Translator: CinderTL
"Disengage from the humans!"
Under the command of the Orc Chieftain, the Orc warriors retreated reluctantly away from the Northwest Legion, though some among them felt a sense of relief.
Abal reined in his warhorse, his bronze-colored face as dark as iron.
He signaled for a withdrawal, but not a rout—the Orc army fell back like a receding tide, maintaining a relatively clear formation. They regrouped a kilometer and a half away, where only a few human cannons could reach them, and even those lacked accuracy at such a distance.
War banners fluttered, and drums thundered as the Orcs continued to gather their strength.
"They're not retreating; they're buying time."
Paul narrowed his eyes. Whatever tactics the enemy had in mind, as long as they weren't retreating, it suited his intentions perfectly.
He immediately ordered the entire army to switch from the defensive hollow square formation back to an offensive line, preparing to advance toward the retreating Orcs.
The well-trained soldiers quickly reformed their ranks, the bayonet thicket once again transforming into a steel defense line. The artillerymen took the opportunity to move their cannons forward, the dark muzzles of the guns now aimed directly at the main Orc force.
At that moment, a rapid brass horn sounded from high above—a signal of an enemy attack.
Everyone instinctively looked up—the sentry on the observation balloon was frantically waving signal flags.
"Enemy attack! From the rear!" the staff officer exclaimed in alarm.
Paul spun around, raising his telescope, and immediately spotted a rolling cloud of dust in the distance—a large force of Orc light cavalry was sweeping around the flanks of the Northwest Legion from behind, their hooves kicking up a storm of sand and dust.
During the earlier assault, the Orc cavalry had divided into three groups: the first wave of mounted archers, the second wave of heavy cavalry, and the third wave—the Orc light cavalry that had previously attacked the flanks of the Northwest Legion.
Seeing that the frontal assault had failed and the humans had formed a tough defensive formation, the Orc commander had made a decisive move. Under the cover of battlefield smoke, they had executed a wide flanking maneuver, waiting for the humans to withstand the frontal assault and then strike from the rear when the humans were least prepared.
"I've underestimated them again…" Paul felt he had still underestimated these barbarians.
The Orc Chieftain had used the main cavalry's fierce attack to draw all attention, while the real killing blow was this flanking force. Without the warning from the observation balloon, the Northwest Legion, caught in the midst of adjusting their formation with their backs to the enemy, would have faced unimaginable consequences.
"Turn the army around! Rear units to the front!" The command spread like lightning through the ranks.
Once again, the Northwest Legion demonstrated remarkable tactical discipline—the soldiers did not panic but rotated as precisely as gears in a machine. The front row knelt to reload, while the rear row stood ready with their rifles. Familiar with the rhythm of battle, the entire process was even faster than the previous formation change.
When the Orc light cavalry closed to within two hundred yards, they were met by half of the cannons that had already completed their turn—the other half remained on alert against the frontal Orc cavalry.
"Fire!"
"Grapeshot volley—fire!"
The crackle of gunfire accompanied the deafening roar of cannons. The charging cavalry line seemed to hit an invisible wall. The leading hundred riders were instantly thrown into chaos, horses and men tumbling to the ground. The following cavalry, unable to slow down in time, crashed into the carnage of fallen bodies and horses.
By then, the Northwest Legion's second volley was already prepared…
Abal watched from a distance as his tactics were dismantled, his fists clenched so tightly they creaked.
He gazed at that damned observation balloon high in the sky. This war no longer seemed like the familiar contest of the steppe warriors.
The Orc Chieftain's chest heaved violently, his bronze-colored face twisted with rage.
He stared fixedly at that monstrous thing suspended in the air—that damned, flying, indescribable object—like a mocking eye, coldly overlooking the entire battlefield.
"It's all because of that cursed thing!" As if without it, his cavalry would have surely succeeded in ambushing the humans from the rear.
He gnashed his teeth, his rough fingers nearly snapping the reins.
The first time he saw the humans' hot air balloon, he had instinctively felt uneasy. The eagles of the steppe could spot a hare from miles away, and this floating monstrosity in the sky—couldn't it see the movements of the entire army?
But he chose to ignore this unease. The Shamans said it was just a human trick, and Otasi also claimed that no sorcery could keep such a large object aloft for long.
And now? That fabric bag not only floated but also exposed his tactics, sending his finest cavalry to their deaths in vain!
"Chieftain, the Tuke Clan on the left flank is starting to stir!" The urgent shout of his guard brought him back to reality. Abal turned and saw that a clan's cavalry formation had indeed become disordered. Those warriors, known for their ferocity, seemed restless—it was the Tuke warriors, renowned for their bravery!
Further away, the light cavalry attempting a flanking maneuver had already fallen into chaos. The humans' cannons seemed to have eyes, specifically targeting the assembling troops. Those warriors who were supposed to deliver a fatal blow from the rear were now being mowed down by crossfire like grass.
"Sound the horn! Order them to retreat!"
Abal ground out the command through clenched teeth. He had to regroup his forces.
"Woo—"
The deep, resonant sound of the Beast Bone Horn echoed across the battlefield, carrying with it a sense of frustration and urgency. It was Abal's signal for retreat. The Orc light cavalry, who had been trying to outflank the humans, immediately turned their horses and retreated like a receding tide.
"Grayman!" Earl Hal Duke of the Watchers Legion rode up, his silver-gray armor stained with Orc blood—the cavalry had not been idle during the recent battle.
The Earl's eyes remained as sharp as an eagle's. "Those retreating Orc cavalry are at their most vulnerable now. Their situation is extremely precarious—far from the main force, their morale is shattered, and their formation has become loose due to the failed ambush. I request permission to lead the Sentinel Riders in pursuit. We cannot let them retreat so easily!"
Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder nodded in agreement with his old friend. "Indeed, our new cavalry recruits need real combat experience. This is a perfect opportunity to let them see some blood."
Paul pondered briefly, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield—the Orc main force was still to the north, their formation intact, but the light cavalry on the southern flank, having failed in their maneuver, had become isolated.
"Very well, order the cavalry to attack!" he commanded in a deep voice. "But remember, do not stray too far from the cannon's protective range. If any new Orc forces appear, retreat immediately."
Hal Duke grinned, spurred his horse back to his troops, drew his sword, and shouted, "Watchers, follow me in the charge!"
The Sentinel Riders, who had long been unable to contain their eagerness, roared in unison, their warhorses neighing and their iron hooves thundering like a storm. This elite cavalry, rebuilt from the remnants of the original Watchers Fortress, harbored a deep-seated hatred for the Orcs. Like arrows released from a bow, they charged straight at the retreating Orc light cavalry.
(End of the Chapter)
---
📖Read (FF) on Pa.treon@CinderTL - c908. [+1]
🔑Early Access at $5.
✍Translated (6) Series, (3.6K+) Chapters, (5.1M+) Words.