CHAPTER 560: CHAPTER 538 BATTLE OF THE LAPPER RIVER (PART 2)

Standing on the mound, Delawan’s hanging hands gradually tightened around the hem of his clothes.

The ranks of the church army flowed down from the hillside in a disordered manner, but every few dozen steps, spheres of light would ascend and fall within the ranks.

The land servants, as the most elite, walked at the back, with knights pressuring each flank.

Leading at the front were the recruited guards and armored soldiers.

Their faces were flushed and purplish, eyes bloodshot, even the white steam from their mouths carried tinges of blood color.

Of course, this was something Delawan couldn’t see; he could only see the exceptionally swift speed of the charging guards.

In almost the blink of an eye, they crossed a distance of three to four hundred meters, gripping their weapons as they advanced toward the riverside.

The whistling sound rang out once more, still the clock rounds, but this time the enemy’s ranks included monks who quickly dispersed the interference using grace.

Only a dozen or so with weaker constitutions suffered nerve damage, collapsing on the spot.

"Delawan, you’re watching the market? Come push the crossbow cart!" The angry roar of the old service soldier brought Delawan back to reality.

"Coming."

The service soldiers laboriously pushed the crossbow cart, under the direction of the sweating astrologer, slowly altering its direction.

Flames began to gather on the magic staff, forming a massive fireball atop the crossbow cart.

Disturbed by the cold air, the fireball was noticeably smaller than in the summer, but Delawan, with his shoulder against the crossbow cart, still had his forehead hair singed.

In the distance, the battle cries of the church army reached his ears, as they entered within a hundred and twenty meters, the astrologer struck the hammer fiercely.

Dozens of beams tore through the sky, smoke, debris, and mud sprayed in all directions, and flames devoured over a hundred guards in the front row.

In the dense smoke, those engulfed by fire screamed as they ran along the roadsides, rolling in the snow incessantly until they exhausted their breaths and fainted on the ground.

Some guards from the rear had begun to flee, but were impaled through the chest by great swordsmen and land servants.

Count Layenna, with a dark expression: "Don’t retreat, not a step back, they can’t fire continuously, charge now!"

Swirling with hundreds of cavalry on the flanks, Layenna repeatedly stopped the fleeing soldiers in the rear, yet three to five hundred still escaped despite his efforts.

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

The brigade commanders’ orders and whistles sounded simultaneously, signaling that the enemy had entered the hundred-meter shooting range.

As a third of the church army’s ranks entered within the hundred-meter line, the legion commanders waved their flags.

"Praise the Holy Wind!"

The charging formations instantaneously formed staggered indentations, with explosive bursts of blood shooting from the gaps in the armor.

The shattered iron rings clattered down, unable to roll on the frost-like earth.

When the shield-bearing infantry lowered their heads, all they could see on the solid leather nailed round shields were transparent holes.

Simultaneously, the second wave of fireballs and clock rounds descended again, striking the troops blocked behind the front ranks.

The land servants, upon whom Layenna had pinned his hopes, did not perform well; amidst the barrage of fireballs and lead, they too began slowly retreating.

Lead shots, flames, banshee wails, whistling surrounded holy gun cavalry, speeding lightning...

Under layer upon layer of pressure, these infantry who had just charged onto the frontline reached the brink of collapse within three minutes.

Layenna realized this battle was destined to be lost, yet he hadn’t anticipated such a disastrous defeat.

"Let’s go, support them."

This was a lie, Layenna silently added to himself, he wasn’t going to support but to perform.

He had already grasped it, one hundred and fifty meters was the limit of the Devil’s Wind.

If he charged just outside this limit, he could demonstrate his determination to fight to the death without taking the risk.

Isn’t this what a genius tactician is?

Layenna, smugly slowing his horse at the 200-meter mark, was ready to turn and flee.

"Buzz—"

What’s this sound?

A burst of sparks exploded from Layenna’s neck, the result of lead and neck armor friction.

The worm-like gnawing pain in his throat made him open his mouth wide, but he couldn’t call out.

