Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 179 Introduction to Statistics

A tiger lies in its den and won't come down the mountain; trying to lure a snake out is a waste of time.

Seeing that the fortress garrison did not move, the Heds slunk back and surrounded the bridgehead again.

Just as Lieutenant Colonel Jessica had predicted, Teldun's troops had not lost order; the chaotic scene of flags flying and horses being scattered and the troops fleeing in panic was merely an illusion.

Rather, the fact that the rout was portrayed so realistically, without actually resulting in a complete defeat, proves that the leader of Teldun still maintained control over his people.

Dark clouds hung low, a chilling winter wind blew, and vultures circled in the sky, foreshadowing more death and slaughter.

Watching the barbarian army return in defeat, the soldiers and militia were disappointed, but also somewhat nervous.

No one sings hymns anymore, and morale is not as high as before.

The song of gratitude that was just sung has now completely fallen silent.

Winters felt a slight sense of satisfaction. He wanted to point his finger at everyone and ask, "We led you to victory, yet you thank God instead. What kind of logic is that?"

However, these words were too outrageous, so he could only complain to Bard about them.

In contrast to the somber atmosphere among the soldiers, the officers chatted and laughed in a relaxed manner.

The first siege by Teldun proved the strength of the star-shaped fortress defenses.

Lacking siege weapons, the cavalry had no way to overcome the earthen walls and deep trenches, and could only fill them with their lives.

If the Heds were determined to take a bite out of them, that would be easy to handle—there's a bridge behind the fortress. If they really can't hold it, they can retreat to the other side and blow up the bridge, leaving the barbarians standing on the riverbank, watching helplessly.

This time, the Heds learned their lesson and deployed their troops outside the effective range of their artillery.

Smoke and dust rose in the distance, and the number of enemies seemed boundless and endless.

On the watchtower, Mason was chatting idly with Winters.

"Huh? Have you noticed?" Mason asked, looking surprised. "There seem to be even more Hart's cavalry outside after the trip?"

Winters echoed this sentiment: "This morning, I thought the Heds had only about ten thousand cavalry. Now, judging by their appearance, they have at least twenty thousand."

"More reinforcements?"

“Who knows?” Winters shrugged. “The lieutenant colonel said that if the three major divisions gritted their teeth, they could muster 100,000 archers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Teldun tribe dared to bring the golden statue for the sacrificial ceremony to reinforce their troops, and the entire tribe, young and old, came out in full force.”

Mason shook his head and smiled wryly, then suddenly asked Winters hesitantly, "How about I give you some advice?"

Winters was somewhat puzzled, but replied seriously, "Senior, please speak freely."

"In my opinion, instead of letting your musketeers fire faster, we should try to make them more accurate."

Mason pulled out a piece of parchment covered in writing and asked Winters with a hint of anticipation, "Does your infantry department have a statistics course?"

“We only have arithmetic and geometry,” Winters shook his head frantically.

"Then let me explain the concept of percentage to you."

[Author's note: Attentive readers may have noticed that this book has never used percentages so far, but has instead used descriptions such as 'two-tenths', 'one-quarter', and 'half'.]

This is because Winters Montagne had not learned fractions and percentages; only artillery officers took statistics classes.

Statistics has a long history, dating back to Aristotle's 'Annals of the City-State'. The root of the word "statistics" comes from the city-state. However, fractions and percentages are more recent, only appearing in the 18th century.

This book is tentatively titled after General Lionheart Euler, a close friend of Field Marshal Ned and the founder of artillery science, who proposed the concepts of 'fraction' and 'percentage'.

Thanks to Mason's instruction, Winters learned a basic understanding of statistics. So, from here on, the concepts of percentages and statistics are formally introduced XD. Knowledge is power; a new weapon in hand!
After explaining what percentages meant, Mason held up the parchment and read aloud: "Outside the fortress, I counted 347 Hed corpses. But only 215 of them were by the trench; the rest were beyond the range of the muskets."

Winters nodded. The Telden troops were actually quite tenacious, having only retreated after more than two hundred were killed.

Mason licked his fingers and turned to the next page: "On the wall, you deployed 341 musketeers, firing six and a half rounds, which theoretically should have resulted in 2210 shots. But because some of them misfired, according to the data on your list, your soldiers actually fired a total of 1147 shots."

