Chapter 49: The Battle Was Not Over

The battle did not pause in the slightest because of the soldiers’ deaths. Not long after the first round of brief and bloody probing clashes ended, the Winstons launched another power ful offensive.

This time, they chose our left flank—that was Riley’s position.

The enemy deployed two mixed infantry phalanxes, arranged in a conservative and rigorous formation. On the outermost sides of each phalanx—left, right, and front—stood Heavy Infantry soldiers holding tall tower shields. These towering soldiers used their own bodies to form an unbreakable defensive line on the outside of the formation. Spears thrust out from behind them, their tips gleaming with a shocking cold light, as if they were eager to taste blood.

Inside the phalanxes were small columns made up of archers and Light Infantry. When a phalanx came into contact with the enemy, the Light Infantry stood ready to charge out of the formation to meet the enemy, while the archers shot their deadly arrows and bolts at the opponent from within the phalanx.

Such a phalanx was a classic example of foot soldiers coordinating with one another. Under suitable conditions, it could even face an equal number of cavalry head-on without falling into the slightest disadvantage.

The key to whether this phalanx could fulfill its role was whether the formation could remain stable amid the violent collisions of the battlefield. Once a gap was torn open in any direction, such a phalanx would collapse in an instant.

I had no doubt at all that our enemies would do very well in this regard, because they had an outstanding commander. He wore a set of knight’s armor that was both splendid and eye-catching yet not lacking in practicality. Riding a tall warhorse, he issued command after command to adjust the formation. Although his helmet covered his head and face, I still recognized him from his armor and his build.

He was an old acquaintance—Duke Uthers de Rivera, General of the Winston Empire, former commander-in-chief of the central army of the southern expedition, a general who had once crossed paths with Fred beneath the walls of Kampnavia.

Fred’s assessment of him was: “A textbook commander.”

That assessment meant that he might not be able to elevate his intelligence to the level of grand strategy, nor seize the fleeting opportunities in battle and decide victory with a single, cleverer, and more decisive strike. But on the other hand, his discipline and steadiness in commanding troops were beyond what ordinary generals could compare with. You could never expect him to make any fatal mistake in his command.

The only thing that puzzled me was this: such a phalanx did not seem suitable here. Although I had never received formal military education, nearly two years of combat knowledge told me that this attack formation had one fatal weakness—its speed was extremely slow. To maintain the integrity of the formation, the soldiers had to sacrifice most of their advancing speed. And when surrounded by superior forces and forced to break out in order to survive, wasn’t slow speed exactly the weakness they should have discarded first?

The battle did not give me time to think. The two armies soon reached a distance where bows and arrows could take effect. Against the Winstons’ tall shields, only a few arrows caused them slight losses. Likewise, Riley, who excelled at defense, was well prepared for such ranged attacks. The actual effect of the Winstons’ arrow fire was even smaller than I had estimated.

This feeble ranged attack did not last long. When the two armies began to fight at close quarters and engage face to face, life began to show how cheap it was. Blades clashed against one another with sharp “clang, clang” sounds. Many bodies went limp beneath this symphony of death and lost consciousness forever. And this was only the beginning of a slaughter.

After the clumsy mutual grinding of the initial contact, the gears of war received enough blood as lubricant to keep turning. The two armies were locked together in intricate entanglement. Where they meshed most tightly, anguished screams constantly rang out, singing of the immense pain of sharp metal cutting through flesh and taking away breath.

Defense—that was what Riley excelled at. In positional defense, his tactics were different from everyone else’s. He never thought of forging a watertight defensive line that would make the opponent linger before it for a long time without finding a chance to break through. His approach was purely against tradition. To sum it up in two simple words:

Compensation.

Riley’s defensive line often had obvious gaps for the opponent to use as breakthrough points—this was not necessarily a trap he had intentionally left. It was just that he, who had never received formal tactical education, was unlikely to set up a flawless and perfect defensive formation—although he never admitted it. But when his opponents thought they had seized the opportunity and lunged at these so-called “gaps,” they would find that they had run into a brick wall.

Because behind Riley’s defensive line was a mobile unit that could mend the gaps in time. Under Riley’s extraordinarily keen observation and decisive command, this unit formed a moving shield on the battlefield, always able to appear in time at the breakthrough point that needed mending. Generally speaking, opponents who did not know the truth would have their formation thrown into disorder by this unexpected stubborn resistance, and would be the first to collapse before this defensive line that “could repair and evolve itself.”

“There is no perfect defensive line, but all weaknesses can be compensated for. Rather than fussing over the tidiness of the formation, it is more practical to respond to unknown attacks with flexibility.” That was Riley’s theory of positional defense. As long as there was no overwhelming advantage, this theory seemed workable against any enemy that tried to force its way through the defense.

But now, Riley’s defensive line was undergoing a great test.

