Translator: CinderTL
As the iron hooves of the Orc Heavy Cavalry drew closer, the ground trembled slightly.
When the cavalry's front line was less than two hundred paces from the Northwest Legion's forward position, Paul decisively issued the command: "All units, change formation!"
In an instant, the entire Northwest Legion's formation moved like a precise machine. The well-trained infantry swiftly shifted, with the front-row soldiers splitting to both sides while the rear-row soldiers quickly filled the gaps.
Within a mere fifteen seconds, the original linear array transformed into eight neatly arranged hollow square formations.
Each square had three rows of soldiers on all four sides, with all flintlock muskets pointed outward. The forest of bayonets gleamed lethally under the sunlight. Inside the squares, officers and flag bearers stood at the center, ready to respond to threats from any direction.
Meanwhile, the artillerymen seized the last moments to unleash a furious barrage. The artillery commanders shouted hoarsely: "Load grapeshot! Rapid fire!"
Dozens of cannons roared in succession, spewing thousands of lead bullets like a torrential rain toward the approaching Orc cavalry. The riders and horses at the forefront were riddled with holes, while those behind were swept down by the flying shrapnel.
"Fire!" The artillerymen demonstrated astonishing reloading speed. Before the Orc cavalry could recover from the first round of strikes, another deadly volley of grapeshot roared out. This time, the shots were fired at an even closer range, resulting in even more devastating effects. The Orc cavalry's charging front line was immediately torn open in several places.
After completing these two deadly volleys, the gunners quickly sprang into action. They left the heavy cannons in place and only dragged the lightweight "Grasshoppers" back into the nearest infantry squares.
The infantrymen tacitly opened a path, allowing the artillery to enter safely before promptly closing the formation again. Thanks to the Northwest Legion's rigorous daily training, the entire process flowed seamlessly.
The Orc cavalry's charge lost all its momentum in the face of the Northwest Legion's tightly formed squares. When the horses reached within a dozen paces of the squares, these well-trained steppe horses suddenly came to an abrupt halt. No matter how their riders whipped and shouted, the horses refused to charge into the dense thicket of bayonets.
"Damn beasts! Charge!" An Orc Centurion furiously kicked his horse's belly, but his mount reared up in terror, then instinctively turned and began circling around the edge of the square.
This scene repeated itself in front of each square. The Orc cavalrymen circled helplessly around the Steel Hedgehog-like formations, completely unable to leverage the cavalry's charging advantage.
The Orcs had little experience dealing with such a situation, as in previous battles, the enemy infantry often routed before they could even reach the front lines. But these humans before them held their ground.
Inside the squares, the Northwest Legion soldiers remained composed. The officers calmly ordered: "Aim for the horses! Take down their mounts first!"
"Bang! Bang!" The sound of flintlock muskets firing rang out continuously. The inner layers of soldiers each had their roles—some focused on shooting, while others specialized in reloading.
The marksmen aimed at the tall steppe horses. Lead bullets pierced through the horses' necks and bellies, and one by one, the majestic steeds fell to their knees with mournful cries, throwing their Orc riders to the ground. Some Orcs, with broken legs, were unable to rise before being finished off by follow-up shots.
Many enraged Orc warriors dismounted, brandishing their weapons and charging into close combat with the human soldiers.
Private Second Class John, who had just fired his weapon, tightly gripped the slippery barrel of his musket, the bayonet tip still trembling slightly. He had just witnessed the tall Orc cavalryman rise from beside the horse he had shot down—the beast stood a full seven feet tall, with blood-flecked tusks.
"For Zarg!" the Orc roared as it charged, its heavy war blade descending with a deadly force. John and Tom beside him raised their muskets to block, the clash of metal ringing out sharply.
"Damn it! This guy's too strong!" Tom's face turned red with strain.
The Orc sneered, pressing its full weight into the attack, the blade inching closer to their throats. John could smell the overwhelming stench of blood and sweat on the creature, see the madness flickering in its bloodshot yellow eyes.
Just as the blade was mere inches from John's neck, a gunshot exploded beside him. The Orc's head burst like a ripe pumpkin, brain matter splattering across John's face. The headless body swayed for a moment before collapsing to the ground.
"Is that all you rookies got?" came the hoarse taunt of veteran Wilson from behind. John turned to see the grizzled old soldier deftly reloading his flintlock musket. "Next time, remember to thrust your bayonet upward. Holding it level like that, you couldn't even kill a chicken."
John realized his legs were shaking uncontrollably. He wiped the blood from his face and noticed that seven or eight Orc corpses already littered the ground around them. In the nearest corner of the formation, medics were bandaging a comrade whose abdomen had been slashed open, the blood soaking through the bandages.
"Don't just stand there! Reload if you've got the time!" the squad leader barked, kicking John in the rear. "The Orcs won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
The battlefield was a cacophony of war cries. The cold weapons wielded by the Orcs were far less efficient than the bullets of the humans, and the Northwest Legion maintained a firm grip on the advantage.
From a distance, Abal watched all this unfold, his hands gripping the reins so tightly they turned white. His proud heavy cavalry, which he had always boasted about, was utterly useless against these strange human formations. The formations looked so thin, so fragile.
The scales of victory were tipping in favor of the humans! Abal watched as his elite Royal Iron Cavalry was battered and bloodied before the human formations. Finally, he gritted his teeth and blew the horn for retreat.
The mournful sound of the horn echoed across the smoke-filled battlefield. The surviving Orc cavalry, as if granted a reprieve, quickly turned their horses and fled.
But the Northwest Legion wasn't about to let this golden opportunity slip by.
"Artillery, take your positions!"
At the command, the artillery crews, who had been hiding within the formations, sprang into action. The gunners quickly returned to their cannons.
With practiced ease, they set up the gun carriages, adjusted the angles, and loaded the ammunition—the entire process smooth and efficient.
"Range, four hundred yards!"
"Load bursting shells!"
The artillery commanders' shouts rang out one after another.
Just as the retreating Orc cavalry began to gather and attempt to reform their ranks, death descended upon them.
"Fire!"
Dozens of cannons roared in unison, a storm of metal hurtling toward the Orc cavalry.
The assembling cavalry was thrown into chaos, horses and riders tumbling, blood and flesh flying everywhere.
"Scatter! Scatter now!"
The Orcs shouted at the top of their lungs.
Shells exploded amidst the Orc army, once again disrupting the battle formation they had painstakingly formed.
"No!"
Abal and the commanders beside him were seething with anger. Most of them had never experienced a battle where they were so thoroughly suppressed.
(End of the Chapter)
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