Translator: CinderTL
On the Northwest Legion's position, the officers calmly watched the approaching Orc Raiders. When the first wave of arrows fell in front of their formation, even a few contemptuous chuckles could be heard from the infantry squares.
"Artillery, prepare!" As the command was relayed down the chain, the gunners quickly adjusted the angles of their cannons. These rigorously trained artillery crews could complete the entire process of loading, aiming, and firing within twenty seconds.
"Bursting Shells, range four hundred meters, fire!"
Amid the deafening roar of cannons, dozens of field guns simultaneously spat fire. The shells traced graceful parabolas through the air, exploding about ten meters above the Orc cavalry.
The shattered metal fragments rained down in a fan-shaped pattern, instantly riddling dozens of cavalrymen and their horses. One riderless warhorse, dragging its intestines, continued to gallop for over a hundred meters before collapsing.
Before the surviving Raiders could recover from the shock, the second wave of shells was already whistling in. Some of the Exploding Shells detonated upon impact, sending shockwaves that hurled dirt and dismembered limbs into the air.
"Change formation! Disperse!" The Orc Centurion shouted hoarsely. The well-trained steppe cavalry immediately scattered, but the Northwest Legion's firepower was more deadly than they had anticipated.
When the Raiders closed to within two hundred meters, the thunderous volleys of Flintlock Muskets suddenly rang out. Three rows of troops fired in rotation, creating an unrelenting barrage.
The front row soldiers knelt to fire, then quickly retreated to reload while the second row immediately took their place. This cycle repeated continuously. The sound of bullets piercing leather armor was like heavy rain pounding on a tent. The charging cavalry fell like wheat before an invisible scythe.
The most valiant Centurion, leading thirty of his personal guards, broke through the fire net, only to meet a devastating Canister Shot fifty meters from the nearest human line. Six Falconet Cannons positioned on the flank fired simultaneously, unleashing a storm of lead pellets. The Centurion's mount was instantly reduced to a bloody pulp, and he himself was hurled into the air, his chest riddled with metal fragments.
In just fifteen minutes, the thousand-strong Orc light cavalry was routed. The Orc soldiers fled in disarray, leaving the steppe littered with smoking craters and mutilated corpses. A few surviving warhorses wandered aimlessly beside their fallen masters.
Abal, watching from a distance, turned ashen. The other Orc commanders also grew grim.
They noted the terrifying aspects of the human army: the ranged units' accuracy far exceeded expectations, especially those weapons that exploded after impact—something unheard of in the previous war. The coordination between different units was seamless, with no gaps in the firepower.
Old Shaman Otasi's Bone Staff carved deep marks in the ground. "They seem more formidable than they were on the Blackstone Plains," he said, glancing at Calem.
At this moment, Calem's hand gripping the reins trembled involuntarily. Among the figures twisting and falling in the hail of bullets were elites he had personally trained. The Shaman was right—Grayman's army was stronger than it had been on the Blackstone Plains, and not just in numbers.
Ajil, meanwhile, stared fixedly at the golden dragon banner in the human formation, his tusks grinding audibly.
At the Northwest Legion's camp, the staff officer was reporting the battle results to Paul: "Preliminary statistics show that we have annihilated 367 enemy troops, with only two of our men slightly injured by stray arrows."
Paul put down his binoculars, the lenses reflecting the commotion in the distant Orc formation. He turned to the messenger and said, "Tell all units to remain vigilant. This is just the appetizer."
Behind the command post, medics were examining the wounded on stretchers. There had been two casualties in the recent skirmish.
An artillery observer had been grazed on the arm by a stray arrow, while another, a private second class, had been less fortunate, taking an arrow to the knee, which might leave him disabled. Still, he was lucky to be alive.
The quartermaster was busy tallying the ammunition consumption, ensuring each soldier's cartridge pouch was filled with sixty rounds of fixed ammunition. The battlefield had suddenly fallen into an eerie silence, with only the smoke of gunpowder drifting slowly under the scorching sun. This silence was more suffocating than any war drum, as both sides knew the real contest was just beginning.
At that moment, Abal raised his battle-axe high, its blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight. As the deep sound of a bullhorn echoed across the plains, the Orc army surged forth like a bursting flood.
The entire field seemed to tremble as the main force of thirty thousand Orc cavalry divided into three waves, fanning out to press against the human formation.
At the forefront were the lightly armored mounted archers, crouched low on their horses, arrows nocked and ready to unleash deadly volleys once within range.
In the middle were the heavily armored cavalry, clad in scale armor, their lances like a forest, their horses protected by leather armor, charging like a moving iron wall.
On the flanks were the most mobile skirmishers, ready to outflank and cut off the human army's retreat.
Abal himself commanded the central force, surrounded by the elite cavalry of the Chieftain's Tent, who raised high the White Wolf Banner of the Zarg Tribe.
The Orc Chieftain was a master of tactics—he did not seek a decisive blow but instead aimed to wear down the enemy with successive waves of charges, waiting for their formation to falter before delivering the fatal strike.
The Orc light cavalry approached first, the mounted archers splitting into several groups and advancing from different directions toward the Northwest Legion's defensive line. In previous battles with humans, their tactics had been highly effective: close in at high speed, fire arrows within range, and then quickly retreat.
But they soon discovered that the range of the human army's muskets far exceeded that of their bows.
The short bows used by the cavalry had an effective range of only 50 to 80 meters, but when the Orc cavalry closed to about 200 meters, the Northwest Legion's infantry had already begun to raise their muskets and take aim.
"Prepare—"
The Orc cavalry was now about 100 meters from the human formation.
"First rank, fire!"
The volley of flintlock muskets roared like thunder, the lead bullets whistling through the air and instantly piercing the leather armor of the front-line cavalry. Horses whinnied and fell, riders were thrown, and the charging formation was immediately disrupted. The Orc mounted archers hadn't even had time to loose a single arrow before suffering heavy casualties outside the range of the muskets.
The Northwest Legion's infantry maintained a continuous barrage with a three-rank rotation, the lead bullets penetrating the Orc cavalry's armor. The horses, driven by momentum, charged forward a few more steps before collapsing. The charging cavalry seemed to crash into an invisible wall, falling in droves under the hail of bullets.
However, the Orc cavalry under Abal's direct command was exceptionally fierce. The riders behind endured the gunfire and continued their charge, hastily unleashing a volley of arrows.
"Grapeshot, fire!"
At that moment, dozens of cannons roared in unison. What erupted from their muzzles were not solid shots, but a deadly rain of grapeshot.
Thousands of lead pellets swept across the charging cavalry in a fan-shaped arc. The front row of warhorses was instantly torn apart, their flesh and blood flying in all directions, and the momentum of the charge was abruptly halted. The dense formation of Orc cavalry became a living target, and wherever the metal pellets passed, cries of agony filled the air.
(End of the Chapter)
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