Marching to the rapid drumbeats, George gripped his rifle with sweat-drenched hands. His heart seemed to thud in time with the drums—filled with nervousness, but even more so with excitement.
This was his very first time on a battlefield.
He had resigned from his job at the factory, handing his former position over to Howard, the man he trusted most. Relying on his status as a first-class citizen, he had successfully become an infantryman after completing his training.
In the training camp, George had always been the hardest working, the most reckless. His ambition to climb the ladder had carried him through the most grueling trials, earning him an exceptional promotion to the frontline forces by his hobgoblin officer.
Otherwise, he would only have been fit for the reserves, assigned to clearing the battlefield.
*I will become someone truly important.*
*Perhaps... today.*
Keeping close pace with the soldier in front of him, George thought to himself.
The kingdom's infantry currently adopted a dense column attack formation rather than the traditional line formation, screened and led by swarms of skirmishers.
Columns emphasized flexible shock power, swiftly punching through enemy lines and capable of rapidly shifting into infantry squares—unlike lines, which prioritized defensive firepower and, though formidable in volleys, were slow to maneuver.
This doctrine, characterized by columns and skirmishers, was not an original invention of the kingdom's marshal, Duoluo. Rather, it had been distilled and adapted by him and the kingdom's strategists from Napoleonic military tactics left behind by the players, and it had never truly been tested in real combat until now.
Midway through their rapid march, George suddenly felt the earth tremble slightly beneath his feet.
"Is that—cavalry?"
He could not resist craning his neck to look into the distance.
A low, thunderous rumble of hooves echoed across the field as a dark mass of heavy cavalry charged toward them, surging like a torrent of cast steel.
Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, spearheads glinted cold like a forest of steel, and lion-crested banners whipped in the wind. This was the iron cavalry painstakingly cultivated by House Bosque. Before such a force, any traditional army would be gripped with terror.
Unfortunately, the army of the Kingdom of Cinders was anything but ordinary.
The drumbeats quickened. George hastened his steps as a bugler beside him blew a piercing call.
"All units, hear the command! Square formation!"
The herald's shout rang out, and battle banners were raised one after another.
Countless drills, etched into their very bones, allowed these well-trained infantrymen to shift within minutes into several thick square formations, mutually supporting each other to lay down intersecting fields of fire. George fell into rank alongside the soldiers ahead of him.
Being in the front rank, George fixed his bayonet according to drill protocol; his duty was to face the cavalry's charge head-on.
Like mobile bastions, these squares advanced slowly.
The dense swarm of cavalry finally slammed toward the front of the squares. Gunfire roared in succession, and the stench of blood and gunpowder blanketed the wasteland.
Rider after rider collapsed amid harrowing shrieks. The heavy plate armor they took such pride in could not withstand the bullets fired from the kingdom's state-of-the-art semi-automatic rifles.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Gunfire crashed like endless waves of the sea, showing no sign of stopping.
The infantry had only to lightly cycle their bolts to fire again. Precious cavalrymen tumbled one after another in their charge, their lives treated like worthless weeds.
Deep amid his cavalry, Loren's expression beneath his visor was twisted in agony.
"Damn it... Why wasn't this tactic in the intelligence reports? How do they know this formation?"
"And those guns—why aren't they reloading?"
Had this been the traditional linear battle array, the cavalry might have torn through it. But these dense squares guarded each other's flanks, leaving wide gaps between them.
Charging any single square was not only nearly impossible to break through, but also invited a torrent of bullets from the neighboring squares, which had created a lethal crossfire.
Loren was helpless, left only to watch his painstakingly trained cavalry fall like wheat before a scythe.
The heavy cavalry attempted several more charges, but the impact that had once been unstoppable and sent enemies fleeing in terror crumpled like paper before kingdom infantry armed with semi-automatic rifles, collapsing at the first touch.
Guarded by his retinue, Loren led his heavy cavalry through the gaps between the squares. By now, only a third of their men remained. Ahead lay the invincible legion of monsters; behind stood the infantry squares that had wrought such catastrophic slaughter.
This was nothing like he had imagined.
In Loren's fantasies, he was supposed to lead his iron cavalry galloping straight into the monster hordes to clash in brutal melee.
In the end, his armor would be dyed red with enemy blood, monster corpses would pile high around him, and he would die a heroic death under the siege of the Kingdom of Cinders, etching another glorious legend of the Bosque Lion.
Instead, he had merely galloped across the field, subjected passively to a baptism of lead, suffering horrific casualties.
*No, this is not the end I want.*
*Father won't be proud of me like this.*
At that thought, Loren's eyes turned bloodshot. Raising his lance high, he roared:
"Charge with me!"
