When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#571 - Today! (4k 2-in-1)

Putting down the telescope, Horn casually wiped the sweat-blurred lens with a handkerchief and handed it to Hakuto, who stood nearby.

On the highest and steepest earthen slope, His Holy Saint-Sun stood before the assembled Fireball Crossbow, silently watching the two mercenary groups crossing the ditches and riverbeds.

As expected, these infantrymen chose to attack from the flanks as predicted, forcing the Salvation Army to turn.

They still formed a 50x50 pike square, but with the addition of longbowmen and Eagle's Beak ballista operators at the four corners.

These ballista operators used tread-drawn crossbows, which had foot stirrups installed at the front of the bow arms.

To string the bow, they would step on the stirrups or hook the string onto their belts, or simply pull the string with their arms, using their waist strength to draw the bow, allowing them to fire bolts with greater draw weight.

Although it could penetrate plate armor to some extent, it couldn't match the power of lead bullets, nor could it be reloaded as quickly as a spring-powered rifle.

Most of these infantrymen wore lamellar armor or chainmail, and through the telescope, he could see that the front three ranks were wearing sturdy half-plate armor.

Unlike the scattered formations formed by the guards and sergeants, the two mercenary groups' squares were much tighter, with swordsmen, halberdiers, and poleaxe wielders clearly divided and assigned their duties.

After all, they were veterans who had been fighting on the battlefield for over a decade, and in terms of individual martial skills, they were indeed superior to these Salvation Army recruits.

It had to be said that these infantrymen were indeed elite, and Prince Kongdai had spared no expense.

It was just a pity that the battlefield was on a hill, and in this kind of narrow battlefield, such a thick square formation was the most unsuitable for advancing.

Looking at the slowly advancing square in the distance, Horn was momentarily dazed.

Since coming to this world, the Edict League and the Church had been like mountains weighing down on him.

Originally, he didn't want to bear any responsibility, but was forced to become the Saint-Sun in order to survive.

In fact, he didn't want to be the Saint-Sun at all; everyone forced him to be, or he would have died.

It wasn't until the night of the Long Bridge battle that he carried everyone's hopes on his back with the determination to die.

But was the Holy Path propaganda of the accompanying priests really in place? Could the high salaries really be converted into combat power? Could their tireless work and dedication really be exchanged for morale and popular support?

Horn lowered his head and stroked the hilt of Bloodveil, 'Have you really entrusted it to the right person?'

The fate of millions of people in Thousand River Valley would be decided at this moment; all his efforts would be realized and tested at this moment, on this day!

On this day!

Grasping Bloodveil tightly, Horn quickly cleared his mind of distractions.

By the time he looked up, Horn had been left behind, and all that remained was the confident Saint-Sun.

The sunlight shone directly on his face, and he squinted slightly, shouting, 'Order Nana to restrain the enemy cavalry on the high ground, and as rehearsed, the center army will rotate around the right flank, with the left flank delaying the enemy.'

'Yes, Your Holiness.'

The messenger raised a small flag, waving it constantly on the hill, and the shrill whistle echoed through the valley corridor.

The ground trembled, and gravel rolled down from the hill, as cloth shoes and leather boots stepped across the wet ground.

In the rustling footsteps, the war monks on the right flank, holding the ends of their spears, rested them on their shoulders and began to turn slowly.

'Hey, they're scared!'

Standing in the first row of the square, Nosenberg, a ten-year veteran, couldn't help but smile.

Despite mastering that terrifying crossbow, these soldiers were ultimately farmers, and away from the chariot formation, their courage was as small as a mouse.

Tightening his grip on the spear, Nosenberg licked his lips, which were chapped and bleeding from smiling, and moved his shoulders.

The blood flowed onto his yellowed and blackened teeth, looking exceptionally bloody.

Compared to Nosenberg's grin, Griffin, the commander, frowned.

The riverbed and hills were wide enough that even if the eastward-facing formation was turned to face north, these short-haired men could still maintain a horizontal formation of two rows of twelve companies.

Then their goal—to force the Salvation Army into chaos, shorten their horizontal formation, and weaken their wind power—could not be achieved.

