Translator: CinderTL
At the same time, the Northwest Legion's cavalry, led by their officers, followed closely behind.
Though well-trained, most of these new recruits had little experience in actual cavalry combat. They were both tense and excited, gripping their reins tightly as they followed the veteran soldiers' charge.
The humans' aggressive advance clearly caught the Orc cavalry off guard.
The tide of battle shifted in an instant. The retreating Orc cavalry was not without a fight. Several Centurions roared amidst the chaos, rallying their troops to reform their ranks. They knew that fleeing blindly would only make them easy targets for the human cavalry.
"Warriors of Zarg! Turn and face the enemy!"
An Orc officer with a face full of scars raised his bloodstained scimitar high. Dozens of riders immediately converged around him. With practiced skill, they spun their horses around mid-gallop, forming a wedge formation—the prairie cavalry's most effective last-ditch counterattack tactic.
Earl Hal Duke immediately sensed the danger and raised his longsword to warn his troops.
But before he could issue a counter-order, a deafening cannon blast erupted from behind the human lines.
The whistling shells soared over the heads of the pursuing human cavalry, their deadly shrieks tearing through the air as they slammed into the gathering Orc formation.
The artillery shells landed among the Orc lines. One shell struck the Orc Centurion's mount directly, obliterating the horse's upper body. The resulting spray of blood and flesh, combined with the rolling shells, instantly shattered the newly formed counterattack formation.
"Artillery, extend your range!"
In the sky, the sentinels in the observation balloon continuously corrected the artillery's trajectory with flag signals. A second barrage followed swiftly, this time using airburst exploding shells.
The shells detonated just ten meters above the Orc cavalry's heads, unleashing a rain of pre-fragmented shrapnel that pinned both Orcs and their horses to the ground.
"Excellent work!" Schroeder roared with laughter, his gray-white beard stained with gunpowder smoke. "Keep pursuing them! Don't give them a moment's respite!"
The Orc cavalry commanders finally realized how futile their counterattack had been. They attempted to flee, but it was too late.
Hal Duke's Sentinel Riders swept forward like a whirlwind, while the retreating Orc cavalry found themselves trapped in a desperate predicament.
Their horses were already gasping for breath, foam spilling from their mouths. The long detour, failed ambush, and desperate flight had completely exhausted the prairie warhorses.
"Faster! Faster!" An Orc Centurion kicked desperately at his mount's flanks, but the once-magnificent chestnut horse now felt as heavy as lead, its pace slowing with each stride. He glanced back in terror to see human cavalry closing in at an astonishing speed.
This was the result of Alden's "Scientific Breeding Program."
The warhorses of the Northwest Ranch combined the endurance of Northern Highland Horses, the speed of Southern Plains Horses, and the explosive power of other breeds. Guided by the Laws of Heredity and carefully selected over generations, these warhorses were not only robust but also possessed incredible stamina.
"For Watchers Fortress!"
Earl Hal Duke roared, his black warhorse's hooves flying like the wind, its muscles rippling beneath its glossy coat like waves. The Earl's beloved steed, named "Thunder," was showcasing its overwhelming speed advantage.
The Orc cavalry watched in despair as the distance between them and their pursuers rapidly closed. Some attempted to turn and fire arrows, but their exhausted mounts offered no stable platform, and their arrows fell haphazardly into the dust.
Others drew their curved swords, preparing for a final stand, but the human cavalry had already flanked them, encircling them like a tidal wave.
The elite Sentinel Riders charged into the fray first. Rather than engaging in close combat, they used their superior speed to weave through the Orc lines, scattering the fleeing Orc cavalry. The Northwest recruits following behind then paired up, skillfully encircling and eliminating isolated enemies.
The Northwest Legion's cavalry surged with renewed morale. Maintaining a loose yet orderly formation, they herded the scattered Orc light cavalry toward a predesignated kill zone like sheepdogs driving a flock.
Desperation gripped the Orc cavalry. Escape was no longer possible; they could only be slowly whittled down by the human cavalry's relentless encirclement.
Hal Duke led the charge, his longsword flashing in the cold light as he cleaved an Orc rider from his mount. The Sentinel Riders, like a sharp blade, sliced through the already chaotic Orc ranks, completely shattering their formation.
"Don't let them escape!" the Earl's voice echoed across the battlefield, reminding the recruits, "Remember your training! Thrust! Retreat! Maintain formation!"
The recruits were initially clumsy, but quickly found their rhythm in the heat of battle. Working in pairs and trios, they used their numerical advantage to encircle and eliminate isolated Orc riders.
Many human cavalrymen even successfully employed the "return fire" tactic—turning in their saddles at the moment they passed an enemy rider and firing their Flintlock Musket, the lead bullet shattering the Orc's back.
From a distant hilltop, Abal watched the scene unfold, his nails digging deep into his palm. The prairie cavalry archery tactics he had once been so proud of seemed utterly useless against the humans' new weapons and tactics.
This light cavalry force, carefully selected for its mobility to outflank the enemy, was being slaughtered like rabbits.
Even more terrifying, Abal had a growing suspicion—this was far from the humans' full strength.
Seeing his light cavalry suffering heavy casualties under the enemy's pursuit, Abal could no longer remain idle.
He drew his battle saber with a furious roar, his bronze face twisted in rage. "All units, turn! Rescue our warriors!"
The main Orc army began to change direction, tens of thousands of iron-clad riders kicking up a massive cloud of dust.
But just then, a stirring brass horn call erupted from the Northwest Legion's ranks. Each note pierced the Orcs' hearts like a blade.
"Advance!" Paul commanded, and the Northwest Legion began its general advance.
The deep blue infantry line surged forward like a rising tide, soldiers marching in perfect step to the steady drumbeat. The bayonets on their Flintlock Muskets glinted menacingly in the sunlight.
The soldiers held their rifles angled forward, their formation maintaining a suffocating sense of pressure even as they marched.
What terrified the Orcs most was that half of the cannons were advancing in tandem. These light field guns, each pulled by four horses, were followed by their crews jogging alongside. Every three hundred yards, they would halt and deploy, their dark muzzles always trained on the Orcish ranks.
"Maintain distance! Deploy at two hundred fifty yards!" the Artillery Commander shouted, his well-trained gunners able to reload even while marching, ready to fire at any moment.
Paul Grayman was determined to crush the Orc light cavalry that had audaciously outflanked his position. He would not allow Abal to rescue them.
Abal was forced to rein in his warhorse, facing a dilemma: if he continued to rescue the light cavalry, he would have to charge head-on into the advancing human infantry line and the artillery poised to fire at any moment. But if he stopped, the fleeing light cavalry would surely be annihilated.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The artillery of the advancing Northwest Legion began a barrage of warning shots. The cannonballs landed fifty yards ahead of the Orc main force, sending up plumes of earth that rained down like hail.
(End of the Chapter)
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