When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#321 - The strongest battle in history is now the strongest

On the line dividing the hillside from the blue sky, a faint golden light suddenly flashed.

Beneath the long-tailed helmets, only the lower halves of their faces were visible, the upper portions obscured by the iron eye guards of the helmets, the tops adorned with black and red plumes.

In the glare of the sun, they appeared somewhat blurred against the edge of the blue sky, the air around them slightly distorted.

Standing at the forefront was Jeanne, similarly revealing only half her face.

Her armor had been specially modified by the armorer, replacing the acanthus leaf swirl patterns of the Church with gilded gear-sun motifs.

She was now able to wear full plate armor.

Compared to Hohn, who had only managed a painstaking half-step towards the "Half-Step Three Stages" in six months, Jeanne had reached the Fifth Stage of Breathing Technique the day before yesterday.

Coupled with her expertly practiced supernatural martial arts and her honed control over lightning spells, she could match an Edict Knight in combat power even when using only the Holy Grail banner.

Thus, she no longer needed to wear only leather armor to prevent interference with her spellcasting.

In fact, Jeanne and her troops had arrived nearly half an hour ago, and she had immediately witnessed the supernatural knights battling the hussars.

However, Jeanne had not immediately launched a rescue, as she had only brought fifty Holy Musket cavalry, with the remainder engaged in driving off the light cavalry from the Church who were attempting to harass them.

She needed the optimal moment, and that moment was now.

"The formation is finally breaking apart..."

Jeanne said, with a mixture of anger and relief, as she observed the hussar cavalry formation becoming disjointed due to their pursuit.

"Micro-Perception Potion!" Corks were pulled, and the Holy Musket cavalry swallowed the yellow, foul-smelling oil.

Unlike the Khan potions commonly used by knights, this potion primarily enhanced perception and precise control over the body.

Of course, thanks to Ceci's modifications, the cost was quite low, although it left a faint, urine-like aftertaste in the mouth.

Ceci himself swore that the potion contained absolutely no urine, and he was not responsible for whatever gases it generated in people's mouths.

"Wind up, prepare to attack!"

Amidst the whirring and clicking of gears, Heilwyn squinted as he looked at the Holy Musket cavalry standing on the hillside, silhouetted against the sun.

His pupils constricted slightly as he saw the three-quarter plate armor.

"Are these the rebel heavy cavalry that defeated you before?"

"Yes," Kaserdal said, shrinking back fearfully. "Your Excellency, you must be careful, they..."

"I don't listen to the advice of defeated generals," Heilwyn interrupted Kaserdal, turning his gaze to Jeanne's half-exposed, delicate face. "Is that the witch Jeanne? Capturing her would be a great achievement, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would!" Kaserdal quickly flattered.

"Assemble, quick march! Don't let them gain speed!" Ignoring Kaserdal, whom he considered a dead man, Heilwyn quickly issued orders, and the sound of the horn echoed across the battlefield.

At the same time as Heilwyn's order, the clicking of gears on the hillside ceased.

"Assault formation, slow advance!"

Based on previous battles, Jeanne initially ordered a slow advance to conserve the horses' strength.

Led by Jeanne and Colebo, the fifty Holy Musket cavalry advanced in a staggered 6x8 column formation.

Hooves pounded, kicking up dust.

Each column and row seemed separated by an invisible barrier, the potion granting them muscle control that made them move as precisely as if they were bound together by iron chains.

To be precise, their long-term training had already made them quite orderly, but the potion amplified their existing level of precision.

As the pale gold cavalry formation began to accelerate, it resembled a massive block of refined steel bearing down on them.

Many of the southern Ibe knights paled.

"Are you scared, you chickens! They've only been training for how long? Six months?" Heilwyn's voice rang out at just the right moment. "We've been training for ten years, what's there to fear? If you're a Kushite without balls, go back home!"

Laughter immediately erupted from the roughly formed two-diamond-shaped formation of supernatural knights, and only the few Kushite knights lowered their heads.

The earth trembled, and loose stones on the hillside rattled and tumbled down.

A squirrel with a nut in its mouth stared blankly for two seconds with its beady eyes, then darted up a tree, turning its head to reveal a terrifying scene reflected in its obsidian pupils.

On either side of the battlefield, one black and one gold, the thundering hooves were now less than fifty meters apart.

"Aim!" The Holy Maiden's banner embroidered with the Holy Grail stood tall in everyone's sight.

