Dismas took out two of them, and Lance was not one to be idle. He raised his gun, aimed, and fired. The shot struck his target in the back, taking another gunman down. There was little difficulty in hitting a stationary target, and the long gun was far more stable and powerful than a pistol.
As Lance was reloading, the lieutenant, Number Three, fired his own shot. He had skill; even at this distance, his pistol shot was true, and another man fell. But as he holstered his pistol to reload, a roar echoed in his ears.
In the next second, a hole was punched through his head, and he fell to the ground without a word. Behind him, Lance slowly lowered his pistol.
Reynauld and the others were stunned by this sudden turn of events. They had not expected Lance to make a move, let alone against the man who had just been killed in an instant.
"My lord?"
"No one from the Cannon Company can be left alive," Lance explained casually. "He was no longer of use." He then [Sacrificed] the lieutenant's body. "Don't just stand there gawking. We are still in a battle." He drew another pistol, aimed at the next target, and pulled the trigger.
The flint struck steel, the black powder ignited in a brilliant flash, and with a kick against his arm, the bullet was on its way. Another gunman fell. The others, snapping back to reality, put the matter aside for now. Dismas had already finished reloading. Another clean shot, and the last of them was gone.
And with that, the barbarian rifle squad, which had been a source of such torment and mystery to the Cannon Company, was completely wiped out. They had been too focused on the battle in front of them, ignoring the potential danger at their rear. And by spreading out to cover the battlefield, they had given Lance the opportunity to pick them off one by one. In an environment already filled with the sound of gunfire, their own demise had not attracted much attention.
But Lance did not relax. He gestured for the others to occupy the gunmen's positions and approach the main battlefield.
"Gather their guns. Reload them. Dismas, you will be the shooter. Watch the battle. Whichever side has the advantage, you will shoot at them. Whoever tries to break from the fight, you will shoot at them."
As they drew closer, Lance observed the battle. The situation was already clear. The Cannon Company was at a severe disadvantage. In a real battle, one's stamina is often exhausted in just a minute or two. But the barbarians of the Wolf Pack were fighting as if injected with chicken blood, each of them with a seemingly endless well of energy. They were fearless and, with their armor, could withstand heavy damage, often trading a wound to take a life, even when surrounded.
In contrast, the men of the Cannon Company had grown weak. Their limited stamina could not hold out, and they were already on the verge of a full-scale rout. But on a battlefield like this, to turn your back to the enemy is a death sentence. They had no chance to escape. Was this, then, to be a slaughter? The answer was yes.
To be honest, even Lance had not expected the men of the Wolf Pack to be so formidable. Though he had not been optimistic about the Cannon Company's chances, he had still thought the Captain could win. After all, he had the advantage in numbers, his men were battlefield soldiers, and he had a weapon of mass destruction in his cannon. Lance had even planned to secretly help the Wolf Pack to further weaken the deserters, to ensure a pyrrhic victory for the Captain. The Captain and Number Two would die, and he would have the now-loyal Number Three take over the survivors. He would use him to keep the remaining brigands consolidated, to avoid them scattering to the winds where they would be impossible to hunt down.
But now, the Cannon Company was being annihilated. Even with Dismas providing fire support, the collapse was unstoppable. They were ambushed, trapped, and forced to fight on... a cruel fate. And so, Number Three's usefulness had come to an end. Lance, naturally, could not leave such a liability alive. From the moment he had handed the man a gun, his fate had been sealed. The weapon had been nothing more than an empty piece of scrap iron, no threat to Lance at all. Dismas and the others, of course, had not thought so deeply. They could not have guessed that their lord would suddenly execute the lieutenant.
Dismas's relentless fire finally drew the attention of the barbarians, but their armor absorbed most of the damage. Unless a bullet could penetrate and hit a vital organ, it had little effect. Only a shot to the head or a weak point in the limbs would be effective. Unfortunately, the Cannon Company did not buy Dismas enough time. After he had taken down two more of them, the last of the deserter brigands had been killed. Only the Captain was left, still fighting desperately.
The remaining barbarians split their forces. Two went to finish the Captain, while the other three began to charge towards the dense forest where Lance's party was hiding.
"Prepare for battle!"
Lance no longer cared about being exposed. "Their condition is not normal!" he warned the others. "It's as if they feel no pain, and their strength is astounding. Be careful. Do not fight them one-on-one. Reynauld, Barristan, you two are the main assault. You must destroy their limbs and heads to stop them. Dismas, you and I lack heavy weapons; we cannot break their armor. Do not aim for a kill. Your job is to tie up the two wounded ones and buy time for the others."
These men were fighting at a level beyond that of ordinary humans. Who knew what tribal secret arts they possessed? It was best to be cautious.
Reynauld and Barristan, who had been waiting for this moment, dropped the firearms they were about to reload and took up their own weapons. Dismas also turned his gun. He had thought to inflict more damage as they approached, but the barbarians, now aware of them, dodged both of his shots.
"They're coming," Lance said, and the atmosphere grew tense. "Let them come. Barristan, you will hold the front."
"Hah! Get behind me! They shall not pass!" A determined smile appeared on Barristan's face.
Dismas, realizing what was happening, also dropped his long gun and drew his dirk and pistol. Facing the approaching enemy, he even found the time to joke, "Well, well... I'm feeling confident today. Let's see who finishes the fight first."
But the enemy did not give them any more time for talk. They were upon them, their weapons stained with the blood of how many men, it was impossible to say.
Lance met the charge, choosing one of the barbarians for himself. He knew their strength was great. He focused his entire being on his sword. There was no more fear. It was time to act.
Barristan took a step forward, forcing his opponent to swing prematurely. At that moment, he took a small step back, creating a sliver of space. This small trick made his opponent's attack fall short, completely disrupting his rhythm. A missed attack means the body does not receive the correct feedback; one must reset to strike again. And in that moment, Barristan's mace had already swung out. He did not aim for the face or chest as before, but for the undefended foot.
The heavy mace fell. The spikes pierced through the boot and into the flesh. As he drew it back, it came away with blood.