When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#541 - Battle of the Laper River (Part 2)

Standing on the mound, Delavan gradually clenched the hem of his clothes with his drooping hands.

The Church army rushing down from the hillside was not in good order, but every ten or twenty steps, a ball of light would fly up and land in the formation.

The Land Servants, as the most elite troops, walked at the rear, with the knights guarding the flanks.

At the very front were the recruited guards and armored sergeants.

Their faces were flushed purple, their eyes were bloodshot, and the white vapor exhaled from their mouths even carried a trace of blood.

Of course, Delavan couldn't see these details; all he saw was the unusually fast speed of the charging guards.

Almost in the blink of an eye, they crossed a distance of three to four hundred meters, wielding their weapons and charging towards the river beach.

The whistling sound rang out again, still from the clockwork bombs, but this time there were monks in the enemy's ranks, and they quickly dispelled the interference with blessings.

Only a dozen or twenty with weaker constitutions suffered nerve damage and fell to the ground on the spot.

"Delavan, are you watching the market? Come push the ballista!" the old quartermaster's angry roar sounded, pulling Delavan back to reality.

"Coming."

The quartermasters struggled to push the ballista, and under the command of the sweating astrologer, they gradually changed its direction.

Flames began to gather on the staff, and a huge fireball gathered on the ballista.

Disturbed by the cold air, the fireball was noticeably smaller than in summer, but Delavan, who was supporting the ballista with his shoulder, still had his forehead hair singed.

The battle cries of the Church army in the distance reached his ears, and when they entered the one hundred and twenty-meter line, the astrologer slammed down the hammer.

Dozens of light flames streaked across the sky, and thick smoke, gravel, and mud splattered everywhere, engulfing hundreds of guards in the front row.

In the thick smoke, the firemen screamed and ran to both sides of the road, rolling in the snow, and then fainted in the snow from respiratory failure.

Some of the guards in the back row had already begun to flee, but were pierced through the chest by greatsword masters and Land Servants.

Count Lyanna said with a dark face: "No retreat, not a single step back, they can't fire continuously, charge over now!"

Leading hundreds of cavalrymen to circle on both flanks, Lyanna constantly blocked and killed the fleeing soldiers in the back row, but he couldn't stop three to five hundred people from escaping, no matter how hard he tried.

"Enemy infantry formation, spread one step to the left, retreat and fire!"

The company commanders' commands and whistles sounded simultaneously, meaning that the enemy had entered the firing range within one hundred meters.

When one-third of the Church army's formation entered the hundred-meter line, the legion commanders waved the flags in their hands.

"Praise the Holy Wind!"

The charging formation instantly showed jagged indentations, and bursts of blood shot out from the holes in the armor.

The broken iron rings scattered all over the ground, unable to roll even in the icy mud.

When the shield-bearing infantry lowered their heads, they could only see light-transmitting holes in the sturdy leather-studded round shields.

At the same time, the second wave of fireballs and clockwork bombs fell from the sky again, starting to strike the army blocked behind the front army.

The Land Servants, on whom Lyanna had placed high hopes, did not perform well. Under a series of fireballs and lead bullets, they even retreated slowly.

Lead bullets, flames, banshee howls, whistling holy musket cavalry, flying lightning…

Under layers of heavy pressure, these infantrymen had only charged to the front of the position for less than three minutes before they were on the verge of collapse.

Lyanna knew that this battle was bound to be lost, but he didn't expect to lose so miserably.

"Go, we'll go support them."

This was a lie, Lyanna added in his heart. What he had to do now was not to support, but to perform.

He had already figured out that one hundred and fifty meters was the limit of the Devil's Wind.

As long as he charged outside this limit, he could show his attitude of fighting to the death without taking any risks.

Wasn't this a genius tactician?

Lyanna slowed down his horse at a distance of two hundred meters, smugly preparing to turn around and escape.

"Buzz—"

What was this sound?

A spark burst from Lyanna's neck, it was the sparks splashed when the lead bullet rubbed against the neck armor.

The worm-like pain in his throat made him open his mouth wide, but he couldn't shout.