Heilwyn was taken aback. Was this the rebels' battle cry? What kind of aiming was this? It was so tasteless!

"Holy Protection of France!"

Heilwyn shouted the battle cry, not wanting to be outdone.

"Holy Protection of France!"

The knights shouted along.

But to Heilwyn's surprise, the opposing formation did not change in the slightest, remaining terrifyingly precise.

Just as Heilwyn was wondering, Jeanne's banner suddenly swooped down, transforming into a spiral spearhead pointing forward: "Fire!"

"Praise the Holy Wind!"

"It's their magic crossbows, duck!" A knight who recognized them cried out in alarm, awkwardly flattening himself against his horse's back.

But the other knights had no intention of doing so, some even feeling that such a posture would damage their dignity.

The thunderous roar nearly shattered Heilwyn's eardrums, and the horses collectively emitted terrified neighs.

"Ah—"

The knights in the front row fell in response.

Heilwyn's warhorse was also frightened, rearing up and bucking repeatedly, nearly throwing Heilwyn off its back.

By the time he had calmed his horse, the situation on the battlefield had become incomprehensible to him. After firing the first volley, the Holy Musket cavalry drew their sabers and hammer-maces, choosing to engage in melee combat in that small area.

Amidst the shouts of battle, the galloping warhorses were like boiling water in a pot, constantly rising and churning.

At this point, there was no time for command. All they could do was engage in one-on-one or small-group skirmishes.

Heilwyn targeted a young Holy Musket cavalryman who was urgently repairing a broken leather strap on his saddle.

He could tell at a glance that this was a newbie, doing such a thing in the middle of the battlefield.

Spurring his horse with the spurs on his boots, Heilwyn increased his speed, leveled his lance, and charged towards the Holy Musket cavalryman.

He would kill him first for fun!

Heilwyn's confidence came from heritage.

The reason why knights always had "Family heritage is our responsibility" on their lips was because supernatural techniques were only available to nobles and required a long period of inheritance to form a barrier to skill.

Such as Heilwyn's lance technique, which had been passed down for seven hundred years from the first Baron Flett to Earl to Duke and then back to Earl!

Seven hundred years of effort, how could he lose to this half-year-trained cavalryman?

Heilwyn's thigh muscles tensed, and a cruel smile appeared on his face.

Countless people had tried to steal the supernatural technique, but no one would have thought that the true fulcrum of the Flett lance technique was the thighs and waist.

"This thrust, seven hundred years of inheritance, you..."

"Bang!"

Heilwyn suddenly lost all strength in his limbs, and a mixture of warmth and pain came from his abdomen.

He lowered his head, the cruel smile freezing on his face, as blood and bodily fluids gushed from his abdominal cavity.

"Ah—"

The indescribable pain made him let out a shameful scream, and clutching his abdomen, Heilwyn was thrown from his horse.

"Flashy."

The Holy Musket cavalryman glanced at him as if he were a madman, stuffed the musket back into its holster, and shook his horse to kill another person.

At this time, the situation on the battlefield was not particularly favorable for Jeanne, after all, she was the one with fewer numbers.

After the two volleys were fired, they had to rely on hard power to fight.

But things on the battlefield were so unreasonable, and someone who did not know who it was saw the scene of Heilwyn being shot and shouted in a pinched voice: "Heilwyn is dead, Heilwyn is dead!"

"Is Lord Heilwyn really dead?"

Many knights in the melee began to search for Heilwyn's figure in the crowd.

But people clearly saw his warhorse, but the person on the warhorse was gone.

"Is he dead?"

"Really dead?"

"Run!"

"Don't forget, we're not here for a decisive battle!"

In the melee, the supernatural knights were already at a disadvantage because their warhorses were frightened, unable to accelerate and precisely control them, and their superb horsemanship could not be used.

In addition, the Holy Musket cavalrymen, who did not talk about martial ethics, often engaged in close combat for half a time, suddenly drew their muskets and shot at close range.

Many knights with reputation and prestige had fallen to this trick.

They had never encountered such a frustrating way of fighting.

Originally, this matter was promoted by Heilwyn alone, and as soon as Heilwyn "died", the knights remembered their original mission. They decisively decided to flee in all directions.

Seeing that the battlefield flow had changed, the Orc hussars once again stood up.

Without Jeanne giving an order, they chased after the supernatural knights with harvest-like joy.