Under Duke Rivera’s command, the two infantry phalanxes moved like two mobile small fortresses, advancing slowly and tenaciously to the front of the position. They did not seem eager to find a breakthrough point. Instead, like two heavy hammers, they kept pounding forward, pressing the front ranks of the defensive line backward without stop. If Riley had always adhered to a “point-to-point” defense, then Duke Rivera was displaying a “face-to-face” attack.

Under such slow and powerful pressure, Riley’s “patch-style mobile defense” could not play its intended role at all. At this moment, his inherent shortcomings in tactics and experience gradually revealed themselves before the opponent: scattered formations, poor combat quality of the soldiers, and an inability to make good use of the superior forces in his hands. If not for the fact that the opponent was limited by its formation and advanced very slowly, Riley’s position would probably have already collapsed.

“Hold the formation!” Riley’s voice came from the chaotic ranks, carrying a trace of desperate anger. He was still leading his mobile unit to move rapidly behind the defensive line, but I could see that he was only barely delaying the collapse of the formation. He had already done very well, showing a keenness and steadiness far beyond what soldiers of his age usually possessed, but that was still not enough. No matter how brave a warrior he was, he was still just a young man in his early twenties. Facing a situation he could hardly turn around on his own, he had probably already reached his limit in doing what he did.

Riley, who had once built the “line that refused life” on the city walls of Kampnavia, was utterly defeated in this contest against Duke Rivera.

Fred would not let such an unfavorable situation continue. Sure enough, at the most critical moment when the left flank was under the greatest pressure, Red Flame led his Light Cavalry out from the central main formation and circled toward the rear of Duke Rivera’s phalanxes. His arrival promptly stopped the collapse of the left flank. The two mixed phalanxes gave up their erosion of the left flank at the same time, slowly retreated, and shifted their main attack target to Red Flame’s Light Cavalry. Even when retreating, the Winstons’ pace remained orderly and steady. The two phalanxes showed a tacit understanding of mutual cover as they advanced and withdrew. Duke Rivera’s excellent control over the formation at this moment could not help but make us battlefield novices admire him, even though he was our mortal enemy in this battle.

The two infantry phalanxes, adhering to the principle of seeking only to avoid mistakes, withstood Red Flame’s assault. At this time, Red Flame’s Light Cavalry indeed had no good way to deal with these cunning enemies. In order to cover the reorganization of the left flank, he had to keep entangling with these tenacious opponents. And this was exactly what the Winstons wanted to see.

The Winstons on the other side suddenly burst into earth-shaking roars. Except for the Heavy Cavalry and a small number of troops that did not move, the rest of the forces—Light Cavalry in front, infantry formations behind—charged all at once toward Fred’s central main formation. Their timing was just right: Red Flame was at this moment entangled by Duke Rivera and could not attend to anything else, and he could not easily leave before the left flank regained order. The central main formation, having lost its cavalry protection, was unprecedentedly weak. Choosing this place as the breakthrough point was no longer simply a matter of breaking out of encirclement. Perhaps, even at this moment, Crown Prince Louis, who had never shown himself in the enemy formation, still had not given up his thirst for victory.

For the first time, I lost confidence in Fred’s judgment. The opponent’s grasp of the battle situation and persistence in seeking victory were far beyond what I had imagined. Facing such a powerful opponent, could Fred still continue his legend and lead us to honor and victory?

I did not know. I did not dare to guess.

“Assemble the troops.” I gave the order to the guards behind me. I had more than a thousand soldiers under my command responsible for logistics transport and security, including eight hundred cavalry. That was all the force I could mobilize. If at the most critical moment I could use them to buy Fred even an instant of breathing time, I would do so without hesitation.

At the foot of the slope, the battle had already begun. The Winstons’ strategy from the very start had determined that this would not be a prolonged battle. The enemy cavalry let out impassioned war cries. After shooting their last arrows at us, they rode in columns across the defensive ditches and palisades and plunged into our formation like sharp knives. In the process, many of them were thrown from their horses and left this mad world before gaining any military merit or honor.

I did not doubt that this was the Winstons’ desperate, life-staking strike. An infantry officer who rushed forward right behind the cavalry shouted harshly at his subordinates: “Throw away your shields! Only by killing the enemy can you keep your lives!” In the instant he turned his head, a sharp crossbow bolt pierced his lower abdomen. He roared in agony, swung his blade and cut down two Delanmaya soldiers blocking his way, then bravely charged forward dozens more steps. At last, because of the intense pain and blood loss, he fell to the ground, spewing large amounts of blood from his mouth. Even until this moment, he still crawled forward stubbornly and slowly, until he could no longer move at all.

So we were fighting against such a tenacious opponent!

This thought made me feel weak.

Soon, the first defensive line was broken through, and then the second. Now, before Fred, only the last two ranks of Heavy Infantry stood in the way. This defensive line was commanded by Carlson, who desperately held the Winstons’ offensive at the outer edge. Carlson had picked up his two-handed greatsword again and was active in this human hell littered with severed limbs, in a posture we were familiar with.

