, filled with excitement in addition to tension.

This was his first time on the battlefield.

He resigned from his factory job, handing over his original position to Howard, whom he trusted most, and, as First-Class Citizen, successfully became an infantryman after training.

In the training camp, George was always the most hardworking and reckless. His ambition to climb the ranks helped him endure the most arduous tests, and as a result, he was promoted to the front-line troops by the Hobgoblin Officer. He was originally only qualified to be a reserve soldier, responsible for some battlefield cleanup work.

"I will become a real big shot."

"Perhaps... today."

George followed closely in the footsteps of the soldiers in front, thinking to himself.

The current kingdom's infantry adopts a dense column formation for attack, rather than the traditional line formation, and uses a group of skirmishers as cover and a vanguard.

The column emphasizes flexible offensive impact, quickly breaking through enemy lines and rapidly changing formations, rather than the line formation's emphasis on defensive firepower, which, while possessing firepower, is slow in movement.

This tactic, characterized by columns and skirmishers, was not created by Marshal Dolo, but rather summarized and applied by him and the kingdom's strategists from the "《Military Tactics of the Napoleonic Era》" left by players. It has not yet been truly practiced on the battlefield.

While traveling at high speed, George suddenly felt the ground tremble slightly.

"Those are—cavalry?"

He couldn't help but turn his head and look into the distance.

The heavy rumble of hooves sounded as a massive, dark mass of heavily armored cavalry charged toward the square formation, like a torrent forged from steel.

The armor gleamed in the sunlight, the spear tips flashed like a forest, and the lion banner fluttered in the wind—this was the armored cavalry meticulously trained by the Bosk Family. Any traditional army would tremble before such cavalry.

Unfortunately, the army of the Embers of the Burned Kingdom was no ordinary force.

The drumbeats quickened, George quickened his pace, and the trumpeter beside him blew a piercing blast.

"All troops, listen to my command! Formation!"

The messenger's voice rang out, and military flags were raised one after another.

Countless training sessions and ingrained memories allowed these well-trained infantrymen to transform into several solid square formations that formed crossfire and interlocked positions in just a few minutes. George also joined the soldiers in front of him.

Because he was standing at the very front, George was fitted with a bayonet according to the training rules, and he was responsible for dealing with the cavalry's close-range charges.

These formations, like moving fortresses, slowly advanced forward.

The dark mass of cavalry finally charged to the front of the square formation, gunfire erupted, and Gunsmoke and the stench of blood filled the wasteland.

One by one, the cavalrymen fell, their screams echoing as their prized heavy armor proved utterly ineffective against the bullets fired from the kingdom's most advanced semi-automatic rifles.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The gunfire came in waves, one after another, as if it would never stop.

The infantrymen could fire again with just a slight pull of the bolt, and the precious cavalrymen fell one after another in the charge; at this moment, their lives were as worthless as grass.

Surrounded by cavalry, Loren's expression beneath his visor was one of immense pain.

"Damn it, why wasn't this tactic mentioned in the intelligence? How could they have such a formation?"

"And those guns, why aren't they loaded?"

If this were the original horizontal formation, perhaps the cavalry could have torn it apart. But these solid square formations were positioned at each other's corners, leaving large gaps in the middle.

If you attempt to break through one of the phalanxes, not only will it be difficult, but you will also be subjected to a barrage of bullets from the other phalanxes, as they have formed a crossfire.

Loren was helpless and could only watch as his carefully trained cavalry fell like harvested wheat.

The heavily armored cavalry made several more attempts to charge, but their previously invincible charges, which had sent the enemy fleeing in terror, were like paper against the kingdom's infantry, who were equipped with semi-automatic rifles. They were utterly vulnerable.

Protected by his guards, Loren led his heavy cavalry through the gaps between the phalanxes. At this moment, they were only a third of their original number. Ahead of them was the invincible monster legion, and behind them were the infantry phalanxes that had inflicted heavy casualties on them.

This was not what he had imagined.

In Loren's fantasy, he should lead his armored cavalry on horseback into the monster horde and engage in a fierce battle with them.

Finally, he would stain his armor with the blood of his enemies and pile up the corpses of monsters on the ground, sacrificing himself heroically under the siege of the Embers of the Burned Kingdom, thus creating another legendary tale of the Bosque Lion.

But now, he simply rode his horse forward, then passively accepted the baptism of bullets and suffered heavy casualties.

"No, this is absolutely not the ending I want."

"That way, my father won't be proud of me."

