In a war, mountains are typically immovable. Ryan, after years of accumulating vast combat experience—especially in this world of cold-weapon warfare—understood the importance of a commander's safety and the cohesion they represent for their army. The commander is the soul of the troops. Of course, figureheads like Finubar don't count; everyone knows who truly wields authority.
Blindly adhering to the "immovable mountain" strategy risks falling into dogmatism and letting elite troops gather dust. Thus, knowing when to deploy elite forces and when to take to the battlefield personally is a critical skill for any commander.
Take, for example, Emperor Napoleon. Many believe that he was often too hesitant, refusing to deploy the Old Guard until the last possible moment. In key battles like Borodino, the Old Guard spent the entire engagement watching. Keyboard warriors have criticized Napoleon for becoming cautious in middle age, losing his daring and vigor. They argue that deploying the Old Guard at a critical moment could have secured decisive victories.
However, this is hindsight. At the time, Napoleon didn't have a clear picture of the battlefield, and the Old Guard was his final reserve. Fighting thousands of kilometers from home, the Emperor wouldn't risk his best troops lightly. In retrospect, this decision proved correct. When Moscow's fires and harsh winter forced the French to retreat in chaos, it was the Old Guard that covered the Emperor's escape. Despite suffering catastrophic losses—reduced from 20,000 to a mere 2,000 to 3,000—they ensured Napoleon's survival. The Guard never regained its former overwhelming combat strength.
Thus, when a "mountain moves," two scenarios are typically in play: either there's near-certain victory, or the situation calls for a do-or-die effort.
Does Ryan have absolute confidence in victory?
Clearly not. Victory in war is rarely assured. For instance, who could have predicted that the mighty Ming Empire, at its zenith during the Yongle and Renxuan eras, would suffer such a humiliating defeat on its own soil? Despite boasting an elite army of 200,000 in three major camps and led by celebrated generals, they were routed by 60,000 steppe invaders, with the emperor captured.
If a novel depicted such an event, readers would deride the author as ignorant, lacking basic common sense, and abandon the story as unreasonably toxic.
Yet here, Ryan's judgment was clear: the time for a desperate gamble had come.
Three hundred minotaurs stood on the battlefield, each wielding a colossal shield—three meters tall, five meters wide, and one meter thick. These shields were designed to halt the knights' charge, robbing them of the chance to breach the Beastmen's center and confront Gorthor directly.
"Don't let those minotaurs set down their shields!" Ryan ordered urgently. "If they succeed, our cavalry will be in deep trouble!"
Looking over the chaotic battlefield, Ryan suddenly chuckled. This Beastlord, the strongest and craftiest in Beastman history, was indeed formidable. Such massive shields couldn't have been improvised; the Beastmen had come prepared.
Excellent. Very well. Ryan ordered his infantry to advance.
"Are you ready, dear Morgiana?" Ryan turned to the Lake Witch.
"Always at your command, Ryan," Morgiana replied, lifting the Chalice of Potions. The moonlight glinted off Sylphane's horn as her attendants brought Ryan his lightning griffon, Impris. The majestic beast, having just feasted on raw meat, spread its wings impatiently.
The bloody battle raged on. Bretonnian knights surged into the Beastman horde, providing much-needed relief to the embattled White Wolf knights. Led by the Grail Knights, their charges decimated Beastlords and horned beasts like a butcher slaughtering livestock. Duke Berchmond of Bastonne personally led 100 knights into the fray, charging through the Beastman ranks like a thunderclap. Horned beasts, led by the Beastlords, raised their shields and spears to counter.
Berchmond's dragon lance sparked fiercely. A relic of Arthurian legend, it unleashed fiery dragon breath, melting shields and spears in an instant. Scalding heat forced the horned beasts to drop their weapons, only to be cut down by lances and knightly swords. The Beastman formation wavered, faltered, and collapsed, as knights roared past, claiming their lives.
