Muscles Aren’t Needed, Just Fingers Will Do (4)
As we climbed onto the walls, a cloud of dust billowed up beyond the barren wasteland. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves. And through the haze, a glittering wave of steel flashed.
"Good lord...."
Jack's mouth hung open. His hands trembled uncontrollably.
"L-Lord, there's... there's too many of them."
"Report."
"Cavalry... about 50 riders. With the infantry following behind... total around 300. They've even brought a siege ram."
300 against 60. On paper alone, it was a 5-to-1 fight. And the enemy were professional soldiers from the count's house—trained killers. We were a ragtag bunch who'd gotten a crash course over the past week. Anyone could see it: eggshells smashing against a boulder.
"Sh-Shouldn't we run? We're only 60 strong...."
Unease rippled through the ranks. The confidence from the shooting drill moments ago shriveled in the face of overwhelming numbers. That was the limit of conscripts. Marksmanship might improve, but guts? Still civilian-level.
I snatched the spyglass from Jack's shaking hands and scanned the enemy lines. At the front rode a knight in ornate armor emblazoned with a red wolf emblem.
Knight Captain Govan. The Volf Count's hunting dog.
Classic charge-leader type. Brainless, reckless, brimming with arrogance. Spotting our 60 souls cowering behind a pathetic wall of piled stones, he yanked off his helmet and laughed uproariously as he approached.
"Don't lose your nerve."
I lowered the spyglass and turned to the men.
"Do they look like a scary army to you?"
"......"
"They look different to me."
I perched precariously on the wall's railing and smirked.
"Like walking stacks of cash. Know how much one of those suits of armor costs? And a warhorse on top of that."
"......"
"We're not at war here. We're here to collect a debt."
My brazen attitude thawed their frozen faces a bit. Then, a trumpet blast echoed from the enemy lines.
Roooooo—!
Knight Captain Govan raised a horn enchanted with amplification magic and bellowed, thrusting his sword tip toward me.
His voice boomed across the field. Grody spat on the ground beside me.
"What a load of bullshit. Iron clubs? This here's precision machinery worth a fortune."
"Tell me about it."
I thought for a moment, then called to Theo standing nearby.
"Theo."
"Private Theo, sir!"
"Can you shut that loudmouth up?"
Theo flinched. The range was about 300 meters—beyond our muskets' effective 100-meter shot.
"Not a hit. Warning shot. Gotta let 'em hear what our weapons sound like."
"...Understood, sir."
Theo braced his musket in a wall slot. Deep breath. Shoulder stock. Trigger.
Bang—!
A sharp crack ripped through the battlefield. A second later, dust erupted just in front of Govan's horse. The beast reared with a shrill neigh!, and Govan flailed comically, nearly toppling off.
Govan's face flushed crimson. Negotiations—such as they were—were over. Not that I'd planned any.
With Govan's roar, the 50 cavalry yanked their reins and surged. The earth trembled. 300 meters... 200... 150. The gap closed in seconds. Infantry recoiled in terror. Hoofbeats stirred primal fear. The pressure of massive ironclad beasts bearing down.
"Lord! Fire! We have to fire now!"
Jack screamed. I raised a hand to halt them.
"Hold."
"They're right on us! We'll all die!"
"Not yet. In range, but we need maximum impact."
I recalled a line from a history book in my past life. The essence of line battles: distance and discipline.
100 meters. Enemy knights' faces sharpened into view. They were grinning. Peasants with wooden sticks? Sweep through once and done. Arrows wouldn't pierce their aura-shrouded armor anyway.
"All units, aim! Volley fire on my mark!"
My command boomed; 60 muskets snapped up. Trembling hands gripped tight, eyes fixed through sights on the onrushing foe.
90 meters. Horses' labored breaths audible.
80 meters. Swords raised high.
"Die!!" Their war cries rang out.
70 meters. Eyes locked on theirs—greed and murder gleaming in wild whites.
"Now."
The instant they hit range, I slashed my hand down.
"Fire!!"
BOOM-BOOM-BOOOM—!!!
60 muzzles erupted in unison, birthing a wall of flame. The roar shredded the air itself. Ears rang. Nostrils burned with acrid sulfur. Thick white smoke choked the scene. Recoil snapped shoulders back, but no one screamed. Couldn't. Instinct to see the carnage overrode the pain.
