"Charge!" Almost simultaneously, Lehman's voice erupted in a shout.
Levin stared in shock at Lehman Hoss as he fell from his horse. The back of his head had completely exploded, revealing a red-and-white sticky substance. The shattered helmet lay aside, its top pierced by a bowl-sized hole, seemingly offering no protection whatsoever.
"Charge! Charge all of you!" Then Leven's voice rang out.
No, I didn't say a word! Leven covered his mouth and looked back. The militiamen had already eagerly swallowed their pills and started running, as if a human wall was charging toward him.
It was Witch. He realized he was imitating his voice. "Stop! Everyone, stop!" he shouted.
Yet this voice was like a tiny splash in the surging crowd. Some stopped at his command, but more pressed on.
"Quick, charge! Break through the enemy's defenses and seize the town!" It wasn't just his voice—Dorn and the other Knights' cries echoed in unison, drowning out all the commotion like a thunderous roar in their ears.
The team erupted in a chorus of shouts, as if obeying the order. The crowd chanted the slogan "Pillage" in unison, though it was unclear who had started it, the cry soon echoed through the entire unit. The situation was completely out of control. Levin's shouts were drowned out by the frenzied roars of the crowd. He had to exert all his strength to control the horses, lest he be swept away by the surging tide. The militiamen, as if losing their minds, surged toward the center of the road.
No, that's not right. They're inherently irrational, especially when guided. After taking the drug, they enter a state of extreme agitation, and any act of violence only fuels their aggression. At first, some avoided the fallen Reman, but soon everyone began trampling over his corpse. Levin tried to find Dorn and the others, only to discover they had been scattered by the crowd. With no other choice, he followed the group's direction toward the woods. If he suddenly turned his horse sideways, the militia—now several times stronger—would likely knock him down, making it impossible to recover.
Levin stepped out of the group and scanned the area, intent on finding the Witch who had caused the chaos and tearing her to pieces. To him, this was undoubtedly the Witch's scheme!
The 1,500 pill-takers swarmed toward the town's defenses like a swarm of bees. For Prince, this was a deadly assault. Even with their overwhelming numbers of modern weapons, they couldn't withstand such a massive force. The outcome was inevitably dire. With both sides suffering losses, it was clearly a scenario Witch would delight in. That's why she meddled, luring the army into advancing recklessly.
"The Witch who killed Lehman and caused chaos must be different," he said, glancing at the handful of militiamen standing at the front—those who had witnessed Lehman's fall and heard his' stop 'command. Yet, compared to the vast army, fewer than thirty were closing in. "One must conceal her form, the other mimic her voice. A Witch can't have both abilities. I'll tear her throat open myself!"
Through the firing window, Brian could see the enemy drawing closer, and gunfire had already erupted from the bunker at the front.
His defensive position was at the center of the diamond-shaped formation, and he had to wait until the enemy passed the purple marker by the road before firing—a wait that made him anxious.
Stepping to the opposite window, Brian gazed into the distance where white smoke billowed from the artillery positions, and thunderous explosions echoed across the battlefield. They were the first to mobilize, their twelve-pound guns covering nearly the entire front. If you listened closely, you could even hear the whistling of shells slicing through the air.
"Good grief, they're sprinting like crazy!" "Look at that guy—his hand severed by artillery still charging ahead." "Your Highness is absolutely right, isn't this even human? They're just like demonic beasts." Since the First Army had been briefed during pre-battle mobilization that the enemy were all madmen who'd taken the Church's mind-altering pills, their charge through the hail of bullets didn't intimidate them at all. In fact, it only fueled their fighting spirit—after all, the First Army had been forged in combat against demonic forces.
"Captain, they are coming!" someone warned.
Brian rushed back to his post and positioned the rifle by the window. The new weapon issued by Your Highness represented a quantum leap compared to the flintlock rifles that required reloading after each shot. He could fire five rounds in one continuous burst, toss the magazine to the rear recruits, and then reload the remaining five rounds—by which time the recruits would likely have already loaded their ammunition.
However, Your Highness had stressed during training that this method of fire suppression should only be used when the enemy was within 100 to 50 meters. For long-range shooting, accuracy must be maximized, as the production of bullets for revolver rifles is highly complex, and each soldier's supply is limited.
Brian couldn't help but agree. The copper casings for loading gunpowder were uniformly tapered at the front and broad at the back, all identical in design. A blacksmith could never create such precision work; he knew it must have been the Witch's doing. As usual, everyone collected spent cartridge cases and handed them to the blacksmith, with reloading drills following every shooting session. Now, a group gathered in the camp center, meticulously inserting primers, gunpowder, and bullets into the provided casings to assemble new rounds. Thus, he too was reluctant to waste ammunition on targets that were unlikely to hit.
When the enemy crossed the purple marker, Brian took a deep breath. "Free fire!" The soldiers had been waiting for this order for ages. They couldn't wait to pull the trigger on their well-aimed targets, and the bunker was instantly filled with gunfire. The first enemy to cross the line of fire was struck by a volley of bullets from both sides. Blood gushed from their waists as they stumbled two steps before collapsing to the ground. Though clearly more resilient than ordinary soldiers, they were still helpless against the heavy-caliber bullets.
Brian noticed several men climbing onto the top of the front bunker, attempting to ambush the soldiers inside from behind. A thick iron door blocked their path. Without hesitation, he turned his gun and took out each of these exposed attackers one by one. The bunker's diamond formation was designed to provide mutual cover, ensuring that any enemy attempting to flank would be crushed by the rear bunker's firepower.
"Be careful, throw the spear!" suddenly someone shouted.
Brian saw a dense mass of dark shadows emerge from the center of the enemy main force, soaring over the highest point before plunging down toward the bunker clusters on both sides.
The distance must be two to three hundred meters! Instinctively, he ducked his head into the pit, hearing a series of crackling sounds overhead. After the attack, he straightened up and noticed not a single short spear had been thrown into the fortress. The situation was similar in the bunker ahead—only a few spears were stuck in the wall, like solitary feathers.
"It looks scary, but it's useless," the crowd said with a laugh.
At that very moment, Brian spotted an enemy advancing toward his bunker through a cloud of flying dust. He instantly bent down, hurled his short spear backward, and was struck down by the barrage of bullets the moment the weapon left his hand.
"Look down!" Before his warning had even faded, the spear had pierced through the shooting window, striking a marksman in the chest. The marksman let out a muffled groan and collapsed onto the ground.