Mason spoke eloquently, and Winters listened intently, his image as the directionally challenged senior student vaguely growing taller.

Mason cleared his throat and concluded, "In other words, even if all 215 men on the edge of the trench were killed by your musketeers, the hit rate would only be 18.7%, with the remaining 81.3% being misses."

Winters' breath hitched: "It's also possible for two shots to kill one person..."

Mason raised his hand to stop his junior and continued, "And don't forget, among the 215 men, there are my cannons and the results of the musketeers you deployed below the city. The actual kill efficiency is much lower than 18.7%. I estimate it's less than 8%."

In other words, you fire 1147 shots and kill fewer than 100 people. 52% of your musketeers average only 1.51 shots in six volleys, and less than 10% of your musketeers manage to complete all six volleys.

Mason rolled up the parchment and smacked his junior on the head, shouting, "You spendthrift! Aren't you wasting ammunition? At this rate, the gunpowder will be used up at least 3.5 times faster than before. Our stockpile of gunpowder will be gone in three days!"

Winters was speechless.

He took the parchment, read it carefully, and then looked up and said, "A 48% misfire rate? That's too high; it needs to be lowered further. An 8% lethality rate? That's acceptable!"

“That’s a joke!” Mason said unhappily, “Cannons are more efficient at killing than you.”

"Senior, the problem isn't how accurate you are, but how to launch as many lead bullets as possible in the shortest amount of time. The more you launch, the better. The faster you launch, the stronger your suppression. Just now, the Hed people were even pinned down next to the barricades, afraid to raise their heads. Although efficiency has decreased, the actual results have still improved."

"Musketeers are paid half again as much as pikemen because they are technical soldiers." Mason lamented, "If you keep training them like this, your musketeers will all just fire randomly in one direction, and you won't find a single accurate musketeer!"

Winters blinked, a slight smile appearing on his face: "The accuracy of a matchlock gun is inherently limited."

"So you're just going to shoot blindly? Shoot randomly? The more inaccurate your shots, the more careful you should be! Shoot slowly!"

“Senior, don’t be angry.” Winters put his arm around Mason’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I have a new idea about accurate musketeers.”

"What are your thoughts?" Mason glanced at his junior and asked with a stern face.

Winters drew his twin-barreled rifle and handed it to his senior: "This."

"This?" Mason's eyelids twitched as he took the rifle. "What does this mean?"

"Those who can't hit the target, let them fire volleys. Those who can hit the target, I'll make them even more accurate!" Winters said, beaming with pride and his eyes shining. "Volleys, precision shooting, I want them all."

Now it was Mason's turn to be speechless. Suddenly, a shout came from below the watchtower: "Lord Montagne!"

Winters peered out and saw a lieutenant colonel's messenger below the wooden tower: "What is it?"

"The barbarians want to negotiate," the messenger replied, panting. "Lord Jessica wants you and Lord Bard to go."

“Let’s talk.” Winters put his gun back in its holster. “I’m going to see what the barbarians are up to.”

Winters rode his Strong Luck, and Bard rode his Bone-Piercing Yellow, and the two galloped off.

The two horses, one gold and one silver, moved in unison and with perfect coordination, looking more like a grand dressage parade than as if they were walking on a blood-soaked battlefield.

The Paratus on the fortress couldn't help but cheer.

The red-faced Hud man was not present this time; only the interpreter came to negotiate.

Winters didn't want to talk as soon as he saw the person.

Before the other party could speak, his face darkened, and he said coldly, "If you don't want to talk, then forget it."

Having said that, Winters spurred his horse to leave, and Bard, without a word, turned his horse around as well.

"Talk! Talk! Of course we want to talk!" The interpreter panicked and pleaded, "Sir, what do you mean by this?"

"Talk?!" Winters roared like thunder. "Who do you think you are! You think you can cooperate with us in talking? Get back here! Send someone else who's qualified. That monkey-faced guy! Let him come!"

The interpreter said awkwardly, “That monkey…that is my lord, the one who warms himself by the fire. He is a descendant of the Golden Man, grandson of the swift-footed stag, son of the one without a bow, great chieftain of the Terdun tribe, war leader, and meat divider.”

Winters chuckled. "That monkey-faced guy, the fire-gatherer? Why isn't he here?"

“You have cannons, and my lord is unwilling to risk his life,” the interpreter replied cautiously.