Thinking of this, Loren's eyes turned bloodshot. He raised his lance and roared, "Charge with me!"

"Tear their formation apart!"

"Let these monsters see the might of us Scania People!"

Loren still set his sights on the infantry; he wanted to burn his last breath for a grand ending.

Around the phalanx, the piles of corpses were already more than half a person high. One after another, warhorses and heavily armored knights that had been hit fell to the ground, their blood staining the snow red. But Loren was already disregarding everything.

"Charge!"

Loren roared again.

The remaining hundreds of cavalrymen seemed to be infected as well; they gathered around Loren and charged toward one of the square formations.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Gunfire whistled, bullets rained down, and the first few rows of soldiers fell instantly.

They not only had to endure fire from the front ranks, but also crossfire from the flank ranks, barely surviving amidst a hail of bullets.

But Loren had completely risked his life. He treated the front-line cavalry as expendable resources, while he rode his horse directly forward under the cover of his personal guards, and actually reached the front of the square formation.

"Prepare to die!"

Loren roared angrily.

His black warhorse leaped nimbly, soaring over the corpses of the cavalrymen, and was about to charge into the square formation.

"Bang!"

A gunshot rang out, and a bloody hole suddenly appeared in the horse's chest. It collapsed directly in front of the formation.

Caught off guard, Loren fell heavily from his horse, rolling several times on the ground, even losing his helmet in the process.

With disheveled hair and a ferocious expression, Loren drew his sword from his waist and struggled to his feet.

The Hobgoblin and Tiefling opened fire, but Loren's heavy armor was a family heirloom worth thousands of Gold Coin, meticulously crafted by the Archmage, and possessed magical effects such as [Protection from Arrows], [Bull's Strength], [Lion's Roar], and [Radiant Shield].

Bosque's generals once wore it as they charged into battle, braving swords and arrows, leading their soldiers to victory time and time again with a powerful lion's roar.

As the intricate magical patterns on it lit up, bullets were blocked by the shimmering barrier, and faint lion's roars could be heard from the gaps. At this moment, Loren, with his disheveled hair and glaring eyes, truly resembled the so-called "Bosque Lion."

"Prepare to die!"

He charged forward with his sword, roared, and beheaded the Hobgoblin in front of him. He then turned and slashed at the Tiefling who was attacking from behind, the blade drawing a graceful arc in the air.

A cold light flashed, and blood splattered.

The combat skills that Loren had learned since childhood were now on full display, and this was the magnificent ending he had hoped for!

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The dense barrage of gunfire, with bullets far more powerful than arrows, caused even the magical barrier to grow increasingly dim with each impact.

However, Loren was now blinded by rage. He laughed wildly, pointing his longsword at the kingdom's soldiers before him, preparing to deliver his final declaration.

"We Bosque people will never give in!"

"Monsters, standing before you is a descendant of Rosel Bosk— "

"Bang!"

Before he could finish speaking, Loren staggered forward, feeling a sharp pain in his back as if he had been struck by a heavy hammer, and all his strength was instantly drained away.

He lowered his head with difficulty.

Sure enough, there was a huge bloody hole in his chest, piercing through his armor.

He's beyond saving.

"How... is this possible?"

Loren coughed up a mouthful of blood and muttered to himself in disbelief.

It turned out that the moment he raised his sword, the force field barrier that had blocked hundreds of bullets finally gave way and was shattered into tiny magical particles, and the armor also broke apart.

Then someone behind fired the final shot.

With his last ounce of strength, Loren swayed and turned around, wanting to see who had killed him, the "Bosque Lion."

Whether it was a strong and robust Hobgoblin, a devilish-looking Tiefling, or a brutal and greedy Ogre, whoever it was, a tale of a nobleman from Bosque who died unyielding could be told.

However, when he turned around, he was shocked to find that the person who had killed him was a somewhat thin human. The human's face was flushed red from excessive excitement, and white smoke was still rising from the muzzle of the rifle in his hand.

Moreover, Loren saw a familiar mark on his neck—the mark of a serf. Once branded, it meant that he and his descendants would forever remain lowly serfs, never to rise again.

"What are you doing?"

"Joke."

Loren's eyes widened, and he fell straight to the ground, his limbs twitching a few times before he became still.

Even in death, he did not close his eyes in peace; they stared straight at the sky, filled with doubt.

Loren never understood why he died at the hands of a lowly serf. It was a complete joke that would become the talk of the town among the noble ladies.

I'm just writing this for fun, mainly Western fantasy.