Two broken throat bones and blood flowed out along the holes in the neck armor.

"Ah—嗝—"

Lyanna covered his neck with his iron-gloved hand in shock and anger, but he couldn't stop the loss of life at all, he could only barely save his life by relying on the ninth-level breathing technique.

Unfortunately, he lost his mind for a moment and couldn't control his warhorse, so the warhorse carried him into the firing range of the holy musket.

A Church soldier clutching his heart in pain was originally kneeling on the side of the road gasping for breath, but at this moment he suddenly stood up and shouted viciously:

"The knight covering his neck is Count Lyanna of Malay!"

Several Church soldiers next to him also shouted: "The knight covering his neck is Lyanna!"

At least dozens of holy muskets were immediately aimed at this Count, and those close knights didn't even have time to rescue him before they heard a series of crisp clangs.

Seven or eight jets of blood spurted out from Count Lyanna's body, and he curled up in pain.

Glaring hatefully at those soldiers, Lyanna gritted his teeth and freed one hand to pull the reins, still wanting to escape.

But a dozen skirmishers with spiral muskets ran out of the forest in large strides, aiming at his head in unison.

Fifteen lead bullets roared out, grazing the saddle, scabbard, battle flag and heraldic shield, hitting Lyanna's internal organs and limbs, blowing off his fingers and half of his ear.

Only one accurately penetrated the helmet and shot through his head.

But that was enough.

The scattered brain matter and blood flowed down along the helmet, and the Count's stiff corpse began to charge on horseback.

After being hit by several more muskets, he fell off his horse.

This titled knight with strong personal martial power only launched one charge after his death, and fell into the mud inexplicably.

With Count Lyanna being headshot by a spiral musket, this small-scale battle came to an end.

After Count Lyanna died, most of the knights began to flee.

After the effects of the medicine wore off, the soldiers who had not yet died suddenly either lay down on the ground like a mess waiting for first aid, or ran desperately back to the camp to retrieve their belongings.

Behind the hills, there were chasing rangers and fleeing Church soldiers everywhere.

Some of the Guards monks were even a little at a loss. Compared with the arduous battles of their predecessors, their battle was too easy.

However, when the Kush rangers escorted the prisoners back, they all burst into deafening cheers in unison.

"May the Holy Father bless us, we have won."

"May the Holy Lord's power be bestowed, may the Holy Son be forever healthy."

"We won! We won!" Standing on the mound, although it was far away, it didn't prevent Delavan from raising his hands and celebrating together.

The old quartermaster stroked the ballista with a bitter face, and replied perfunctorily: "Okay, I know..."

"We won, we won!" Although he didn't know how they won, it didn't prevent Delavan from being excited.

"On the battlefield, never let your guard down at any time." Grabbing Delavan's collar, the old quartermaster said sternly, "Prepare yourself, let's move the ballista—"

A smear of hot blood splashed on Delavan's cheek.

He blinked his eyes, looking blankly at the old quartermaster, not even reacting.

At this time, an arrow was stuck in the old quartermaster's forehead, and the tail of the arrow was even trembling slightly.

I don't know which knight shot desperately before his death, and actually flew such a long distance.

"Hey, Old Captain? Old Captain!"

Delavan stepped forward and helped the collapsing old quartermaster, but when he looked down to ask, he only saw a pair of cloudy and lifeless eyes.

"Hey, hey! Old Captain..."

Taking the old quartermaster's identity wooden tag to find the provost marshal, Delavan pointed to the old quartermaster's body on the flatbed behind him with a complicated expression.

The medics and the provost marshal stepped forward to confirm, leaving him alone standing alone in the crowd.

The sun dyed the white snow red, and the war monks under the sunset shouted victory, Delavan was both sad and happy.

Perhaps this is what the old quartermaster said, for the commander, everything is certain, for the people in the war, everything is random.

Taking a deep breath, he took out a small notebook from his arms and wrote down the last lesson the old quartermaster taught him—

The cautious never take off their helmets.

Closing the small notebook, he picked up a handful of snow and smeared it on his face, wiped away his tears, and ran towards the celebrating crowd.

"Victory! We won! We won!"