And the slopes and hilltops were clearly unable to accommodate the advance of a nearly 3,000-man square; maintaining formation on flat ground and maintaining formation on slopes were two different concepts.

At this time, the Eagle Regiment's square was only one hundred and fifty meters away.

Lead bullets whizzed over the tops of helmets, kicking up puffs of dust on the ground.

Suddenly, sparks flew from a mercenary's helmet, and with a gurgle in his throat, he fell straight to the ground.

'Return fire, return fire!'

Seeing the Devil's Wind from yesterday, Griffin immediately jumped behind a large shield covered with cowhide and iron nails.

The archers and crossbowmen on all sides lowered their huge pavises, bent their bodies, and strung their heavy crossbows.

The longbowmen pulled their bowstrings to the corners of their mouths, raised them to a forty-five-degree angle, and with a tremor of their arms and shoulders, dense arrows rose like a black mist.

With a whooshing sound, this cloud of darkness enveloped the Salvation Army on the hilltop, with incessant thudding sounds, and the arrows stuck in the pavises and sandbags were still trembling.

Although there were temporary fortifications and shelters, from time to time, someone's arm or thigh would burst with a bloody flower, and they would scream or groan and fall.

'Medic, medic!'

'Coming! Don't move, be careful the arrowhead can't be pulled out.'

The quartermasters in the back row carried round shields, bent over, grabbed the soldiers under their armpits, and struggled to drag them towards the back row.

Arrows and lead bullets exchanged fire in the air, and at this distance, the Holy Rifles were inaccurate but powerful, while the bows and arrows were accurate but weak.

Both sides suffered losses, but not great.

Watching the Salvation Army troops quickly cross the hilltop, beads of sweat appeared on Griffin's forehead, and he gritted his teeth: 'Damn it, let's do it, the 15 columns on the left take three steps forward, the ones behind don't move, wait for the ones in front to get on the slope before you charge.'

Picking up a heavy kite shield wrapped in iron, Griffin put on iron gauntlets, while a servant behind him carried a flamberge greatsword.

The sword was too long to be drawn whether it was carried on the back or inserted in the waist, so it could only be carried by a dedicated person.

Nosenberg took three steps forward with his spear, and Griffin's shout came to his ears.

'The heavy armor raise your shields and stand in the front, the ones with halberds and spears stand behind, when I shout, you charge at full speed, break through the enemy formation, and I'll reward each of you...reward you with 1 gold pound and divide 50 acres of land! For those who die, double the reward!' Enduring the bleeding heart, Griffin bit his lip and roared.

The mercenaries widened their eyes, unable to believe their ears, the commander was going all out today.

'I'm not going to live anymore, if I win this, I'll be a count.' Griffin roared with red eyes, 'If you do well, I'll give you a knighthood, no problem!'

Bonus! Knight!

Many mercenaries who had frowned in disdain immediately stood at attention, and a question came from the crowd: 'Is it true? Commander, you can't break your promise.'

'It's true! When we attacked Sand City, did I give you less than an acre of land?' Griffin slammed the bottom of the kite shield on the ground, 'If I can't come up with the money, I'll use my wife and daughter as collateral!'

'I'll take your wife, but I don't want your daughter, you can keep her.'

A burst of laughter immediately came from the battle formation.

Griffin spat on the ground: 'Don't be poor, a bunch of farmers, even with the power of the devil, are still farmers! Charge over, and we'll be the masters!'

Hearing this news, the mercenaries who were originally planning to slack off perked up, and Nosenberg couldn't help but smile.

Although Griffin was just encouraging them, Nosenberg, who hadn't fought the Salvation Army yesterday, took it seriously.

A group of farmers who have obtained the power of the devil...they were bragging so loudly yesterday, but today, is that all there is to it?

Hiding on the hill, only knowing how to hurt people with shields and crossbows, and they don't even shoot accurately.

Nosenberg started his career by killing farmers, he has killed no less than eighty or a hundred farmers, so why would he be afraid?

In the sound of orders, although the mercenaries did not have strict discipline and rules, their battlefield experience was too rich, and they quickly changed from a horizontal formation to a vertical formation.

