Chapter 78
Chapter 78
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 78
Chapter Title: Pasutek Hills Ambush Operation (2)
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About 30 minutes—no, closer to an hour—later.
"Captain, take a look over there. Blue background with a yellow fleur-de-lis—the Montmartre bastards."
I took a deep breath and patted his shoulder.
"Where?"
"Right there. Look close, and you'll see the Montmartre scum swarming over in a horde."
I turned my gaze in the direction he pointed, and sure enough, there they were.
Were they completely oblivious to the possibility of an attack, or was this just their standard half-assed scouting?
They'd piled their cumbersome, heavy armor onto wagons—stuff too bulky for marching—and were strolling along leisurely with just spears or weapons in hand.
"Gonna lop off a few of those Line Palz sausage bastards' necks and cash in big."
"I heard Pappenheim—or was it Palzheim?—is top-shelf trash among all the trash nobles. My old squad leader used to grind his teeth just talking about the guy."
"Yeah, our captain was the same. Word is, Count Rezume clutched his gut laughing when he heard who we were up against."
Our Baron Pappenheim was definitely trash. No, straight-up extreme trash.
Other knights—even mid-tier ones—had to lead troops directly, so they'd all studied at least basic military tactics.
But with this lunatic, when I warned him the Montmartre bastards were requisitioning food from nearby villages—clear sign of a big army incoming...
He couldn't grasp even that simple logic. I had to spell it out step by step.
'Goddamn trash bastard. Never end up on the same side as that one again.'
Still, thanks to our trash baron's utter idiocy, the enemy count had completely dropped his guard...
"Ah! The world's full of surprises, fuck."
As I grumbled, my platoon mates spoke up.
"Captain, time to hit 'em?"
"Hold off a bit longer. Stay quiet until our trash baron sends the signal, then we smash them in one go. Jumping now violates orders. Just keep eyes on any scouts."
Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Before long, the tail end of the enemy's 5,000-strong army came into view.
Then, thunderous trumpets and war drums boomed across the entire valley.
The Montmartre bastards heard it and realized they were the ones screwed. Panic set in instantly.
Some mercenaries bolted for wagons, yanking out their armor and scrambling to strap it on.
"Armor! Armor first!"
The knights—in their flashy plate—drew swords and started yelling orders everywhere.
"Goddamn cowardly sausage Line Palz scum! Everyone clump up! Enemy could hit anytime!"
With conflicting commands flying from all sides, the Montmartre troops plunged into chaos.
If that were us, I might've been shaking, thinking my number was up.
'But it's not. Fuck that.'
They looked utterly pathetic, dithering between grabbing armor or forming ranks as the enemy closed in.
"Roll the logs and oil barrels. Don't leave a single one breathing—wipe 'em out."
My men roared back with enthusiasm.
"Yes, Platoon Leader!"
"I'll turn those snail-fuckers into kebabs."
"I'll slaughter the lot—just watch."
After firing off their lines, they hacked the ropes binding the logs with axes and sent the oil barrels tumbling down the hill.
Heavy bastards—logs and barrels alike—so instead of bouncing with thuds, they rumbled like boulders crashing downhill.
The Montmartre scum heard it and lost their shit.
"Enemy ambush! Everyone behind the wagons!"
"You think hiding works?"
"Fuck, we dying here?"
Scared we'd come barreling down the hill and smash right into them?
Adorable, flailing over whether to duck or not.
Cute little things. Get pulverized under logs, limbs snapped, turned to bloody pulp.
Moments later, the logs and barrels slammed into the enemy infantry.
Soldiers too slow to dodge had torsos crushed, arms and legs mangled. Barrels shattered, spraying oil everywhere.
They plowed into wagons too—splintering them into massive shards that flew and embedded in troops. Those hiding behind got buried under the collapsing wrecks, screaming their lungs out.
In seconds, the Montmartre column became a hellscape of total, uncontrollable mayhem.
"Aaaagh, fuck! Somebody help!"
"Filthy empire dogs..."
"Mommy, fuck..."
Montmartre knights and veteran mercs swung swords desperately, bellowing orders.
"Hold formation! Formation breaks, we're done!"
But those clobbered by the sudden logs were out of it.
My watching troops cheered like they wanted to clap and stand.
"Look at those snail bastards squirm. Fuck, they thought we were trash like the baron?"
"Suspicious hill path like this, should've sent scouts no matter what."
"Hopeless morons, tsk tsk..."
Someone tsked about scouts—if they'd come, what then? Just thinking sent chills down my spine.
An ambush exploits gaps: small force topples hordes if it lands. But get spotted mid-setup? You're fucked beyond recovery.
'Dunno who that count is, but staying careless to the end? True MVP.'
Soon, Captain Dalton's voice—infused with Aura—thundered out.
"Rain arrows and spells like there's no tomorrow! Everyone else, hurl rocks till the charge drops! Rack up one more kill!"
I scooped up nearby stones and lobbed them in high arcs toward likely enemy spots.
Never practiced spear or dagger throws, so reaching the zone was my best shot.
'Aiming for heads? Nah, just whiff city.'
Still, enough of us chucking like that—results were solid.
"Agh, my arm! My arm!"
"Ugh, mommy..."
Then fire arrows streaked toward the oil-soaked foes.
They weren't picking targets either—just pumping out as many as possible before the enemy snapped to.
Exaggerating a tad, it was a fire-arrow monsoon.
Glanced aside: Karin had her bow trained on the enemy ranks.
She exhaled slow, then loosed.
"Gotcha."
She flashed a razor smile and lined up the next...
A panicked shout rose from their lines.
"Sir Pobiron's been shot—dead!"
Three hundred meters off, in that chaotic swarm? Pinpoint sniping a highborn knight's throat. Insane.
She'd been sharpening up lately. Give it time, she'd be like some game elf perched in trees, popping heads at hundreds of meters—no, a full kilometer.
Straight-up sniper then.
That's when the fire from the arrows ignited across their ranks.
Logs, wagons, supplies—all going up. Flames leaped from one to the next.
"Fire! Douse the fire first! Don't wanna die—put it out, fuck!"
"Mages, blast water magic! Food, hay, weapons gone—we're fucked!"
"Fuck, water! Drench it!"
In a magicless world, they'd have burned alive wholesale.
Too bad this one had magic.
"Water, drench the earth! Water Splash!" Montmartre mages unleashed water spells, but the oil-fueled blaze roared fiercer at first... then started dying down.
Lucia and our mages hammered them with firestorms to rack up max kills.
"Burn away my enemies! Fireball!" "Fire, slay those blocking my path! Fire Spear!" "Fire Arrow!" Enemy troops dropped like flies under our fire magic, arrows, and stone barrages.
"Fuck, fire! Aaaah! Hot!"
"My arm, my leg... mercy! Don't wanna die!"
"Fire... gotta kill the fire."
Even in that mess, Montmartre survivors fixated on dousing flames to stay alive...
'No total Red Cliffs barbecue for 'em, sadly.'
Still, they'd taken our one-sided ranged pounding defenseless—numbers must've thinned hard.
Morale? Obliterated. Hasty fire-fighting smoke? They were blind right now.
'Prime time to skewer the bastards.'
As if on cue—or maybe the baron finally manned up—the urgent charge drums rolled.
"Perfect! Time to school those cocky Montmartre land snails who thought numbers alone win! All hands—charge!"