Chapter 38
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 038
Chapter Title: Battle of the Prague Plains (2)
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Whoosh—
As the acrid smoke of black powder was swept away by the wind, a vision of hell revealed itself beyond.
The Bavarian knights who had been arrogantly perched in their saddles moments ago, humming tunes.
Now, there was nothing but unrecognizable chunks of meat and crumpled scraps of steel scattered across the ground.
Neighhh!
Horses without riders went berserk, galloping across the blood-soaked plain, while severed limbs rolled haphazardly on the ground.
Gazing down at that horrific sight, I thought coldly with sunken eyes.
'The era has changed.'
They must have trusted their outdated experience.
That cannon thing is just brute force with short range, terrible accuracy, good only for startling horses with its roar.
So at that distance, they figured they were safe enough.
But that common sense was a relic from a bygone age.
Janos beside me gaped, unable to speak.
"Your Highness... for shells to reach that far, what on earth did you do to the cannons? Did you use that chemistry magic again?"
I chuckled and tapped the still-hot cannon barrel.
"Nothing special. Just added some seasoning to the gunpowder."
Medieval gunsmiths relied on gut feeling.
Mixing saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur roughly and grinding them—some days it exploded well, others it misfired.
Clogged barrels from unburnt residue were commonplace.
But I'm different.
I'm a chemist.
'Saltpeter 75%, charcoal 15%, sulfur 10%.'
The perfect chemical ratio for black powder, without a margin of error.
When impurities are removed and refined materials combine ideally, gunpowder stops being mere dust and becomes a monster brimming with explosive energy.
On top of that, I went through the granulation process, kneading powdered gunpowder with water and dextrin into grains.
The explosion pressure differs even with the same amount. The gas expansion speed propelling the shell is on another level.
So the increased range was just the natural result of the chemical reaction.
Of course, old cannons would have burst under this firepower.
Bronze is expensive, and cast iron shatters easily.
But mine are different.
High-quality wrought iron from the blast furnace, melted at high heat with limestone to remove sulfur and phosphorus.
This tough metal withstands far higher pressure than bronze.
Meaning it can handle more powder packed in.
Higher chamber pressure means higher muzzle velocity.
Higher velocity flattens the trajectory and multiplies kinetic energy exponentially.
So knights' plate armor shredding like paper at that range is just physics.
No magic, no miracles.
Just Newton's second law, F=ma.
"R-Run!"
"Get out of cannon range!"
The surviving knights screamed, wheeling their horses around.
Then I spotted their knight commander hurling off his helmet, roaring in rage. Half his face was a bloody mess.
"Don't run! Turn your backs and you're dead! Don't fall for the enemy's tricks!"
The commander drew his sword and bellowed at his terrified men scattering in panic.
"Their cannons reload slow! This is our chance! Close the distance while they stuff in the powder! They can't shoot up close!"
Spot-on judgment.
A normal cannon takes ages after firing: clean the barrel, load powder, ram it down, load shot.
They planned to exploit that gap with cavalry speed.
"No flanking! Straight through the shortest path! Spread out! Clustering means death!"
The knights' faces hardened at their commander's orders. Thousands of hooves pounded the earth simultaneously.
Thud thud thud thud—!
Knights, channeling fear into fury with bloodshot eyes, foam-flecked horses charging straight at us.
They weren't stupid enough to come in a straight line.
Like they'd rehearsed, they fanned wide left and right, zigzagging.
Dispersing targets to minimize shell hits.
"Raise shields! Brace for impact!"
Front-line knights hoisted shields high, hugging their horses to shrink their profile.
The enemy commander was competent. The moment safe distance proved meaningless, he pivoted to assault.
It was the right call.
If my cannons were normal, that is.
I signaled the gunners.
"Change ammo."
My order was curt.
"Load grapeshot."
The gunners' eyes sharpened. They pulled out prepped special rounds.
Not solid iron balls, but hideous bundles of hundreds of small lead balls tied in cloth and rope, like grape clusters.
This turned cannons into giant shotguns—the ultimate anti-cavalry weapon.
Reload time they banked on? Didn't exist for me. I'd pre-made cartridges.
Fixed powder charges in cloth bags—just shove down the muzzle, done.
Overwhelming speed compared to scooping powder with ladles and ramming.
"Loaded!"
"Take aim!"
300 meters. 200 meters.
Distance closed in a blink.
