Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 393 Storm (Part 7)

[Steel Fortress - South Shore]
Republic Avenue, the only road connecting the southern part of the city with the old city, has been blocked.

This narrow strip of land between the mountains and the lake is now piled with every obstacle the South City Sheriff could find: carriages, furniture, trunks and barrels... even trees in residents' yards have been cut down and dragged onto the street.

The militiamen in the southern district were all standing behind the roadblocks, anxiously watching the old city.

Although they held spears and muskets in their hands, unease and fear still flickered in their eyes.

These "free men" with civil rights were awakened from their beds by alarm bells, fumbled for their weapons in the dark, rushed out of their homes in disheveled clothes, and hurriedly gathered at Republic Avenue.

After all that commotion, it was truly remarkable that the South City militia was still able to maintain a fairly good level of organization and quickly build roadblocks according to orders.

They have demonstrated military skills far exceeding those of ordinary people, yet the disaster before them is still far beyond their capabilities.

The old town is like a boiler nearing its limit right now.

Thick smoke billowed, and flames shot out from the furnace; the air was thick with boiling water, and cries of anguish pierced the night like scalding steam.

As light and shadow intertwine, the spire of the El Ind Cathedral appears and disappears; the biting wind makes the road leading to the old town resemble the gaping maw of a monster, waiting for its prey to walk into its trap.

Faced with such an apocalyptic scene, the power of an individual seems incredibly insignificant.

Even the normally respected free men are now like lambs to the slaughter, helplessly watching the situation worsen.

The militiamen were anxious, but the South City Sheriff, Bitler Lenettel, was even more so.

This veteran blacksmith had just laboriously climbed onto the roof of a building facing the street and was intently observing the situation in the old town.

In his haste to leave, Bitler only buttoned three buttons on his jacket, and one of them was buttoned in the wrong place.

A cold wind blew, and the chilblains on his hands became unusually itchy. He kept gazing into the distance while scratching, oblivious to the fact that his skin had broken open and his hands were covered in blood.

The ladder rattled, and the sheriff's assistant, Schleer, climbed up the roof, panting. "Mr. Lenettel, I've found you a cloak!"

Bitler turned his head and asked gruffly, "Has the man who went to contact Colonel Bern returned?!"

"Not yet." Schle carefully stepped on the tiles toward Bitler, spreading his cloak over his superior's shoulders.

Bitler impatiently ripped off his cloak, crumpled it roughly, and glared at him, asking, "Where are the men who went to scout the old city?"

Schle stammered, "He hasn't come back either."

Butler raised his eyebrows, staring intently at his subordinate like a ferocious old wolf: "Not back? Or not sent?"

Schle complained bitterly: "We sent two people, and they haven't come back yet. No one wants to go even if we send someone else."

Butler glared at him: "Just because others aren't going, doesn't mean you can't?"

"Don't worry," Schleer said, draping the cloak back over the old sheriff. "Let's wait for the men ahead to return and find out what's going on before we talk."

Bitler flew into a rage, lifted his leg, and strode toward the ladder: "Fine! I'll go myself!"

"Oh dear! Mr. Lenettel, please don't try to be a hero!" Schle quickly stopped the old sheriff, refusing to let him go down the stairs.

Only then did the deputy sheriff speak his mind: "I don't think this little riot will be quelled anytime soon. Our job is to hold Gonghe Avenue and prevent the rioters from sneaking into the south of the city! Don't even think about suppressing the rioters, and no matter how chaotic the old city becomes, let's wait until dawn!"

“A minor riot?” Bitler pointed at the old town, his white beard and eyebrows trembling with anger. “You call this a minor riot?”

……

Riot, a word that is not unfamiliar to the citizens of Steel Castle.

Where there are people, there is conflict, and Steel Fortress is the most densely populated city in Montreal, TC.

Conflicts that occur in places with intense social contradictions are prone to escalating into riots, and the immense internal pressure within the Steel Fortress goes without saying.

It was the eve of All Saints' Day in Imperial Year 496. A blacksmith and a monk got into an argument over an unfair allocation of berths for the night watch, which escalated into a fight.

The blacksmiths involved in the fight were outnumbered and driven out of the church, but the anger of the artisans who had long suffered from the oppression of exorbitant taxes and levies finally erupted.

A trivial matter—a change of stalls due to a bribe of three small silver coins—has escalated into a large-scale brawl between clergy, nobles, and citizens.