"Tear through their lines!"
"Show these monsters what we Scanians are made of!"
Loren still set his sights on the infantry. He would burn the last embers of his life in exchange for a magnificent end.
Around the squares, corpses were already piled waist-high. Slain warhorses and armored knights lay strewn across the ground, staining the snow scarlet, but Loren no longer cared.
"Charge!" Loren bellowed again.
The remaining hundreds of cavalrymen seemed infected by his fervor. Clustering around Loren, they slammed toward one of the squares.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Guns roared and bullets rained down. The foremost ranks of cavalry crumpled in an instant.
Not only did they endure fire from the square in front, but they also took crossfire from the flanking squares, surviving each second only by sheer fortune in a storm of lead.
Yet Loren had abandoned all regard for his life. Bearing the catastrophic losses and treating the front ranks as expendable shields, he charged forward under the cover of his guards, miraculously reaching the immediate perimeter of the square.
"Die!" Loren roared at the top of his lungs.
His black warhorse leaped with vigor, clearing the mounds of cavalry corpses, poised to plunge straight into the infantry square.
*Bang!*
A single gunshot cracked. A gaping bloody hole erupted in the horse's chest, sending it crashing headlong before the square.
Caught unprepared, Loren was hurled violently from the saddle. He tumbled across the ground several times, his helmet dislodged and rolling away.
Disheveled and fierce-featured, Loren drew his sidearm sword and struggled to his feet.
The hobgoblin and tiefling infantry opened fire at once, but the heavy armor upon Loren was an heirloom worth thousands of gold coins passed down through generations. Crafted by an archmage, it bore enchantments such as *Protection from Arrows*, *Bull's Strength*, *Lion's Roar*, and *Radiant Shield*.
Generals of House Bosque had worn it while charging into battle, striding through rains of arrows and blades, leading their men to victory after victory with the majestic roar of the lion.
As the intricate magical runes glowed to life, bullets were deflected by the shimmering barrier, accompanied by faint leonine roars echoing through the seams. With his wild hair and glaring eyes, Loren truly resembled the so-called "Bosque Lion."
"Die!"
Lunging forward with sword raised, he bellowed and severed the head of the hobgoblin before him, then spun to strike at a tiefling attempting an ambush from behind, his blade tracing a graceful arc through the air.
Cold steel flashed; blood splattered.
The combat arts Loren had practiced since childhood were displayed to their fullest. This was the glorious end he had yearned for!
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Dense gunfire shrieked. The power of bullets far exceeded that of arrows, and beneath repeated impacts, even the magical barrier grew increasingly dim.
Yet Loren was completely lost in bloodlust. Laughing maniacally, he leveled his sword at the kingdom soldiers before him, ready to deliver his final declaration.
"We of House Bosque will never yield!"
"Monsters, standing before you is the scion of Rosell Bosque—"
*Bang!*
Before the words finished, Loren lurched forward violently. A searing agony tore through his back, as though struck by a sledgehammer, draining all strength from his body in an instant.
He strained to look down.
Sure enough, a gaping bloody hole had punched through his chest, piercing cleanly through the armor.
There was no saving him.
"How... is this possible?"
Loren coughed up a mouthful of blood, murmuring in disbelief.
As it turned out, the moment he raised his sword, the force barrier—having deflected over a hundred bullets—had finally buckled under the strain, shattering into fine magical motes as the armor cracked with it.
And someone behind him had fired one last shot.
Summoning the last dregs of his strength, Loren turned around unsteadily. He wanted to see who had slain the "Bosque Lion."
Was it a brawny hobgoblin, a fiendish tiefling, or a savage, voracious ogre? Whoever it was, it would still serve as a romantic tale of a Bosque nobleman dying an unyielding death.
Yet as he turned his head, he was horrified to find that the one who had shot him dead was a rather scrawny human. The man's face was flushed red with excitement, and white smoke still drifted from the barrel of the rifle in his hands.
Worse still, Loren saw a mark upon his neck that was all too familiar—the brand of a serf. Once branded with that mark, it meant that he and his descendants were lowborn serfs forever, never to rise above their station.
"What kind of..."
"...sick joke is this..."
Loren's eyes bulged as he crashed stiffly to the ground. After a few twitches of his limbs, he moved no more.
Even in death, his eyes remained open, staring blankly at the sky, filled with bewilderment.
To his dying breath, Loren could not comprehend why he would die at the hands of a serf as lowly as weeds. It was an utter farce—one that would become nothing more than idle gossip for noble ladies over their tea.
Chapter 310