Two broken throat bones, along with blood, flowed out through the holes in the neck armor.

"Ah—hic—"

Layenna, both shocked and furious, clutched his neck with his iron-gloved hand, yet he couldn’t stop the loss of life and had to rely on the nine-section breathing technique to barely hold onto life.

Unluckily, he lost control of his warhorse for a moment, which carried him right into the range of the Holy Gun.

A church soldier, who had been kneeling by the roadside clutching his heart and gasping for breath, suddenly stood up and shouted venomously:

"The knight clutching his neck is Count Layenna!"

The nearby church soldiers likewise shouted: "The knight clutching his neck is Layenna!"

At least dozens of Holy Guns immediately aimed at the Count; those personal knights didn’t even have time to rescue him before a series of crisp dings could be heard.

Seven or eight blood arrows shot out from Count Layenna’s body, causing him to curl up in pain.

With a venomous gaze at those soldiers, Layenna gritted his teeth, freed a hand to grasp the reins, still wanting to escape.

But a dozen Helical Gun skirmishers took large strides out of the forest, aiming straight at his head.

Fifteen lead bullets whistled out, grazing saddle, scabbard, battle flag, and crest shield, plunging into Layenna’s internal organs and limbs, knocking off his fingers and half an ear.

Only one bullet precisely penetrated the helmet, piercing his head.

But that was enough.

Scattered brain matter and blood flowed down with the helmet. The count’s stiff corpse sat on horseback and began to charge.

After being hit by a few more shots, he fell off the horse.

The powerful titled knight launched just one charge after his death, collapsing inexplicably into the mud.

With Count Layenna being shot through the head by a Helical Gun, this small-scale battle was drawing to a close.

After Count Layenna’s death, most of the knights began to flee.

Once the medicine wore off, the soldiers who hadn’t suddenly died either fell to the ground like wasted bodies waiting for emergency care or ran for their lives back to camp to retrieve goods.

Behind the hillside, it was filled everywhere with pursuing rangers and fleeing church soldiers.

Some close guard cultivators even seemed perplexed; compared to the intense battles of their predecessors, this one felt too easy.

However, when the Kush Cavalry returned with prisoners, they all spontaneously burst into deafening cheers.

"Holy Father bless us, we have won."

"The Saint Master’s might rains, may the Saint’s Grandson always be healthy."

"Won! We’ve won!" Standing on the hillock, though far away, it didn’t stop Delawan from raising his hands in celebration.

The old service soldier stroked the ballista with a bitter face, replying perfunctorily: "Alright, got it..."

"Won, we’ve won!" Although he didn’t know how they’d won, it didn’t dampen Delawan’s excitement.

"On the battlefield, never let your guard down." Grabbing the collar of Delawan’s neck, the old service soldier earnestly admonished, "Get ready, let’s move the ballista—"

A splash of hot blood landed on Delawan’s cheek.

He blinked, looking blankly at the old service soldier, not realizing what had happened.

A stray arrow was lodged in the old service soldier’s forehead, the arrow’s tail still slightly quivering.

It was unclear which knight, desperately fired, had shot it such a great distance.

"Hey, old captain? Old captain!"

Delawan rushed forward to support the softening old service soldier, but when he looked down to inquire, all he saw was a pair of cloudy, lifeless eyes.

"Hey, hey! Old captain..."

Holding the identity tag of the old service soldier, Delawan pointed with a complex expression at the corpse on the cart behind him to the military judge.

The medics and military judge went to confirm, leaving him to stand alone in the crowd.

The sunlight dyed the white snow blood-red; under the sunset, the war monks shouted victory, while Delawan felt both sorrowful and joyful.

Perhaps this was what the old service soldier meant: for commanders, everything is certain; for those in the midst of war, everything is random.

Taking a deep breath, he retrieved a small notebook from his pocket, noting down the last lesson the old service soldier had taught him—

The cautious never remove their helmet.

Closing the small notebook, he scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his face, wiping away tears, then ran towards the jubilant crowd.

"Victory! We’ve won! We have won!"