After a night of chaos, all the monks of Elin Monastery were expelled from the city. Subsequently, armed citizens repelled the mercenaries hired by Elin Monastery to retake the city three times.

This event is historically known as the All Saints' Day Riot.

After a series of events, the riot in Steel Castle reached the emperor's desk. Ultimately, Emperor Richard IV ruled that the people of Steel Castle should compensate the monastery for its losses, while also allowing them to buy back ownership of the city.

Steelburg was thus stripped of its status as a bishopric and became an autonomous city directly under the royal family. Only in some inconspicuous titles—such as the Diocesan General Guild—remnants of its past remain. It is precisely for this reason that many older generations of Steelburg residents still cherish the emperor's favor.

The year 527 of the Imperial Calendar, the year after the suicide of Duke Arlian, the "Butcher," and the end of the First Sovereign War.

A large number of Montaigne veterans returned to their homeland, many of whom were left with lifelong disabilities.

However, after the empire lost the provinces of Shannan, its finances became increasingly strained. Not only was it unable to provide the pensions that wounded and disabled veterans deserved, but it also increased taxes even more.

The Monta people, having reached their limit of tolerance, finally rose up in rebellion—which the Empire called a rebellion.

The uprising also broke out in Steel Fortress. The rebels, mainly composed of veterans, farmers and ordinary citizens, occupied the city hall, broke through the fortified fortress and prison, released prisoners, publicly executed imperial tax collectors and officials, and swept across the mountains in the following month, defeating the imperial army that was suppressing the rebellion twice.

However, lacking a clear demand and with the rebels generally believing that "if His Majesty knew of our suffering, he would surely find a way to eliminate the abuses, and all the disasters were due to His Majesty's advisors, who were corrupt and autocratic," the rebels ultimately surrendered on the condition of being pardoned.

The rebels who laid down their weapons were immediately hunted down and killed. Those who were lucky enough to escape either went into hiding or fled to the south.

This event is historically known as the "June Rebellion".

Imperial year 550, which is ten years ago, the day before May Day.

Thousands of apprentices suddenly gathered in the old city and went on a rampage, destroying and looting the shops, workshops and warehouses of foreign merchants.

At first, it was just apprentices from the brewing guild and the leather guild, but then the blacksmith guild, which had the largest number of members, also joined the smashing.

The conflict between the Steel Fortress people and foreign merchants has a long history, but no one knows what spark ignited the powder keg.

Some say it was because a Venetian merchant named Francisco da Baldi boasted in a tavern about how he had seduced the wife of a Steelburg citizen; others say it was because a group of moneylenders from the United Provinces violently demanded repayment; still others say it was because of the sermon of the mendicant monk Berlin, inciting the Monta people to defend their homeland.

Regardless, the apprentices, who had long been at the bottom of the guild and the most bullied, vented their anger on the foreign merchants, and chaos engulfed Steel Castle in an instant.

The rioters first destroyed wine barrels in the São Paulo neighborhood, which was dominated by breweries, then moved on to slaughterhouses and meat markets to loot, and finally smashed, looted and burned along the Rose River.

Initially, their targets were limited to "foreigners," but they quickly expanded to "people who are not from Solingen," and eventually they began to rob whatever they could find.

The old town streets were quickly left in a mess, most of the shops were damaged, some were burned to the ground, some people were seriously injured, and some were thrown into the river.

This event is historically known as the May Day Riot.

The chaos finally ended as evening approached when troops stationed outside the city entered Steel Fortress to suppress the rioters and impose a curfew.

…………

Sheriff Bitler was a witness to every one of the aforementioned riots, uprisings, and rebellions.

As for other minor disturbances and chaos, they were not worth mentioning to the old sheriff.

However, this time, Butler sensed something unusual about the riot.

Unlike any other time, this time it came too fast, erupted too suddenly, and was handled too violently.

When a city faces a riot, everyone in it can feel the oppressive and restless atmosphere, and the old sheriff, Butler, is particularly sensitive to it.

This time, however, Butler did not have any sense of impending crisis or impending collapse.

Admittedly, the unemployed workers stranded in Steel Castle are a destabilizing factor; admittedly, the crisis of the embargo is still uncertain; admittedly, flour in Steel Castle is becoming more expensive every day.

The old sheriff cried out in his heart, "But it's not worth it to go so far as to burn everything to the ground and perish together!"

It should be noted that even during the May Day riots, the rioters exercised great restraint and refrained from widespread arson.

