Chapter 112
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: Battle of Soelden Plains (2)
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The order to brace for impact had barely fallen when the squad leaders under me echoed it back in unison.
"Brace for impact! We're about to clash with the enemy!"
"Archers and mages, slip through the gaps between the spearmen!"
"Don't lag behind and get yourself killed! That's no way to go!"
As the commands echoed, even the men who'd been marching silently, eyes fixed on the ground and spears in hand, lifted their heads to stare straight ahead.
I fixed my gaze squarely on the enemy troops right in front of our hundred-man company.
They looked somewhat sloppy, with faint gaps in their formation.
But up close, it was a solid wall that wouldn't yield easily—a tight formation that no one could just charge through recklessly. Soldiers who showed no fear even on the brink of slaughtering and being slaughtered.
The coordination between the commanders of each unit seemed seamless too. This was no pushover opponent.
'How can I minimize our casualties?'
I pondered right up until the moment of collision, when the enemies ahead started taunting us.
"Drop your spears and beg for your lives, you worthless bastards."
"You look like pizza under a horse's hoof."
"Skull-faced weaklings. Pathetic."
Falling for cheap provocations like that was for hotheads or incompetents.
Even if they started sexually harassing Karin and Lucia, raking at my nerves, I had to stay cool right now.
Not just me—every soldier under my command had to.
I responded to keep the men from getting rattled by their trash talk.
"That's the kind of garbage those piss-your-pants cowards shout to pretend they're not scared shitless. Ignore it and follow my orders!"
No replies came back, but that was enough.
The distance between our spears and the enemy shrank to ten paces, eight, five, three.
"Now! One step back! Fall back one pace!"
It was absurd—practically suicidal, stepping back when we were about to skewer their throats—but my men moved on my command without hesitation.
From the side, Dalton issued the exact same order to the rest of the mercenaries.
"One step back! Then thrust when their spears whiff past!"
The White Beard Mercenary Corps pulled back one step in unison, spears leveled at the enemy right in front of them.
If we were up against riflemen, a single synchronized step back wouldn't change much.
But both the Rheinpfalz blood sausage bastards and every soldier in the White Beard Mercenary Corps wielded long spears optimized for melee, about three to four meters long...
That tiny gap in distance would yield far greater effects than expected...
As we retreated, a roar erupted from the enemy mercenaries: thrust!
"Thrust and kill!"
The enemy lunged, aiming for gaps in our armor, vital spots...
"What the—fuck?!"
Many who'd trained relentlessly in combat or drills to strike precisely without waste panicked at the miss alone.
A few seconds' gap was all we needed to punch holes in their necks.
Dalton beat me to it, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Thrust!"
Our mercenaries reacted with near-reflex speed, skewering throats and vitals.
In an instant, the impaled bled out and dropped.
"Fallen for a trick like this."
"You dog bastards..."
"Mom... fuck..."
Driven by ingrained instinct, they clutched wounds and thrashed for life, but a spear through you meant death.
Our mercenaries erupted in cheers at the sight.
"Fuck yeah, keep it up!"
"Hold formation! First, second, third rows—link up properly!"
"Push those dumb bear-brained idiots flat!"
Just as "the beginning is half the battle" holds for most endeavors, in melee like this, who seized momentum in the first exchange decided victory or defeat.
'Exaggerating a bit, we could say we're halfway there already.'
Instead of celebrating, I calmed myself, scanning for chances where our hundred-man company could shine more.
A quick glance: about a third of our front row dead, but cracks spiderwebbed through the enemy phalanx.
If we pressed like this, their second and third rows would plug the gaps, dragging out the fight and mounting our losses.
"Push with this momentum—crush them all! Charge!"
At my order to charge, the enemies—rattled from losing the initial clash—began yielding ground to our hundred-man company.
Dalton was already hammering the enemy mercenaries alongside me.
"Kill every last one! Hurry—time's not on our side!"
As Dalton and the whole corps pressed hard, the enemy formation fractured and crumbled.
Watching that, their officers drew swords and waded in to salvage the situation.
"Fall back and reform!"
"I'm the squad leader of the White Hunting Dog Mercenaries—I'll handle this myself!"
"Tighten that formation!"
When the big shots stepped up, it meant the enemy was going all-in here...
"Time for me to join in?"
I mulled it briefly, then drew my sword and shoved through our infantry toward the front.
"White Hunting Dog or shit dog, doesn't matter—who's in the White Beard Mercenary Corps Hundred-Man Leader Martin Meyer?!"
They flinched at my name.
"That mad dog?"
"Heard he fought under Baron Papenheim."
"Isn't that guy dangerous?"
The men chattering like scared girls irked me a bit...
But flying around the Rheinpfalz Empire—fighting 5,000 with Baron Papenheim's 2,000, capturing enemy counts—finally paid off.
As a mercenary who lived and died by reputation, seeing recognition brought tears to my eyes.
'Gotta kill 'em quick and painless.'
At my advance, their unit's top fighters—cowards to the end—rushed me in a pack.
Five of them. Lower level than me, but synced over long years, they could be annoying.
"...Fuck, this won't be easy."
My grumble only hyped them as they charged.
"Oscar! You take left, Prinz right! The other three, straight on!"
Even tactics against the strong—they weren't pushovers.
They rushed in a crane-wing formation like they were Yi Sun-sin reborn...
'Clash head-on, and they'll envelop me.'
Judging that, I bolted left.
"He's going left! Shift formation!"
They wheeled clockwise around their rightmost man to encircle me, but as an Expert, I was faster.
The one called Oscar gritted his teeth, bracing to block.
"Pretty brave."
Bravery couldn't bridge the gap in level and skill, though.
I spun my body clockwise, sword slicing for his neck.
Oscar tried to parry with his blade...
'Gotcha, idiot.'
Mid-spin, I erupted aura across my body, planting my right foot to absorb the acceleration.
And ran Oscar through the throat.
"One down."
From behind, the others gnashed teeth and yelled.
"You bastard! How dare you to Oscar!"
"Weaklings talk too much."
With that, I pivoted, aura-charged foot slamming the ground as I flew to the rear of their circling pack.
"Huh?"
"Block him!"
The one I targeted parried my sword by luck, but not my kick.
"Gahk—fuck."
He flew back, crashing into his own troops.
I pierced the gap in the next one's armor, finishing him...
The last two rushed me.
Eyes wild after losing two dead and one launched away?
'No chance head-on...'
I recalled Baron Ainz's level from before, cycling aura rapidly through my body.
Confidence surged—I could do anything.
"...Aiming for the armor."
Expert level could cleave steel...
I focused everything, dodging their charge with a faster, stronger strike instead.
The feel of slicing steel, bone, muscle, flesh transmitted to my hands.
One—no, both. I'd bisected the waists of two in steel plate at once.
Did I really swing that?
Even as the thought hit, massive cheers erupted behind me—no, Karin's voice came a split-second sooner.
On the battlefield, unlike usual, she always used formal speech...
"Hundred-Man Leader Martin! The Red Rose bastards next to us just raised a flag requesting support!"