The Grail Knights of the Red Dragon Brotherhood fought side by side, their prowess compensating for the absence of Calard. Like lions in a flock of sheep, they crushed all before them. Faith in the Lady and unmatched martial skill proved lethal to any foe, leaving no survivors in their wake.
"Yes! That's how it's done!" Berchmond bellowed triumphantly. "This is Bastonne's strength! Beastly scum, watch closely! We'll kill you today, tomorrow, and every day after! Sons of Bretonnia, charge with me!"
The knights' morale soared while the Beastmen, gripped by terror, began to retreat. The Beastlords and horned beasts fled first, followed by centigors and ungors.
Peasants cheered their lords' names as Berchmond's Red Dragon banner waved in the air, bloodied but proud. Today, this ancient family standard would shine with new glory.
This is why Bretonnia has stood for a thousand years: the nobles may exploit and oppress their serfs, but in times of war, they fight with equal disregard for their own lives. Their courage and faith forge the soul of the knightly kingdom.
"Damn scum… I will… offer your heads to the True God," growled Gorthor, the Supreme Beastlord, watching his forces crumble. Despite their numerical advantage, the quality disparity between his troops and the Bretonnians was stark. From his initial 80,000 troops, only 50,000 remained.
Desperate, Gorthor drove the minotaurs forward. Berchmond, in the midst of his bloody charge, saw the approaching giants. His smile faded.
Hundreds of minotaurs bearing colossal shields entered the fray. Forming an unbreakable wall, they planted their shields deep into the ground. Behind them, Beastmen pushed against the barricades. The knights' initial charges faltered, their lances and mounts unable to penetrate the shield wall. Meanwhile, reinforcements from the Beastmen flanks surged onto the battlefield.
The knights were now encircled. With no room to maneuver, the Beastmen unleashed a ferocious assault. Minotaurs wielding massive axes cut down knights and their horses alike. Berchmond found himself surrounded, battling valiantly but unable to avoid encirclement. Striking down one minotaur, his steed was felled by a serrated axe, throwing the Duke to the ground.
"Kill! Gold Cup! Die!" the minotaurs roared.
Berchmond's men rushed to his aid, but the proud Red Dragon Duke refused to endure such humiliation. Seizing his scepter, he smashed a minotaur's head like a melon, mounted a fresh steed, and rejoined the fight.
The battle intensified as Bretonnian infantry arrived, heralded by the strains of military music and song. Their presence rejuvenated the knights while unnerving the Beastmen.
It was the Old Guard—two thousand strong, marching under the red, white, and blue tricolor. Their disciplined ranks radiated the might of a thousand armies, advancing steadily despite the overwhelming odds.
Gorthor realized the danger. If these infantry linked up with the knights, his forces would be doomed. Summoning his dragon ogres, he launched a desperate attack.
The Old Guard met the onslaught head-on, their dwarven-forged halberds piercing dragon ogre flesh. Coordinated volleys of gunfire mowed down Beastmen, followed by greatswords cleaving through armor. Though many of the Guard fell, their unyielding discipline held firm.
Suddenly, a golden griffon descended from the heavens. Lightning crackled as Impris tore into Gorthor's dragon ogres. Ryan, enveloped in silver flames and thunderous light, struck down the Supreme Dragon Ogre with a single blow.
As Gorthor watched in stunned silence, a dry wind swept the battlefield. Ryan, astride his griffon, raised his weapons high, his voice booming:
"Soldiers! My soldiers! The Beastlord Gorthor stands before us, a scourge upon humanity. How shall we respond to their atrocities?"
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" roared the Bretonnians.
Ryan laughed heartily. "Where do your swords point?"
"Wherever the King's sword points!"
"And who is your enemy?"
"The King's enemies are our enemies!"
"Why do your swords exist?"
"For honor! For the King! For the Lady! For Bretonnia!"
"Have you ever known fear?"
"With our King, never! Never! Never!"
Satisfied, Ryan roared, "Then march forward! Bring victory to your King!"
"Long live the King! Long live the King!"
With earth-shaking cries, the Bretonnian infantry advanced like a tidal wave.
The decisive moment had arrived.
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