The negotiation site was only three or four hundred meters away from the fortress, within the effective range of the artillery.

"How dare you!" Winters exclaimed angrily. "You look down on our reputation?! Then there's nothing more to discuss."

Having said that, he raised his whip again.

"Please don't go, sir, please hear me out." The interpreter smiled bitterly: "There is absolutely no trust between the Paratul and the Hed. They say they want to negotiate but then suddenly turn on you and kill you. This has happened many times."

The history of the feuds and grudges between Plato and the various tribes of Hed touched upon Winters's blind spots.

Winters remained unmoved and flew into a rage: "Look at you, a Paratist, working for the Heds!"

The translator, his temples graying, wept uncontrollably: “My lord, I had no choice. Thirty-one years ago, I was kidnapped and enslaved by the previous chieftain, the Bowless One, and ever since, I have been wandering the wilderness, unable to return home.”

"You can't go home? Then I'll give you a chance." Bard suddenly spoke up: "Just come with me, I'll take you back to the fortress. Once inside, the barbarians can't hurt you. After the battle, you can go home on your own, how about it?"

The old interpreter froze for a long while, then said tremblingly and timidly, "Sir, all my family members in Palatul are gone. I have married and had children in Teldun, I..."

"Stop talking nonsense!" Badr's tone was cold and sharp, his eyes flashing with a chilling light: "Are you coming or not?"

The old translator's face drained of color, and he shook his head slightly.

"What did the barbarian chief send you here to discuss?" The usually mild-mannered Bard revealed a rare hint of murderous intent: "Just say it!"

“My lord, the one who warms himself by the fire,” the old interpreter licked his lips, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold weather. “I wish to engage your commander in a Mak'gora—a duel to the death—according to ancient rites. If my lord wins, you shall hand over the golden statue used for the sacrifice. If your commander wins, the Teldun tribe shall withdraw and cease all participation in this battle.”

Despite having anticipated this, the enemy's proposal still left Winters and Bud speechless. The two looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

"Your Excellency can trust the Maggolla," the old interpreter continued. "Both your army and our army will certainly respect it. Historically, Hart and Platt have had thirty-six Maggolla matches, and regardless of who won or lost, they have always kept their promises."

"War is a matter of vital importance to the state!" Bard frowned and rebuked in a deep voice, "How can a duel decide such a crucial matter as war? What's wrong with your monkey-faced chief?"

“But…” the old interpreter swallowed hard, “Queye Khan was killed by your army’s Ned Smith during the Magora ceremony…”

Hearing the old marshal's name in this godforsaken place immediately perked Winters up.

"Is that so?" he asked with interest. "How come I've never seen this in military history? Can you tell me about it? What are the restrictions on Magora? Horseback riding? On foot?"

The old interpreter wiped the sweat from his brow and said, "Both sides can agree on their own terms; infantry or cavalry combat is acceptable, and weapons are generally not limited..."

"Would a gun work?" Winters' eyes widened.

Before the old interpreter could answer, Bud interrupted his excited friend.

Bud reached out and took Winters' reins, saying to the interpreter, "You wait here, I'll go back and tell my commander."

"Don't go! I haven't gotten any answers yet!" Winters was being dragged away, getting further and further away from the old interpreter, but he still shouted desperately, "Hey! Interpreter, can we use a gun? With..."

Back at the bridgehead, the two were surrounded by other officers.

"What does the Hedman want to say?" Lieutenant Colonel Jessica asked.

"The Hurds have gone mad!" Winters exclaimed gleefully. "They really have no way to deal with this fortress! They're so desperate that they're willing to try anything."

Bard frowned and said, "If the interpreter wasn't lying, the leader of the opposing army is the Great Chief of the Teldun tribe—the Firebringer. This is not good news. Moreover, they seem very confident, and the interpreter doesn't even want to join us."

"They've even brought the golden statue for the sacrificial ceremony! How could it not be the barbarian chieftain himself leading the charge?" Jessica scoffed. "Anything else?"

"Hahaha!" Winters laughed until tears streamed down his face. "They want to fight you one-on-one!"

[Note: I've been holding back for a long time to finally unleash the weapon of statistics. Although statistics is still in its early stages and its analytical capabilities are weak, it will be of great use in Winters' hands.]
This is from yesterday; I'm still writing today. I had a great time writing today, and I was very efficient.

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(End of this chapter)