Janos shouted urgently.
"My lord! They're coming!"
"Stay calm."
I raised a hand to silence him.
"Not yet. Let them come closer."
I leaned on the rampart, watching the knight charge swarm in.
100 meters. 50 meters.
Close enough to see their eyes. Lances aimed at my heart.
The commander's face gleamed with ecstasy.
'It's over now.''I can take those arrogant heretics' heads.'
"Kill them! Those heretic bastards...!"
But that certainty was the moment I'd waited for.
"Now. Fire!"
KABOOOM—!
30 cannon roars shook the plain as one.
Not the thud of single iron balls this time.
Shraaaap—!
Like a giant scattering steel sand, or space itself ripping—a gruesome tearing sound.
Tens of thousands of lead balls and sharp shards fanned out from muzzles, engulfing the dispersed knights entirely.
No dodging arrows, no blocking spears.
It erased all space ahead—pure area violence.
Splat! Thunk! Crunch!
"Gaaah!"
"Aaaargh!"
Lead horses and knights tumbled headlong.
Horses' heads exploded; the commander atop one shredded like rags, flung backward.
Neiiigh—!
The followers fared no better.
Dispersed formation? Zigzag maneuvers?
Useless. Grapeshot's kill radius dwarfed their tactics.
No gaps in the steel ball rain.
One ball piercing armor turned innards to paste from kinetic force.
Shield arms ripped off with shields, helmed heads crushed like watermelons.
The brutality sickened even our troops.
"O God..."
Sir Kuno crossed himself, muttering.
Beyond the smoke, the scene was grotesque beyond brutal.
Gut-spilling horses crawling.
Knights, limbless, foaming blood, crying for mothers.
All reduced to equal, formless meat paste strewn about.
The Bavarian knights' main force—charging so fiercely moments ago—erased.
The miraculously spared few trembled, souls shattered.
Comrades' flesh and blood caked their armor gaps.
"Th-This... what is..."
"Demons... demon army...!"
Fighting spirit fled their eyes, primal terror taking root.
Courage? Honor? Faith?
No human could cling to that after watching comrades pulped before them.
Clang! Crash!
A lance dropped, breaking silence.
A knight dismounted, kneeling.
"Surrender! We surrender! Please! Don't shoot!"
That sparked it. Survivors hastily dismounted, tossing weapons.
"I'm a noble! I'll pay ransom!"
"Spare our lives, please!"
The age of knights tolled its end.
"Waaaaah!"
"Warriors of God! Did you see that!"
Our soldiers roared insanely.
The Empire’s strongest knights were shredded without a fight—the terror in their eyes vanished, replaced by frenzied confidence.
I turned to our main force advancing slowly but relentlessly.
Rumble rumble—
300 steel wagons' roar refilled the quieting battlefield.
To foes, surreal: unscathed by cannon, impossibly heavy masses rolling unpulled by horse or ox.
How? Devil magic?
But the secret was simple.
'Steel is lighter than you think.'
Not crude thick wrought iron cladding those wagons.
Refined, forged steel, impurities purged.
For same protection, wrought iron needs 10mm; steel does 3mm.
Superior strength-to-weight.
So they looked fortress-heavy but weighed far less than imagined.
Still "lighter than thought" doesn't mean easy to push.
Screech, grind—!
Beyond steel plates, unseen desperate struggles raged.
"One, two! One, two!"
"Push with all you've got! The Lord watches!"
Soldiers stomped and shouldered in rhythm, drenched in sweat, heaving long handles inside with full weight.
Eight per wagon.
And not fast.
Maybe 4 km/h tops.
Adult male walking pace.
But tanks value top speed least.
It's unstoppable breakthrough: arrows, cannon, knights be damned.
Far future, Britain's first combat tank MK.1: 6 km/h plain, 2 km/h rough.
Yet that slow beast crushed wire and trenches, reshaping WW1.
Now, my steel wagons played that role.
"All forces, keep advancing!"
Clank, clunk!
Slow but sure.
To choke the terrified imperial army.
Knights broken.
Flank hammer shattered—now just anvil meat.
I turned to Janos, ordering curtly.
"Advance the cannons. Time to smash their main body."
Sigismund's lips quivered.
"This... what in the world..."
The scene before him was too unreal for reality.
The Empire's pride: heavy cavalry.
Invincible spearpoint crushing foes on any field, seizing victory.
Vaporized in one barrage.
