Chapter 314: The Battle of Aferton (Part 4)

Chapter 314: The Battle of Aferton (Part 4)

Marching to the rhythm of the tight drumbeats, George’s sweaty hands clutched his rifle. His heart seemed to beat in time with the drums, driven by more than just tension—he was excited.

This was his first time on the battlefield.

He had resigned from his factory job, handing his position to his trusted friend Howard. Leveraging his status as a first-class citizen, he underwent training and successfully became an infantryman.

In training camp, George was always the most diligent, the one who worked the hardest. His ambition to climb higher had carried him through the toughest trials, earning him an exceptional promotion to the frontline units by a hobgoblin officer.

Originally, he was only slated to serve as a reserve, cleaning up after battles.

“I’ll become someone great.”

“Maybe… today will be the day.”

Following the footsteps of the soldiers ahead, George thought this to himself.

The kingdom’s infantry now attacked in dense columns rather than traditional line formations, with a group of skirmishers serving as cover and vanguard.

Columns emphasized flexible offensive impact, breaking through enemy lines quickly, and could swiftly transform into square formations. Unlike lines, which prioritized defensive firepower but were slow to move.

This tactic of columns and skirmishers wasn’t an original creation of Marshal Dolo. Instead, it was derived from “Napoleonic Military Tactics” left behind by players, summarized and applied by the kingdom’s strategists. It had yet to be tested on the battlefield.

As they marched swiftly, George suddenly felt the ground trembling faintly.

“Is that… cavalry?”

Unable to resist, he turned his head toward the distance.

The rumbling sound of hooves grew louder as a sea of heavy cavalry charged toward their formation, like a flood of steel.

Armor glinted under the sunlight, spear tips gleamed like a forest of blades, and the lion’s banner fluttered in the wind—this was the heavily armored cavalry of the Bosk family, a force that would instill terror in any traditional army.

Unfortunately, the Ember Kingdom’s forces were no ordinary army.

The drums quickened, and George quickened his steps, while the bugler beside him blew a piercing call.

“All units, form squares!”

The command rang out, and flags were raised.

Countless hours of training and ingrained muscle memory allowed these well-trained infantrymen to form several thick square formations in mere minutes. George followed the soldiers ahead of him into one.

Standing in the front row, George affixed his bayonet per the drill manual, ready to face the cavalry’s charge head-on.

These square formations, like mobile bastions, advanced steadily.

The black mass of cavalry finally reached the squares, gunfire erupting as smoke and the scent of blood filled the air over the wasteland.

One by one, cavalrymen fell, their agonized screams piercing the air. Their proud heavy armor was no match for the bullets fired from the kingdom’s advanced semi-automatic rifles.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

The gunfire rolled like waves, ceaselessly crashing.

The infantrymen merely pulled their bolts to prepare for the next shot, mowing down the precious cavalry with each wave. At that moment, their lives seemed as insignificant as grass.

Amid the cavalry’s ranks, Loren’s expression under his visor was one of utter torment.

“Damn it… why wasn’t this tactic in the intelligence reports? How do they have such formations?”

“And those guns… why don’t they need to reload?”

If it had been the old line formations, the cavalry might have broken through. But these sturdy squares, mutually supporting one another and creating crossfire zones, left no openings.

Charging one square meant enduring a deluge of bullets from the others.

Loren was powerless, forced to watch as his meticulously trained cavalry were mown down like wheat.

The heavy cavalry made several more attempts to charge, but what had once been an unstoppable force was no match for the kingdom’s semi-automatic rifles. They fell with ease.

Protected by his guards, Loren maneuvered his remaining cavalry through the gaps between squares. They had been reduced to a third of their original number. Ahead lay an invincible monster army, and behind them were the squares that had caused such heavy losses.

This was not what Loren had envisioned.

In his fantasies, he would lead his armored cavalry into the monster horde, engaging in fierce combat.

In the end, he would let enemy blood stain his armor red, with monster corpses piling up around him, dying heroically under the Ember Kingdom’s onslaught, securing his place in Bosk’s legacy.

But now, he was simply riding through the chaos, passively enduring a hail of bullets and severe casualties.

“No, this is not the ending I want.”

“This won’t make my father proud of me.”

Loren’s eyes turned red as he raised his lance and roared:

“Charge with me!”

“Break their formation!”

“Show these monsters what Skanians are made of!”

Loren targeted the infantry again, determined to burn his life for a grand finale.

Around the squares, corpses were piled waist-high. Fallen horses and knights lay scattered, their blood soaking the snow, but Loren no longer cared.

“Charge!”

Loren roared once more.

The remaining few hundred cavalrymen, inspired by his fervor, gathered around him and charged a square.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Gunfire howled as bullets rained down. The front ranks fell instantly.

They faced fire not only from the square ahead but also from flanking squares, enduring crossfire as they desperately fought to survive.

Loren, however, was resolute. Using his cavalry as fodder, he rode under his guards’ cover to the edge of a square.

“Die!”

Loren shouted, his black warhorse leaping gracefully over fallen cavalry, almost breaching the square.

“Bang!”

A gunshot echoed. The horse’s chest burst open, and it collapsed before the square.

Caught off guard, Loren tumbled from his saddle, rolling across the ground until his helmet fell off.

Disheveled and ferocious, Loren drew his sword, struggling to his feet.

Hobgoblins and tiefling infantry fired upon him, but Loren’s enchanted family armor, imbued with spells like 【Arrow Ward】, 【Brute Strength】, 【Lion’s Roar】, and 【Radiant Shield】, deflected the bullets.

The armor, passed down through generations, had led many Bosk generals to victory, with its lion’s roar inspiring troops amidst arrow and blade.

As its intricate magical patterns glowed, bullets were deflected by its faint shield, a lion’s roar faintly audible. Disheveled yet defiant, Loren resembled the “Lion of Bosk.”

“Die!”

He charged, decapitating a hobgoblin before turning to slash a tiefling, his blade tracing a graceful arc through the air.

Steel flashed, and blood sprayed.

Loren’s lifelong combat training shone brightly as he carved out his heroic finale.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Gunfire roared, the bullets’ power exceeding that of arrows. Even the magical barrier dimmed with every impact.

Loren, however, was consumed by battle frenzy. Laughing wildly, he pointed his sword at the kingdom’s infantry, ready to deliver his final declaration.

“The Bosk will never yield!”

“Monsters, before you stands a descendant of Rosell Bosk—”

“Bang!”

Before he could finish, Loren stumbled forward. A searing pain erupted in his back, as if struck by a hammer, draining all his strength.

He looked down to see a massive, bloody hole in his chest, his armor shattered.

He was doomed.

“How… is this… possible?”

Loren coughed up blood, his voice trembling in disbelief.

In his final moments, his magical barrier failed, shattered into glittering particles. His armor followed suit, collapsing under a final bullet.

Loren used his last strength to turn around, desperate to see who had killed the “Lion of Bosk.”

Was it a hulking hobgoblin? A devilish tiefling? A savage ogre? Any of them would create a heroic tale of defiance.

Yet, he saw a scrawny human with a rifle, its barrel still smoking, his flushed face betraying his exhilaration.

Around the man’s neck was a brand Loren recognized—the mark of a serf. A mark condemning him and his descendants to servitude forever.

“This must be… a joke…”

Loren collapsed, convulsed briefly, and fell silent.

Even in death, his eyes remained open, staring skyward, filled with confusion.

Loren died without understanding how he had fallen to a mere serf. It was a cruel joke, destined to become a topic of gossip among noblewomen over tea.

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