Ashen Dragon-Chapter 320 - 243 Avton Battle (Part 4)

Chapter 320: Chapter 243 Avton Battle (Part 4)

Marching in step with the tight drumbeats, George’s hands gripping the rifle were drenched in sweat. His heart seemed to beat in sync with the drums, more from excitement than tension.

This was his first time on the battlefield.

He had resigned from his factory job, handed it over to his most trusted friend, Howard, and, leveraging his status as a first-class citizen, smoothly became an infantryman after training.

In the training camp, George was always the most diligent, the one who endured the harshest trials due to his ambition to rise. Because of this, the Goblin Commander promoted him directly to the front-line troops.

He was initially only fit for the reserve unit, responsible for battlefield cleanup duties.

“I will become a truly important figure.”

...

“Maybe… today.”

Keeping pace with the soldiers in front, George thought.

The kingdom infantry now adopted a dense column formation for attacks rather than the traditional line formation, with a group of skirmishers as cover and vanguard.

The column emphasized flexible attack impact, quickly breaking enemy lines and transforming into different formations rapidly, unlike the line formation, which prioritized defensive firepower but was slow to move.

This tactic featuring columns and skirmishers wasn’t originally devised by Kingdom Marshal Dolores. It was summarized and applied by him and the kingdom’s advisors from “Military Tactics from the Napoleonic Era,” left by players, and had yet to be truly tested on the battlefield.

During the rapid march, George suddenly felt the ground tremble slightly.

“Is that—cavalry?”

He couldn’t help but turn his head to look into the distance.

A dull rumbling of hooves came closer, and soon the heavy armored cavalry charged towards their formation, like a steel torrent.

Their armor gleamed under the sun, and the forest of lances glinted coldly. The Lionheart banners fluttered in the wind—this was the ironclad cavalry meticulously trained by the Boske family. Any traditional army would panic before such cavalry.

But the Ashen Kingdom’s army was no ordinary force.

With the drums beating faster, George quickened his pace, and the bugler beside him blew a piercing note.

“All units! Formation!”

The herald’s voice rang out, and flags were raised high.

Numerous drills had ingrained the muscle memory deep into their bones. The well-trained infantrymen took only a few minutes to form several solid crossfire-forming squares, and George blended in with the soldiers in front.

Being at the very front, George fixed his bayonet as per the drill guidelines, tasked with facing the cavalry’s direct assault.

These squares advanced slowly like moving bastions.

Finally, the dense cavalry charged into the front of the formation. Gunfire erupted, the smell of gunpowder and blood filled the plains.

One cavalryman after another fell, their agonized screams echoed. Their prized heavy armor was no match for the kingdom infantry’s advanced semi-automatic rifles.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

The gunfire crashed like waves, seemingly never-ending.

The infantrymen only needed to pull the bolt lightly and were ready for the next shot. Precious cavalrymen fell one after another during the charge, their lives as insignificant as weeds.

Amid the cavalry’s encirclement, Roland’s expression beneath his visor was one of utmost pain.

“Damnit… why wasn’t this tactic mentioned in the intel? How do they have such formations?”

“And those rifles, why aren’t they reloading?”

If it had been the original line formation, perhaps the cavalry could have ripped through it. But these solid squares, mutually protected, left large gaps in between.

Charging any single square wouldn’t just be difficult to break through, but would also invite a torrent of bullets from the other squares due to the crossfire formation.

Roland had no solution, helplessly watching his meticulously trained cavalry fall like harvested wheat.

The heavy armored cavalry attempted several more charges, but their usually unstoppable assaults, which once sent enemies fleeing in terror, crumbled like paper against the kingdom infantry armed with semi-automatic rifles.

Under the guard’s protection, Roland and his remaining heavy armored cavalry squeezed through the gaps between the squares. Now, only a third of them remained. Ahead lay the invincible Monster Legion; behind, the infantry squares that had caused them severe casualties.

This was not what he had envisioned.

In Roland’s imagination, he should have led the ironclad cavalry charging into the monster horde, engaging in fierce combat.

He would have dyed his armor red with enemy blood, piled the monster corpses high, and achieved a glorious death under the Ashen Kingdom’s encirclement, becoming another legendary tale of the Boske Lionheart.