'Charge!' Glancing at the Salvation Army on top of the hill, Griffin took the lead and charged up with his shield.

'Charge! Victory!'

'Kill those witch-bred bastards!'

'Oorah—'

'Fuck those shit-shoveling bastards!'

In the battle cries, mixed with various local vulgarities and slang, the mercenaries hid their heads behind kite shields and pavises, and charged towards the hillside in an orderly formation.

The sound of footsteps shook the entire hill, and the gravel on the ground vibrated, causing the faces of many war monks to change slightly.

'Stand firm, I want to see who dares to move!' Legion Commander Leffe charged to the front of the formation with his lance, and the soldiers who had been wavering immediately straightened their bodies.

When Leffe's eyes swept over them, a phantom pain vaguely came from their thighs and buttocks, making them afraid to move.

'Look at the bastards of the Black Champion next door, and then look at you, you bastards!' Leffe walked to the side of the formation with his lance and roared at the Holy Riflemen, 'Give them two shots.'

Then, he walked to the rear formation and shouted to the Guard Legion Commander on the nearby hill: 'Send two fifty-man squads of Holy Riflemen over here, to the hill next door, for flanking fire.'

'You owe me a bottle of wine.' The voice of the Legion Commander next door echoed between the valleys and ditches, actually having a bit of a hazy feeling.

'I'll give you a booger, hurry up.'

'I'll fuck your mother!'

Although cursing in his mouth, the Legion Commander in the back row didn't delay at all, and two fifty-man squad leaders ran from the ridge between the two hills to the other side.

Here Leffe was still having a friendly exchange with the Legion Commander on the other side, and the Holy Rifles in front had already begun to fire.

This group of mercenaries were all elite veterans, and their morale and training were on a level that crushed the guards, although it was uphill, their speed did not slow down at all.

The newest novel is first published on Liǔ 9 Shū Bā!

'Praise the Holy Wind!'

Comb-like lead bullets swept across the charging column, and a large area of the front three rows instantly fell.

The wounded lay on the side of the road, clutching their wounds in pain, curling up and twitching.

But because it was a column charge, the people in the back row were fine, which is why Leffe wanted to call for people to shoot from the flanks.

Behind the formation, a row of arrows flew up neatly and landed in the battle formation of the front row of spearmen.

With a series of muffled groans, more than a dozen of the front row of spearmen also fell, unless they were unlucky enough to be shot in the throat, their armor basically made it difficult to kill them.

These people either walked to the side to make way, or were dragged away by the quartermasters, and the spearmen in the back row took their place.

Fifty steps, forty steps, thirty steps!

Nosenberg counted the steps silently in his heart while running, his cheek was pierced by a lead bullet, and his half-rotten face not only did not make him afraid, but made him extremely angry.

'Slow down, prepare to push the spears!'

The veterans quickly slowed down, adjusting the formation while also changing their state, extending the spear formation.

'Level the spears!'

Griffin's command came to his ears, and Nosenberg laughed, he could already see the cowardly faces of those farmer soldiers in the front row.

They actually dared to use this kind of spear, and they didn't even put shields in the front row, did they want to fight them veterans in melee?

Too ridiculous!

'Charge!' Nosenberg, who was charging with his head covered, raised his head and shouted the battle cry he had used when he cut off countless farmers' heads.

Just one shout could make those cowardly farmers tremble with fear, just like today.

It's just that today's farmers were numbly cowardly, and there was no expression of fear on their faces at all.

Nosenberg, with half a tooth exposed on the side of his cheek, looked extremely ferocious, and compared to the silent war monks, he roared like a lion: 'Go to hell, you unclean ones!'

Nosenberg stomped his right foot on the ground and swept the spear in his hand fiercely towards the black-clothed monk.

This strike was naturally smooth, the spear in the farmer's hand was loose and fell to the ground with a sweep.

And the farmer knelt on the ground in response, was he preparing to beg for mercy?

While Nosenberg was sneering, he suddenly felt something was wrong, because the kneeling farmer in front of him suddenly lunged forward and rolled to his leg.

Instantly, a warm liquid spurted from his ankle.

Nosenberg immediately felt as if he had lost all strength below his left ankle, and he couldn't even stand firmly.

