Chapter 1435 - 771: The Cruel Battlefield

Chapter 1435: Chapter 771: The Cruel Battlefield

The distance of one hundred and twenty yards is almost the limit of the effective killing range of the current muskets equipped by Hamlet.

And at this span, the accuracy of ordinary musketeers can basically be described as left to fate; hence, despite the grandeur of a volley, only a dozen or so are hit.

However, once the distance closes to a hundred yards, the accuracy improves and the damage becomes apparent. Coupled with continuous barrages, it’s basically like mowing down grass.

"Oh~ my Holy Light!"

"Damn it, didn’t they say it was just one shot? We were deceived!"

"Ah! Save me, I don’t want to die..."

The booming gunfire roared like the footsteps of an approaching giant. They charged forward with their heads down, but the comrades around them getting shot and falling made the blood-rushed soldiers slightly calm down.

Some even calmed down too much; the screams and wails mixed with the gore surged into their brains, causing soldiers unaccustomed to such scenes to instantly buckle under pressure and collapse into despair.

"Ahhh! I want to go home, mother..."

Just as he turned to flee, in no more than a few steps, a crossbow arrow struck him in the chest. The sharp pain sapped his strength, and struggling while falling to the ground, he finally saw the Supervision Team behind him and the knight brandishing his longsword, roaring with fury.

"Advance! Advance! Those who retreat will die!"

As his consciousness gradually blurred, he began to fantasize about the knight’s figure on horseback.

If only I were a knight... no... Mom, I should have listened to you...

On the chaotic battlefield, no one cared for him at all. As the fierce engagement entered within a hundred yards, the real power hidden among the ordinary soldiers began to reveal itself.

"Archers, release arrows!"

In the call of the knight, the chaotic ranks of the Noble Alliance Army scattered heavy arrows in volleys, appearing slightly denser when converging in front of Hamlet’s musket array.

During the push forward, the musket formation was not that dense, but when those arrows fell, some soldiers were still hit.

For skilled archers, the accuracy was somewhat controllable, and the power of longbow volleys was quite formidable.

Heavy arrows capable of piercing armor easily tore through bodies, and even Hamlet’s soldiers couldn’t withstand it, collapsing on the ground.

This is why the army remains significantly threatening to ordinary Transcendents—crossbow arrows, heavy arrows, even ballista shots, if nothing else, through sheer attrition.

Who wants to fight in melee with you? I’ll just unleash a hail of arrows!

However, after Hamlet’s side suffered casualties, it didn’t lead to any wavering or chaos at all; the other soldiers seemed oblivious to their fallen comrades beside them, calmly continuing their advance and shooting, like machines.

The wounded soldiers didn’t scream chaotically either, only a muffled groan as they fell, and medics immediately came to drag them away for first aid, with the support provided by shielded wagons at the rear serving as temporary operating rooms.

With the contest between longbowmen and musketeers, upon witnessing Hamlet suffer casualties, the nobles finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Once injured, death follows—they are merely flesh and blood too.

But drawing morale from others’ injuries, isn’t it excessively easy for the haughty nobles to feel satisfied with this?

Both sides suffered casualties; the longbowmen were few in number, but their rate of fire of five shots per minute still brought some pressure.

Hamlet’s side didn’t waver due to this, but they also realized they couldn’t advance further; getting too close would lose the advantage of the musket array.

"Halt! Free fire!"

When there’s no need to advance while shooting, individual prowess comes into play. Although it lacks the intimidation of simultaneous firing, both fire rate and accuracy improve—one shot, one enemy.

Only the clergy and commanders hiding in the back were difficult to target, while the cavalry and knights maneuvered dispersedly among the troops to command.

From this, it could be seen they lacked junior officers and hadn’t undergone corps-level training; lacking coordination led to ineffective transmission and execution of orders.

Some tactics merely drove the serf soldiers to charge blindly, with various rhetoric spurring them on.

When the person ahead fell, flesh torn by gunfire splattered, and one could even feel the warmth of something unknown spreading on their face, the stench surging into their nostrils.

He stared blankly at the dark gun muzzles in the distance, suddenly magnified countless times in front of him.

The next one is himself.

"Bang!"

A distant gunshot resounded clearly in his ears, causing his steps to halt, then he fell.

He seemed to grasp something... that the distance that seemed impossible to cross—be it between himself and the nobility, or with death.

The serf soldiers simply couldn’t bear seeing those around them getting shot and falling one by one; all glory, wealth, women, and power slipping away from them, fear devouring their hearts. This was not their revelry but a massacre!

They desperately wanted to flee, but couldn’t—they were held back by the Supervision Team and knights delivering fierce blows without the slightest hesitation.

Finally, the path paved with flesh and death reached sixty yards, with shouts constantly echoing as the knights drove pikemen to fan out from the flanks, leaving the center open.

"Make way, make way!"

"Raise shields, advance!"

"Archers, ready to release arrows!"

After clearing the central path, the already near-collapsing ranks of serf soldiers momentarily regained their breath. Facing the musket array head-on took an untold number of lives, and no one remembered how many died trying to flee backward either.