Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Seek Death to Live, Seek Life to Die (2)
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Captain Romeo of the Recario Republic's reconnaissance unit was burning with zeal at the thought of racking up achievements.
Anyone who saw him would think he was so fired up it was uncomfortable just to be around him.
"Those damned Imperial bastards couldn't have gotten far! Hurry up, everyone!"
"Captain, we've pushed too deep into enemy territory. One wrong move and we could run into an ambush."
"Platoon Leader, you do have a point."
Romeo was eager to earn merits and finally get promoted to major this time, but he wasn't stupid enough to blindly suppress his subordinates.
He'd been in the military for nearly ten years, while that greenhorn was just a first-year lieutenant.
Teaching juniors and subordinates well was a virtue of any officer.
"But the Imperial Army took massive losses in the battle against our republic. They're busy pulling back the front lines and reorganizing their forces, so do you think they've got proper defenses stationed all the way out here?"
"That would be difficult."
"The enemy is in tatters right now, like scraps of cloth torn to shreds. Per the Division Commander's orders, we'll scout and hit any small enemy units we find to rack up kills."
As they pursued, Romeo spotted the sloppy defensive line Schumacher had set up.
"Captain, enemies ahead!"
"Just a handful of them. We'll smash right through. Everyone, ready your lances!"
Pistols were nothing more than props for looking good while thrusting a lance and falling back.
When breaking through an enemy line, it had to be lances.
These stragglers would lose morale just from hearing the cavalry's hooves...
"Those bastards are our prey!"
"Platoon Leader Schumacher, enemy cavalry heading this way!"
A soldier shouted from atop the hill.
It might look insane for them to charge straight at us with our muskets aimed right at them...
But matchlock musket line infantry rarely hit their targets—less than 10% accuracy.
Each shot took up to a full minute, at least 50 seconds at best, with an effective range of about 50 meters.
Normally, a single volley would only take down 3 to 5 charging cavalrymen.
The plan had seemed solid in theory, but seeing those cavalry charging for real made him a bit uneasy.
"Just as I expected. Don't panic. Aim your matchlocks at the enemy, and don't pull the trigger until I give the order."
"Yes, sir!"
For line infantry—or rather, soldiers fighting with matchlocks—survival hinged on discipline and synchronization.
Soldiers moving in perfect unison were elite; a ragtag bunch acting on their own were trash.
In a world without rapid fire, the key was concentrating massive firepower in one volley to sweep the enemy away.
One soldier's rash action directly lowered combat effectiveness.
The others would domino into uncontrolled chaos.
In other words, one mistake could doom them all.
And he spotted Private Hans trembling.
"Private Hans, scared?"
"Y-Yes, sir..."
Most would force out a "No," but admitting fear outright meant he was really terrified.
Even he was worried if this would work.
Who wouldn't be scared? Even the craziest charge fetishist called courage just setting fear aside for a moment.
Not feeling fear in war was the real abnormality.
That's why desertion meant execution, disobeying orders meant execution—rules like that.
"Private Hans, you said you've got a sick, elderly mother waiting at home alone?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Survive this war, and I'll discharge you immediately."
"Really?"
A smile broke across the terrified private's face.
Of course—what soldier wouldn't crave discharge like candy?
Officers and NCOs might not get it, but for enlisted men, it was paradise.
"Survive, and I'll get you discharged, plus send you home with a fat bonus."
That battalion commander bastard had ditched him, but if he pulled this off, he'd be a war hero.
A single platoon covering the retreat and beating a cavalry company?
The Empire would propagandize his exploits everywhere.
These soldiers' merits would get recognized too—he'd grant discharges on the spot for anyone who wanted.
"This isn't just for Private Hans. Survive, all of you, and I'll beg the Division Commander on my knees for discharge papers. Go home with pockets full of cash."
In war, maintaining morale was paramount.
And morale thrived on hope.
"Hooray for the platoon leader!"
"Let's do this!"
"You promised, right?"
As morale recovered, the enemy cavalry raised cheers and picked up speed.
Those 4-meter lances glinting silver were intimidating.
But a soldier's duty was to follow orders to the end, no matter how rotten.
Even if it killed him.
If he died here, that battalion commander would whine first about giving impossible orders and fleeing.
"Ready aim! Eyes on the enemy! If we don't kill them, they kill us! Target their crotches!"
Matchlock power outdid most assault rifles.
But poor sights meant shots often veered high.
That's why aim low.
Bullet to torso or legs—either way, dead.
"Fire!"
Allies unleashed lead at the enemy.
Once, twice, thrice.
No pause in firing—the cavalry charged on undeterred.
They figured ammo spent.
Reloading took a minute normally, enough time to reach us.
Made sense logically.
"Reload! As fast as you can!"
Thick black powder smoke hid voices.
Earth-shaking hooves drowned out shouts...
"Those idiots are out of ammo! Charge! Kill them all!"
Yeah, wiping us out mid-pursuit would boost their promotions too.
He wanted promotion; why wouldn't they?
But he was one step ahead.
"Reload complete!"
"Volley fire!"
Before they closed much distance, they poured another barrage.
"What? Those bastards!"
"Captain, enemy ambush! We've been had!"
People always judge by their own knowledge.
One matchlock shot per minute.
So after their volley, a minute-plus before the next—or so they thought.
Always had been that way.
But 20 seconds later, another volley...
They'd assume reinforcements.
"They're mistaking it for an ambush."
Hearing their panic eased his mind.
'We can win.'
Smoke was thick, but panicked horses thrashed vividly before them.
Couldn't advance, hard to retreat.
"Swords, axes, maces—whatever you've got, charge!"
Cavalry without mobility was nothing.
Like tank crew trapped inside... time to kill them.
Stuck atop horses, they were sitting ducks.
Soldiers who'd feared death moments ago now cheered.
"Kill those bastards!"
"Follow the platoon leader!"
He and the men charged, butchering terrified cavalry atop their mounts.
If not panicking, they'd counter with numbers...
But they thought we outnumbered them, mobility gone.
In melee, cavalry helpless.
"Aaaagh, mercy..."
He smashed the pleading man's skull.
That guy wanted to live too, but war was kill or be killed.
No choice—we kill to survive.
In the frenzy, no enemies left around him.
We'd won.
"We won!"
Meanwhile, Recario Republic reconnaissance captain Romeo rushed back to division HQ and reported what he'd "seen."
"An enemy infantry company was stationed at the narrow pass to Villiers Village."
It was just his delusion from the defeat...
But he didn't realize that.
Common sense said it was a full company.
Nothing else explained that firepower.
"...We might already be crawling into the Empire's jaws."