"Prince Chris? Are you serious?!"
Count Dirac rode alongside his army as it advanced toward Bolas Fortress, keeping an eye on the battle on the hillside.
His troops charged toward the slope in the darkness, only to meet three small cannons and dense volleys from a hundred Musketeers.
The front ranks of spearmen seemed to run into an invisible scythe. Their chain mail was as flimsy as paper against the lead balls, and shattered bodies and broken spears spun through the air. Soldiers fell by the dozen amid the roar of gunfire.
The Restoration Army's Musketeers on both flanks were firing too, but they carried matchlocks, which fired at less than a third of the rate of the Musketeers on the hillside. Despite their greater numbers, they were pinned down by a smaller force.
Before long, the charging Spearmen and Sword-and-Shield Fighters broke. They had not even started climbing the slope before their morale collapsed.
The matchlock troops covering them broke even sooner and were the first to retreat.
Of his three Crouching Tiger Cannons, Chris had assigned two specifically to fire on them. Cast from modern steel, the cannons were exceptionally tough and dissipated heat superbly, allowing sustained, intense fire over a short period without worrying about a barrel bursting.
Under such a furious bombardment, the matchlock troops' early collapse was predictable.
They could barely see in the darkness. Comrades kept falling beside them, screams were everywhere, and Lead Bullets poured down like iron rain.
It was all more than anyone could bear.
A rout was inevitable.
The frontal assault had failed, and the troops circling around the flank had not made it up the slope either. Rangers roaming the edges of the battlefield harassed them and slowed their advance. The Lead Bullets lobbed at them did little damage,