"Wh-What...."
Wind cleared the smoke in under five seconds. What it revealed wasn't a battlefield—it was a slaughterhouse.
"Gah!"
"Argh! My leg! My leeeeg!"
50 meters ahead, the proud Red Wolf knights were gone. Just blood, twisted metal, and screaming meat-piles tangled together. Front-runners tumbled head over heels with their horses. Aura? Enchanted plate? Meaningless against 60 lead slugs at velocity. One knight's helm crumpled into his skull; another's chest plate was a sieve spewing crimson fountains. Horses thrashed or rolled on shattered legs.
One volley. The charge shattered. Vaporized, really.
"This... we did this?"
Jack stared at his musket with quaking hands. No chants. No sword swings with a kiai. Just pull the trigger. Yet invincible knights lay in rags.
But this was real combat. No time for awe.
"Don't stand there gawking! Reload!"
My shout snapped them to. "Enemies still breathing! Cut 'em off before they recover!"
Bodies moved on reflex. Drills etched into muscle: hundreds of reps. Hands before brains.
Rip. Teeth tore paper cartridge.
Pour. Powder down the barrel, ram ball home.
Click. Cock the hammer.
20 seconds. By the time surviving knights staggered up, 60 muzzles were reloaded and trained forward.
"U-Uwaaa...!"
Knight Captain Govan. Lucky bastard—his horse took the bullets for him. But his finery was mud-caked, helmet lost. He lurched to his feet, hair a mess.
"M-Magic... that's gotta be magic...!"
He shrieked in terror. The 300 infantry behind froze like statues. They'd seen it clear: knights they idolized turned to red mist in a blink.
"Charge! They're mages! They burned mana—vulnerable now! Hit 'em or die!"
Govan drew his sword, bellowing. Fantasy logic checks out. That firepower? Mana exhaustion, defenseless cooldown.
Too bad. This was science, not spells. No cooldowns.
Just ammo.
"Charge, damn it! Charge!"
Govan screamed desperately, but no one budged.
"Front: enemy commander and remnants! Fire by platoon!"
"First Platoon, aim!"
Govan's eyes bulged. Dozens of cold stares. Colder steel bores fixed on him. Not gasping mages, but unflinching killers.
"N-No...."
"Fire!"
Second thunderclap rocked the field. Closer than 50 meters—point-blank.
Arms, legs, torso riddled. Sword arm shredded, armor crumpled to scrap.
"Guh...."
Govan collapsed, gazing at the sky. Blue expanse. Gray smoke. His last living sight.
The captain's death ended it.
"Uwaaaah!"
"Demons! Run!"
"The knights are all dead!"
The 300 infantry hurled weapons and fled. Leaderless, morale crushed rabble. And behind them: click-clack of reloading.
But I called ceasefire.
"Cease fire! Let the runners go!"
Ammo conservation. And no need for more kills. Those terrified stragglers had to live. To spread the word.
Eisengrad harbors a demon legion that summons thunder.
The one-sided massacre concluded. Silence fell before the walls. Just wind, tumbling banners, dying horses' rasps.
"We... won? Just like that?"
Boris muttered blankly. Zero wounds. Not a drop of blood spilled. Cavalry annihilated, our losses: none.
"Wooooah!!"
Someone cheered. Dammed emotions burst.
"We won! We bagged knights!"
"Eisengrad! Lord forever!"
Men embraced, thrusting muskets skyward. Theo slumped, wiping tears. Jack kicked a fallen knight's armor in disbelief.
I slung my musket quietly over my shoulder, inhaling the gunpowder tang deeply. Bitter sulfur. Metallic blood. Devil's stench to some—victory's perfume to me.
"Grody."
"......"
"See that?"
Grody stood dazed, oblivious to the apple dropping from his mouth. Dwarf's long life held countless wars, but nothing like this.
"Insane... this ain't war as I know it."
His voice shook.
"Just... housekeeping."
"Exactly. Housekeeping."
I gazed down at the steel wreckage strewn below, murmuring.
"Sweeping out the old era. Ringing in the new."
The age of magic and swords ended here, in this wasteland.
"Ella! What're you waiting for? Tonight's a feast!"
My shout wiped the worry from her teary eyes into a beaming grin.
"Yes, my lord! I'll haul every scrap from the pantry!"