But now, he was merely riding his horse forward, passively receiving a rain of bullets and suffering heavy losses.

“No, this is not the end I want.”

“This won’t make my father proud of me.”

With this thought, Roland’s eyes turned red. He raised his lance and roared:

“Charge with me!”

“Tear through their formation!”

“Show these monsters the might of the Scania people!”

Roland decided to target the infantry. He wanted to burn his last life to exchange for a grand finale.

Around the square, the piled corpses were already half human-high. Fallen warhorses and heavy armored knights littered the ground, their blood staining the snow red, but Roland ignored everything.

“Charge!”

Roland roared again.

The remaining hundreds of cavalry seemed infected by his spirit, gathering around him and charging towards one of the squares.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Gunfire howled, and bullets rained down. The front rows of soldiers fell instantly.

They bore not only the frontal shots but also the crossfire from the flank squares, surviving by sheer luck amidst the storm of bullets.

But Roland had thrown everything away, sacrificing the front-line cavalry as buffers, while riding through under his trusted aide’s cover, finally reaching the square.

“Die!”

Roland roared angrily.

His black warhorse galloped valiantly, leaping over the cavalry corpses, charging into the square.

“Bang!”

One gunshot, a blood hole appeared in the horse’s chest, and it collapsed before the square.

Caught off guard, Roland tumbled heavily, rolling several times on the ground, losing his helmet in the process.

Disheveled and grimacing, Roland drew his sword, struggling to get up from the ground.

Goblin and Tiefling infantrymen fired at him, but Roland’s heavy armor, a family heirloom worth thousands of gold coins, crafted by an Archmage, bore the spells “Protection Arrow,” “Brutal Strength,” “Lion’s Roar Technique,” “Radiant Shield.”

Generations of Boske generals had worn it in battle, marching through a rain of swords, spears, and arrows, leading soldiers to victory with the magnificent Lion’s Roar.

With its intricate magical patterns glowing, each bullet was blocked by the faint barrier, faint roars seeping through. In his disheveled fury, Roland indeed looked like the “Boske Lionheart.”

“Fall to your death!”

He surged forward, decapitating the Goblin in front, then turned to strike down a Tiefling attacking him from behind, his sword tracing a beautiful arc through the air.

The steel gleamed, blood splattered.

The battle techniques Roland had learned since childhood displayed to their fullest, embodying the heroic end he desired!

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Dense gunfire roared, the bullets’ power far surpassing arrows. Even the magical barrier dimmed with each impact.

But Roland was now consumed by battle rage, laughing manically, pointing his longsword at the kingdom soldiers ahead, preparing for his final declaration.

“We Boske people never surrender!”

“Monsters, standing before you is the descendent of Roselle Boske—”

“Bang!”

Before he finished, Roland staggered forward, feeling a sharp pain in his back, like being struck by a heavy hammer, instantly sapping his strength.

He bowed his head laboriously.

Indeed, a massive blood hole gaped in his chest, piercing his armor.

He was beyond saving.

“How… is this possible?”

Roland spat a mouthful of blood, murmuring in disbelief.

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At the moment he raised his sword, the force field barrier, already withstood over a hundred bullets, finally shattered into tiny magical particles, his armor disintegrating.

And someone behind him fired the final shot.

Expending his remaining strength, Roland turned around. He wanted to see who had killed this “Boske Lionheart.”

Was it a strong Goblin, a devilish Tiefling, or a brutal Ogre? No matter who, it would be said that a Boske noble died unyieldingly.

But turning around, he found it was a somewhat frail human. The man’s face flushed with excitement, his rifle smoking at the barrel.

Moreover, Roland noticed a familiar mark on the man’s neck—the mark of a serf. Once branded, it condemned him and his descendants to perpetual servitude.

“What a … joke …”

Roland’s eyes widened as he fell, his limbs twitching a few times before going still.

Even in death, his eyes remained open, staring at the sky, filled with confusion.

Roland couldn’t understand why he died at the hands of a wretched serf. It was a complete joke, destined to become dinner conversation for noble ladies.