Literally. Not defeated—reduced to scraps of flesh.
Elector Frederick of Saxony screamed in terror beside him.
"Magic... yes, black magic! Nothing but Satan's sorcery makes iron balls rain like that!"
But Sigismund knew.
Acrid sulfur stench. Black powder smoke. Eardrum-shattering blasts.
No magic.
Human artifice from ruthless calculation.
Just generations ahead of Empire tech—unfathomable.
Sigismund ground his teeth.
Terror surged, but he was emperor. 100,000 troops remained. He couldn't break here.
"Don't panic! We still have infantry! We outnumber them!"
He gripped his baton with trembling hands, shouting.
"All forces, tight formation! Overlap shields! Their barrage reloads slow! Exploit it! Bury those wagons in bodies!"
Textbook orders.
Cavalry failed? Infantry swarm for attrition.
But.
Bang bang bang! Bang! Bang!
Advancing imperial infantry's front ranks dropped like flies.
Flamethrowers flickered nonstop from wagon gunports.
Reload? Three ranks, volley fire. Seamless curtain of lead.
Worse: wagons kept coming.
Rumble rumble—
Slow but inexorable.
Steel wall squeezing like a giant press.
"Trebuchets! Where are the trebuchets! Hurl rocks! Smash those wagons!"
"Firing already, Your Majesty! But trebuchets are slower and less accurate than cannons—useless!"
Sigismund roared.
"Bring more cannons! Scrape every imperial cannon here!"
"Already did! But..."
"But what!"
The gunner officer turned away, speechless.
Sigismund's gaze hit the artillery line: emperor's costly bronze cannons junked.
Not enemy fire. Overheated barrels burst from internal pressure.
His vision whitened.
"This can't... can't happen..."
He racked hundreds of tactics mentally.
Fire attack?
Steel doesn't burn.
Trench?
No time to dig.
Flank?
Fastest cavalry deleted instantly.
Infantry flanking? Just targets for side guns.
Night raid?
Enemy closing now—survive till dark how?
No answers. No stopping that steel wall.
"Your Majesty."
A cold voice from above.
Turning: Elector of Saxony, Austrian Duke, Margrave of Brandenburg—imperial electors mounted.
Arrogance long gone. Only craven survival instinct left.
Sigismund asked in quaver.
"What... what are you doing?"
Saxon Elector averted eyes.
"Tide's turned. More sacrifice is pointless. I... must preserve Saxony's men."
No loyalty, no crusade zeal in his voice.
Just merchant calculus.
"Abandoning me now? Breaking crusade oath?!"
"Abandon? Strategic retreat."
Frederick brazenly pointed forward.
"See, Your Majesty? That's no battle—it's massacre. Knights annihilated. Infantry different? Bashing steel wall just piles corpses."
"Turn tail? An elector of the Empire?"
Brandenburg Margrave chimed.
"Your Majesty, lose army here, who guards my lands? Will you fend off hyenas eyeing empty homes?"
"Y-You dare...!"
Sigismund trembled, hand on hilt, but electors' minds were set.
"Preserve your sacred person. We withdraw."
"Until next time."
Electors wheeled; standards inverted, retreat horns blew.
Toot— toooooot—
Death sentence for imperial army.
Front infantry gaped rearward.
Lords' banners who should protect them receding.
"R-Retreating! The electors flee!"
"We're alone! We're dead!"
Morale collapsed instantly. One dropped weapon, ten followed; tens of thousands turned tail.
Sigismund watched, dazed.
100,000 ebbed like tide.
No orderly retreat—stomping allies, ugly rout.
"Your Majesty! Flee!"
Hungarian guard captain snatched his reins desperately.
"Enemy wagons are here! Linger and you're captured!"
Rumble rumble—
Vibration shook feet.
Blood-smeared wagon wheels crushed corpses through powder smoke.
Gunports' eyes seemed to target him.
'Me... the emperor, to lowly peasants...'
Humiliation boiled, but survival won.
Sigismund bit lip bloody, glaring at Prague walls.
"...You'll pay. Ulrich von Sternberg, I'll take your head myself! I'll never forget this shame!"
"Your Majesty! Hurry!"
Bang!
A bullet grazed overhead. Startled emperor yanked reins.
"G-Go! To Hungary!"
Thus, Holy Roman Emperor fled the field.
His once-gleaming golden banner lay trampled in mud.