Chapter 45
Chapter 45
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Branop Plain Great Battle (2)
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Enemy soldiers sensed their fate and cried out in terrified voices just before death.
"Fuck, you dirty bastard!! I don't wanna die!"
"M-Mommy!!!"
"Send me home! You shitty noble fucks!"
The moment they shouted those words, arrows pierced their bodies, flames engulfed them, and they froze solid like blocks of meat before dying.
My soldiers sneered at the sight of the enemy getting wiped out without lifting a finger.
"Look at those morons croaking."
"Serves 'em right, the idiots. They loved tormenting dying men, and now they're the ones biting the dust."
"Look at 'em, turning good in death—finally shut their traps!"
Laughing at someone dying somewhere other than a battlefield would mark you as a deranged sociopath.
But in war, where heroes are made by taking more lives than your foe, mocking the enemy's gruesome end is par for the course.
It even drives away the fear that you could die the same way—some commanders, drunk on bloodlust, actively encourage it.
I'm not that kind of lunatic commander, so I don't promote it, but I have no pity for the bastards who mocked my soldiers' deaths.
To kill even one more of them and save as many of ours as possible, I issued the next order.
"It'll take the enemy a bit to break through our mages and crossbowmen. Reform ranks and catch your breath while you can!"
My dedicated adjutant Laura, along with the company and platoon leaders, relayed the orders down the chain.
Instead of mocking the enemy's pathetic deaths, the soldiers snapped into drill formation, reforming their lines with precision.
Unlike moments ago, their eyes now burned with murderous resolve: 'I'll kill every bastard in front of me and live through this.'
Just before the battle's fiercest phase, we secured a moment to recover our strength, while the enemy suffered massive mental and physical drain from the barrage of spells and arrows.
After about five minutes, the enemy infantry reached the area near our mages and crossbowmen.
The forward mage platoons, as instructed, signaled retreat and fell back slowly alongside the crossbowmen.
Meanwhile, the enemy infantry—battered by five minutes of one-sided spell and arrow fire—stumbled forward with eyes wild with rage, those who survived.
On a street, a guy charging with that look would terrify you, but in war, unless you're some peerless warrior like Lu Bu or Guan Yu...
You prioritize killing the frothing lunatics first.
"You goddamn old bastards! Don't you have mothers or fathers?"
"Who taught you to fight like this? Stick your necks out and wait right there!"
"I'll send you to your deceased parents!"
They'd snapped after watching their comrades—who'd shared the same pot of slop—die off one by one.
"Jaeger Battalion, first, second, and third ranks—lower pikes!"
At my command, the battalion dropped their long pikes, shafts clustering thick like branches or black grass into a solid wall.
Seeing this, I gave one final order before the clash.
"Don't flinch! Step back in fear, and I'll kill you first! If you die, it starts a chain—everyone falls! Don't fear advancing!"
In war, where death lurks unknown, telling men not to fear gleaming spear tips sounds absurd.
But in melee, where steel clashes steel, the first to die are those who flinch and close their eyes at the incoming point.
The ones who stare it down, step forward, and thrust live.
Academy instructors even said, without exaggeration, 'Bayonet training boils down to drilling the courage to advance on the enemy's blade.'
I fully agree.
Finally, our spears met theirs—tips grinding against hafts.
"Die, you vermin!"
"Yeah? I'll knock that empty decoration off your shoulders first!"
Our soldiers spewed curses at the Chekovians; theirs hurled abuse back at us as they thrust relentlessly.
Casualties began mounting on both sides amid the chaos.
"Erich, I couldn't even pay your tuition... Sorry, bro, big brother's going first..."
"Urk..."
Those stabbed in the throat or vitals died with a single scream; others, hit elsewhere, collapsed muttering regrets.
Still, the Chekovians—worn down by prolonged alerts and patrols—faded fast in the grueling melee.
For every one of my men lost, two or three of theirs fell.
Compared to neighboring battalions, it was a stellar kill ratio we could brag about.
But I awaited the fight's escalation, and sensing the moment ripe, I signaled the standard-bearer to flip the board.
"Deploy the mace-wielders into the enemy lines."
The standard-bearer raised the blue flag, signaling the mace troops, who wove through our pikemen and advanced.
Chanting the motto I'd taught them:
"Skull-crack! Skull-crack! Charging to smash skulls!"
Three minutes later, mace-wielders crashed into the melee frontlines.
They deftly swept enemy pikes aside, smashing arms, torsos, and heads with full force.
"Die, you sons of bitches!"
"Skinny Chekovian fucks—I'll turn you all into ground meat."
"Any bastard wanna die? Step up—I'll kill ya all!"
As the mace-wielders pushed forward, the Chekovian formation had to contend with distant pike thrusts and close-quarters bashing simultaneously.
Even my troops, drilled for this, struggled in practice—let alone the unprepared Chekovians.
They could only flail helplessly.
Moments ago, they'd menaced us with spears; now, they crumpled under mace weights or bled out from pike wounds.
Caught in this bind, their battalion commander appeared at the front, swinging his sword wildly and bellowing.
"Don't fall back! Rear ranks, draw swords and counter the maces! Pikemen, keep the enemy pikes at bay!"
Whoever he was, the guy had talent.
The best counter to mace disruption and pike pressure was holding the pike square while rear ranks intercepted intruders.
But in a brawl, one competent commander can't salvage chaos alone.
His orders fell on deaf ears—like shouting at a wall.
"If the Reich Empire breaks us, the whole regiment suffers! Signal-bearers, trumpeters—call for reserve infantry support!"
Even as we pressed their battalion, reserves could tip the numbers back against us.
He aimed to boost his near-broken unit's morale with hope of reinforcements.
Couldn't let near-dead foes revive just because reserves dawdled.
"Order Captain Werner—waiting in reserve—to lead the knights and hit the enemy reserves now. Charge with lances to slow them, then disengage. Follow up mounted with maces on their infantry."
Soon after, Werner and twelve knights charged in wedge formation, lances leveled.
This would delay their reinforcements.
The enemy battalion was all but shattered, but prep for contingencies never hurt.
"Position all mages and crossbowmen to the left flank against enemy knights. Meanwhile, prepare to break their battalion and annihilate the reserves!"
Take that, you bastards.