'Damn farmer, despicable farmer!'

He tried to kick the farmer away in shock and anger, but was dodged nimbly.

At the same time, four or five spears were pushed out, aiming like vipers at Nosenberg's throat, thighs, arms, and other weakly protected areas.

If it were before, Nosenberg would definitely be able to dodge.

But now, he tried his best, but still let three spears pierce through his thighs and arms.

When they were pulled out, blood poured down like a waterfall.

'Damn it, damn it...' Nosenberg tried to stagger back with a hoarse throat, but slipped and fell backwards due to blood loss and imbalance.

As his back landed on the ground, before he could even shout in pain, the kneeling soldier just now came over with a short knife in his mouth.

He lightly smeared it across Nosenberg's throat, and he rolled to the feet of other mercenaries.

'Farmer, farmer...' Lying upside down in a pool of blood, Nosenberg twitched, opened his lifeless eyes, and watched countless legs and feet pass before his eyes.

Legs with sweat hairs, shoe soles with shit stuck to them, countless farmer's legs and feet.

The wooden shafts of spears and pikes collided densely, shielding the pale-faced, motionless Nosenberk from the sunlight.

Beneath the jostling spears, Salvation Army leaping soldiers, with daggers clenched in their teeth and sabers in hand, squatted or knelt, frantically hacking at the shins and even the lower abdomens of the opposing Eagle Company mercenaries.

Despite the mercenaries being the ones charging, they were like waves crashing against a dam, forced back by sheer resistance.

The resilience and training of these farmers far exceeded the mercenaries' expectations.

With the front-line shield bearers cleared out by the Holy Cannons, those detestable leaping soldiers exploited their lack of leg armor, harassing them relentlessly beneath the spears.

The coordinated efforts of the two sides and the flanking gunmen actually forced these veteran soldiers into a continuous retreat.

At this moment, the creaking of winding mechanisms finally echoed from the hills on both sides, and the mercenaries who had clashed with the Salvation Army in the small village yesterday immediately crouched down.

The mercenaries who were still puzzled by their comrades' actions quickly learned a lesson.

Continuous gunfire erupted from both sides, and blasts of Holy Wind struck the flanks of the formation. Under the concentrated force of the wind, one corpse after another tumbled down the hillside.

"Captain Griffin, we can't hold on!" An attendant, holding a flame-shaped sword and shrinking his head, cried out with a distressed face.

The soldiers on the outer edges of the front rank were constantly collapsing, fleeing backward from both sides.

Nearly 200 of the 750 veteran mercenaries had already fallen. It was a miracle they had lasted this long. If they didn't run, the rest would likely be routed.

Griffin, with blood gushing from his shoulder, watched the follow-up troops climbing up and gritted his teeth, glancing at the Holy Cannon operators constantly rotating on both sides. He suddenly slapped his thigh: "Retreat!"

After all, gunmen were positioned on both sides, so even if the follow-up troops arrived, they would still be mowed down by the rotating fire.

The slope was so narrow that their troops couldn't spread out.

Since they couldn't break through, the frontal assault had failed. They could only try to sneak up from the sides and launch a surprise attack.

But before that, they had to let the second team descend the slope first, otherwise the two teams would collide.

"Withdraw, withdraw! There's Holy Wind on both sides, we can't charge up!" Griffin waved his flag towards the troops behind.

They were lined up in an even narrower formation, only five ranks wide. Weren't they just offering themselves as targets for the gunmen?

However, these soldiers seemed not to hear or see, still charging straight up.

"Didn't you hear? Retreat!" Griffin, clutching his shoulder, roared angrily at the company commander leading the charge.

"Captain, it's not that we don't want to retreat," a company commander cried out with a mournful face, "but the knightly gentlemen of the Edict Company are killing deserters behind us!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Griffin felt the hill tremble as if there were an earthquake. He looked up and saw a dark shadow sweeping past like a phantom.

The gust of wind that was stirred up almost knocked Griffin to the ground.

That was—hundreds of knights galloping up the hill!

Wait, Griffin blinked his eyes. The fat man at the very front, could he be Prince Condé?!