Fight with Everything You've Got, and You Can Win!

The surviving soldiers in grey uniforms surged down from the high ground in a determined flood.

The grey tide crashed violently into the black.

Elsewhere, a motley force with a handful of men in Field Grey became entangled with a much larger tide of khaki.

A brutal, bloody melee began.

The commander of the 2nd Battalion, 1st Regiment, Eastern Europa Brigade of the International Brigades had clearly noticed Morin and his small group charging in.

His men quickly moved to join them, keeping Morin's group from being overwhelmed at once.

Until then, Morin had never understood what units in heavy armor wielding cold steel could do on a battlefield filled with flying bullets.

Now he knew.

He watched Britannia's walking iron cans shrug off gunfire and slam straight into the International Brigades' formation, sending the front ranks sprawling.

The greatswords they swung were far more effective than rifle bayonets in close combat.

As their blades flashed, heads and severed limbs flew. It seemed no one could stop those iron cans...

Morin charged into the enemy ranks, his blood burning. The spraying blood and agonized screams seemed to spur him on, making him fight harder with every moment.

He did not understand why this body found such a bloody melee exhilarating, but that exhilaration was helping him stay alive.

A Royal Army soldier rushed at him with a strange cry, bayonet aimed at his chest.

Morin stepped forward instead of retreating. He turned slightly and swept his rifle upward, knocking the bayonet aside with a precise rising parry.

The soldier had committed too much force to the thrust, leaving himself wide open.

Morin seized the chance. A flick of his wrists drove his sharp bayonet deep into the man's chest.

Without pausing, he kicked the body away, pulled his bayonet free, then aimed at another enemy nearby and fired.

Bang!

The enemy fell.

After dropping two men in quick succession, Morin drew the enemy's attention.

Two more charged him together, clearly intending to give him no chance to defend himself.

Morin snorted and drew the P08 from his waist.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunshots answered their charge. Both men fell.

The times had changed, gentlemen.

With that combination of ranged and close combat, weaving gunfire between bayonet strikes, Morin brought down several more men. Then a much tougher opponent set his sights on him.

It was a heavily armored soldier wielding a two-handed greatsword. He roared and charged straight at Morin, his heavy footsteps making the ground tremble.

Morin raised his pistol and fired until the magazine was empty.

The bullets left only shallow dents in the man's breastplate before bouncing away.

Just as I thought. I can't get through that armor!

The heavy armor seemed enchanted, completely stopping pistol rounds even at close range.

Morin dared not meet him head-on. Relying on his greater agility, he began circling the iron can.

He raised his Gew.98, took a moment to aim, and shot the man in the head. The bullet failed to penetrate the armor, but the impact of the full-power round still left him reeling.

The armored swordsman forced his way into range and attacked. His broad slashes whistled through the air with tremendous force, but his heavy equipment slowed him badly.

A bayonet could not parry a two-handed greatsword. Morin gritted his teeth and kept dodging, searching for an opening.

At last, the man missed a powerful horizontal sweep, and Morin seized the fleeting chance.

He lunged forward. His bayonet struck like a venomous snake, slipping precisely through a gap beneath the man's arm.

Thud!

The sound of the blade sinking into flesh was unmistakable.

The armored soldier gave a muffled groan of pain and faltered.

Morin stepped in without hesitation, pressed the muzzle of his Gew.98 against the wound, and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The point-blank rifle shot was muffled and deadly.

The 7.92-millimeter bullet drove through the opening torn by the bayonet and into the armored soldier's body without resistance.

The iron can's massive frame shuddered, then toppled. His heavy armor hit the ground with a crash.

Morin took no chances. He reloaded his rifle and put another round into the man's exposed neck before he felt safe.

With that threat dealt with, Morin had no time to catch his breath. He turned and plunged into the fighting elsewhere.

Meanwhile, the battle on the high ground had taken a decisive turn.

The Royal Army soldiers whose morale Morin's machine guns had shattered were already on their last legs.

When the soldiers of the 1st Battalion countercharged down from the high ground, their spirits high, the Royal Army troops broke almost at once.

They were no match for the well-trained Saxons in close combat. Soon they were throwing away their gear and fleeing again.

After routing the enemy before him, Major Thomas noticed that Morin's group was locked in a desperate fight.

"1st Battalion, with me! Support the left flank!"

He made the decision at once, rallied his men, and led them against the Northumberland Fusiliers' flank.

With the main force of the 1st Battalion joining the battle, the pressure on Morin and the others—previously outnumbered by a wide margin—eased sharply.

The gap in numbers rapidly narrowed.

Yet the soldiers of the Northumberland Fusiliers proved far more tenacious than anyone had expected.

Even under attack from three sides, these elite Britannian troops refused to break.

They quickly pulled into tight formations around their armored soldiers, forming small defensive rings and stubbornly resisting attacks from every direction.

Bayonets clashed with swords, rifle butts slammed against shields, and rifle shots rang out between the blows.

The battlefield became a vast, bloody meat grinder, devouring the lives of soldiers on both sides.

Every second, someone fell.

Morin fought with a ferocity of his own. Gripping his rifle in both hands, he put all his strength into every thrust, driving for the enemy's vital points.

Beside him, Sergeant Klaus and Corporal Jonah fought just as fearlessly. Again and again, they used the simplest, most direct thrusts to drive their bayonets into enemy bodies.

The battle settled into a strange deadlock.

Though the Saxons and the International Brigades were gaining the numerical advantage, they still could not break the stubborn Britannian force.

Time dragged on. Morin felt his strength draining fast, while repeated parries and thrusts left his arms aching.

He could not understand it. Brigade Headquarters had assigned two Armored Knights to follow behind the 1st Battalion, yet these elite units had not come forward to help.

What are they waiting for?

Then a rapid, dense thunder of hooves rolled in from the far side of the high ground.

Morin instinctively looked toward the sound.

A Saxon Black Eagle Banner was flying in the wind beyond the high ground.

Beneath it stretched a dark mass of cavalry.

They wore Field Grey cavalry uniforms and metal spiked helmets, and held three-meter lances high.

The Saxon Imperial Army's 52nd Cavalry Regiment!

The regiment's commander rode at the front. He lowered his lance, its point tracing a bright arc through the air.

"Charge!"

At his command, hundreds of cavalrymen charged together.

The earth shook beneath their hooves. Their overwhelming momentum left everyone breathless.

The rear of the Northumberland Fusiliers' 4th Battalion, still entangled with the Saxon infantry and the International Brigades, lay completely exposed to the oncoming flood.

The resolve on the Britannian soldiers' faces finally gave way to terror and despair.

They tried to turn and form a new defensive line, but it was too late.

The cavalry swept in like a tide.

The leading riders had already leveled their lances.

The sharp points glinted coldly in the morning light and pierced the Britannian soldiers with ease.

The force of the charge lifted them high before hurling them back to the ground.

The riders behind them swung their sabers, striking down from above and taking lives as they passed.

Quite a few armored soldiers swung their greatswords and cut down Saxon riders and horses together. But they were like rocks in a rising tide: they could break the water immediately before them, not stop the flood.

By the time the cavalry completed a charge along a curving line, the Northumberland Fusiliers' 4th Battalion had a great gap torn through it, as though a shark had swum up and taken a bite.

The final blow had come.

Under the cavalry's charge, the Northumberland Fusiliers' 4th Battalion line collapsed in an instant.