“Die here, or become a hero!” He shouted slogans I had never heard before, showing us his heroic side, but I was not unfamiliar with his performance. He was a true soldier, with the sense of responsibility of an officer. In an irretrievable situation, he would never let his soldiers die for nothing. But if there was still a possibility, still a chance of victory, he would never retreat.

But one man’s bravery could not save the whole situation after all. Just as Carlson was wielding his greatsword with his body stained all over in blood, the Heavy Infantry formation, which had only briefly halted the enemy’s advance, began to slowly retreat. The Winstons were now so close to Fred that they seemed within arm’s reach.

Just when I thought I had no choice but to use the last bit of force in my hands to win my friend a little more time, Fred drew his “Ink Shadow.” A few horn blasts rang across the battlefield and also awakened my memory.

I should not have forgotten that silent companion, Roll.

On the ground the Winstons had trampled, dim figures rose up. They were Roll and his “Ghost Daggers”—his death-defying force.

A feeling that was neither cold nor warm stirred in my heart: Roll had resorted to his old trick again.

At some unknown point, Roll and his “ghosts” had once again slipped into the most intense part of the battlefield, quietly lurking in the most dangerous places beneath the enemies’ feet, waiting for the horn that would summon them. When the horn sounded, the Winstons discovered that every corpse they had stepped over could take their lives.

Whether it was the contest of will between the Light Cavalry and Rodrick, the tactical struggle between Duke Rivera and Riley, or the wild charge of the Winstons—compared with the battle at this moment, they all seemed far too civilized.

Several hundred soldiers who were usually quiet and taciturn were cruelly slaughtering their own kind. Yes, I said slaughter. Even when it came to the enemy, I could not bear to watch such a scene: they seemed to be truly resurrected undead zombies, not treating the Winston soldiers before them as intelligent beings at all. Or rather, they did not even regard themselves as lives with feelings. When the battle permitted them a moment to catch their breath, they could impale the eyeballs of already-dead enemies on their daggers, could crazily hack off the joints of their opponents. Roll could even use his short sword to hook out the opponent’s intestines, drag them out, bring them to his mouth and bite them off, and then face his enemy with his mouth full of flesh and blood.

This was the effect that Roll and his “Ghost Daggers” wanted to achieve: not merely to kill the enemy, but to make the enemy feel fear. To achieve this goal, they would even do things that made even themselves feel fear. Those honest people who had suppressed the brutality deep in their hearts would become truly dangerous once they found an outlet to vent it.

The battle situation changed because of this group of warriors who had stepped beyond the ordinary.

When the Winstons began to panic, the situation began to change. First, Dakla and his Heavy Infantry formation launched a charge at the right time. He and his warriors were always the main force that swept away the enemy at the last critical moment. Although their heavy weapons were not suited for prolonged combat, they always delivered the most fatal blow to the opponent at critical times.

Next, Riley completed the reorganization of his position. This time, he no longer considered the tidiness of the formation. Instead, he commanded a third of his men to charge into the midst of Duke Rivera’s phalanxes, replacing the anxious Red Flame. Now the situation between him and the Duke was reversed: he was no longer the defender blocking the opponent, but the attacker restraining the opponent. His flexibility and adaptability made it easy for him to accomplish this task.

Finally, when Red Flame’s cavalry formation began to turn back in support, the Winstons’ defeat and retreat were all but sealed. Even during their rapid retreat, their performance was still commendable. I had never heard of any army that, in the process of retreating after defeat, could still maintain a nearly one-to-one ratio of casualties with the opponent. But the battle-hardened Winstons managed to do so against our undisciplined soldiers. If we had not maintained an absolute numerical advantage from the very beginning, it would definitely have been us who were defeated.

I did not give the order to dismiss the troops. No one knew what would happen in the next moment. The Winstons had not failed yet. At least, their Heavy Cavalry had not been deployed.

The battle was not over, but blood had already flowed across the land. The thick smell of blood, with its hot and scorching sensation, stimulated the nerves all around. It seemed as if the earth was sighing, as if the air was burning.

“Did you hear it?” Poirot beside me suddenly spoke. He was not watching the battlefield where the cruel slaughter was taking place, but gazing at the sky above the battlefield—that stretch of clear blue sky.

“Hear what?” Millia asked. Her gaze remained fixed on the bodies that were groaning as they fell. In her usual cold and proud expression, there was also a rare trace of reluctance to bear the sight. Eliot stood at Poirot’s side, turning her head away, unwilling to watch the miserable scene on the battlefield.

“The voices of the dead.” Poirot looked into the air. A sorrowful expression flowed in his pupils, and his eyes were hazy.

“It is their mournful wailing of lingering attachment to life…”

There was wind.

It blew past.