Charles stood on the command platform, the vibrations from the gravel ground coming through the soles of his boots, dense and chaotic.
The ladders of the vanguard troops were still propped up on the crenellations, and the battering ram lay askew in the shell crater in front of the city gate, the iron on the hammerhead already chipped.
The defenders on the city wall were using long poles to pry the last ladder off the crenellations, and the rebel soldiers on the ladder screamed as they fell into the rubble at the base of the city wall.
"We can't fight anymore," Charles said through gritted teeth.
He picked up his command sword from the bridge in front of the saddle and ran the tip across the map.
He needed a way out, he needed to preserve his remaining forces, and he needed to get as many people out alive as possible before those damned fan flags and that cry of "I am Vice Admiral Uchiha Damian" completely crushed him.
"All troops, listen to my command!" He raised his command sword high above his head, the blade drawing a dazzling arc in the morning light.
"Abandon the siege! All units, break out to the northwest! Maintain formation, do not scatter!"
The order to retreat was like a pebble thrown into muddy water, ripples spreading outwards from the command post.
The messengers, carrying command flags, ran wildly in all directions, while the drummer changed the rhythm of the war drums from charging to retreating.
The soldiers attacking the city were stunned. Some had just fallen off the siege ladders and were about to rush up again when they were jolted by the sound of retreating drums.
Some soldiers had already scaled the ramparts and engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the defenders. Hearing the retreat horn, they turned back for a glance, and it was in that glance that they were struck in the shoulder by a defender's scimitar.
But when most people hear the word "breakthrough," their expressions aren't resentment, but relief.
They abandoned their ladders, battering rams, and the still-burning wreckage of their cannons, retreating from the base of the city walls like a receding tide.
The breakout formation in the northwest was cobbled together by Charles in a very short time.
He positioned the elite troops, who were still able to maintain their formation, at the forefront as the spearhead, with Fisher's remaining mercenaries protecting the flanks, and the militia and logistics following in the middle.
This formation would be enough to break through most encirclements in an offensive battle, but right now they are a defeated army.
The breakout of a defeated army is never a tactical problem, but a psychological one. Tens of thousands of people run on the same gravel beach, each trying to get ahead of others. People are crowded together, and no one stops even when they step on wounded soldiers.
The Guard Corps's defensive line had already pushed up to a point not far behind the rebels' lines.
From Charles's command post, only a shallow, dry riverbed separated the Guard Corps's khaki uniforms from the fleeing rebel soldiers.
If they push forward just a little further, they can block the rebel vanguard from breaking out in the riverbed depression.
But the Guard Corps did not advance.
They stopped to begin clearing away the abandoned siege equipment on the battlefield. Ladders were moved away, ammunition boxes were pried open and inventoried, and surrendered wounded soldiers were gathered on the back of a sheltered sand dune.
Some were distributing bandages and water, some were marking the retreating rebels' destination on a map, and some were reorganizing the prisoners into ranks.
Their commander seemed to have no interest in continuing the pursuit.
Charles saw this through his binoculars and felt a fleeting moment of relief; the Guard Corps were limited in number and dared not pursue the fleeing soldiers rashly.
Once he could break through this defensive line, ahead lay a flat, gravelly wasteland. If he could escape, he could regroup and contact other cities.
"The Navy! The Navy is here!"
The scream didn't come from Charles's messenger, but from the very front of the vanguard, from Fisher's mercenary ranks.
The voice was sharp, hoarse, and trembling with a kind of utterly out-of-control tremor, completely different from Fisher's usual rough voice.
Fisher sat on his horse, his short spear held across the saddle, slumped in the saddle as if his spine had been removed, his bald head glistening with a fine layer of oily sweat.
He gripped the reins tightly with one hand, and pointed forward with the other, his finger trembling violently.
His lips moved several times, finally managing to squeeze out an almost hoarse roar, "The navy is here! The navy is here!"
On the undulating sand dune ridge directly ahead, a large white figure is rolling up from behind the dunes.
Rows of white naval uniforms emerged from the ridgeline of the dunes.
He wore a light brown desert cloak, which billowed in the wind, revealing a snow-white naval uniform underneath.
In the very center of the column, soldiers carried flintlock rifles on their shoulders, marching in perfect unison, their bayonets forming a silver ribbon in the morning light.
Their formation pressed down from the dune ridge, their movements unhurried and measured, mirroring the advance of the Guard Corps.
Damian rode at the head of the procession on horseback.
"All troops, form ranks!" Damian raised his right fist above his head, his voice piercing through the wind, footsteps, and the chaotic breathing of tens of thousands of people on the gravelly wasteland.
"Block the northwest direction. Anyone who lays down their weapons shall be taken into custody on the spot. Those who continue to resist shall be dealt with in accordance with the Navy's wartime regulations."
The naval formation pressed down from the sand dunes, with its left and right wings spreading out simultaneously, like a pair of huge white wings slowly closing.
The outermost Marines began striking their rifle butts with their scabbards, the crisp, rhythmic clanging of metal against metal—unlike war drums, this was meant for the enemy.
The rhythm was monotonous, cold, and unhurried, like a clock counting down.
Charles's iron-grey sand horse was forced back several steps by the sound, and he tightened his grip on the reins, the horse's hooves digging two deep furrows in the gravel.
He was trembling, from his fingers gripping the knife to his clenched teeth.
He was just standing on the command platform directing tens of thousands of troops to attack the city; he was just thinking that the Guard Corps was not large enough to stop him.
The tens of thousands of troops were now scattering around him like ants doused with boiling water, and the Guard Corps had no intention of stopping him.
Their real plan was simply to drive him into the Uchiha's arms.
They used three men to hold off an offensive of tens of thousands, turning the entire Alabasta into a chessboard. They included Charles, Fisher, Dorovich, and Prince in their moves, and then, step by step, waited until all the pieces were in place before making their own move.
"Discard your weapons! We surrender! We surrender!"
Fisher rolled off his saddle, raised his lance overhead with both hands, the shaft striking the gravel with a dull thud.
The mercenaries behind him also threw down their weapons one after another, the sounds of short spears and scimitars hitting the ground rising and falling like a sudden hailstorm hitting gravel.
Dorovich sat in the carriage and saw the seagull flag and the red-and-white Fan Flag fluttering on the sand dune at the same time. His fat body shuddered, and before his subordinates could react, he raised his hands, his nails scraping against the carriage floor with a very faint crack.