Fire is the city's most terrifying nightmare; the bigger the city, the more it fears fire.

A misplaced torch can reduce an entire neighborhood to ashes; an accidental fire can turn a well-off resident into a homeless beggar within an hour.

Therefore, every autumn, a curfew is imposed in the old town of Steel Castle until the first rain of the following year, in order to prevent fires.

Therefore, the Steelburg people cruelly executed arsonists—tying them to stakes and burning them alive—as a warning to others, and even those who verbally threatened to commit arson were given the same punishment as arsonists.

However, the current situation in the old city is that people are setting fires and looting without any restraint, as if tomorrow is the end of the world.

Butler even began to wonder if it was because he was getting old and his senses were dulling that he could no longer accurately grasp the pulse of Steel Castle, thus misjudging the situation.

"What should we do?" Bitler struggled to make a decision, gripping the frostbite on his hands even harder. "Defend the South City to the death? Are we just going to watch the old city turn to ashes? Suppress the riots? With my limited manpower, what will become of the South City?"

A rider emerged from the dark street, his hair and face covered in dust. As soon as he reached the barricade, he shouted, "I am Colonel Bern's messenger. Where is the sheriff of the southern district?"

"Here!" Upon hearing this, Bitler shoved his deputy aside, scrambled down the ladder in three strides, and limped to the barricade: "Where is the colonel? Where is the regiment?"

The rider glanced at the other militiamen and took a letter from his pocket: "Please take a look."

Bitler took the letter with displeasure.

The letter was rolled up, perhaps because there hadn't been time to seal it, and was only tied with a damaged ring—Butterler naturally recognized the colonel's ring. But he said nothing, simply took the lantern, squinted, and unfolded the letter.

There were traces of cigarette ash on the letter paper, and a few lines of writing were hastily done.

Bitler glanced at the letter, expressionless, and tucked it into his pocket. He then asked the messenger, "Where is the colonel?"

The messenger replied in a low voice, "With the troops."

"What is the current situation of the Legion?"

The messenger dismounted and whispered to Bitler, "The troops are stuck on St. Paul Street."

Bitler nodded; the messenger's words matched the contents of the letter.

What the old sheriff actually received was a letter requesting help.

The troops stationed outside the city encountered armed mobs on St. Paul Street, the only way into the city. The mobs were surprisingly tenacious in their fighting spirit. They built barricades and set fires, and the troops were temporarily bogged down.

Colonel Bern requested the South District Sheriff to lead the militia to attack the barricades from the rear, aiming to defeat the main force of the rioters. The colonel predicted that once the core members of this riot group were eliminated, the other rioters would be no threat.

Without hesitation, Bitler immediately began selecting people.

He knew every single militiaman in the southern district. He knew exactly who was good and who was useless.

Seeing that the old sheriff was about to take the initiative, Schle panicked.

“Mr. Lenettel!” Schler, disregarding any potential offense, shouted, “What exactly do you want?”

The militiamen's attention was immediately drawn to it.

Bitler's face darkened: "Get out of my way, I'm the sheriff. I don't need to explain what I want to do to you."

Schiller raised his voice: "I am also an appointed sheriff! I am responsible for the citizens of the South District! Are you taking people to the Old Town?"

"Yes!" The old sheriff glanced sideways at his deputy.

"You've taken everyone away, what about the south city?" Schle asked aggressively. "What if rioters break into the south city?"

Bitler's face turned ashen: "Who said I was going to take 'all' people with me? I will naturally leave enough men to defend Republic Street."

Schle countered, "If you take all the good guys away, what use will the remaining group of old, weak, and disabled people be?"

"Are we just going to watch the old city burn to the ground?" Bitler retorted loudly, "Just ignore it and do nothing?"

In military strategy, the old sheriff was far more experienced than his deputy. But when it came to debating, even two Bitlers combined couldn't beat Schle.

Faced with the old sheriff's question, Schiller did not respond directly. Instead, he waved to the other militiamen and shouted, "Then let's all talk about it: would you rather the South City be destroyed than not go to save the Old City? Or should we fulfill our duty and prioritize protecting the South City! Protecting our wives and children!"

"You're using a fallacy of logic!" the messenger couldn't help but rebuke Schleer.

"Shut up! What business is it of yours what happens to us people in the South City?" Schle rudely interrupted the messenger, turning to point at the militiaman leaning on his musket beside him: "Tell me, which one do you choose?"

The militia member who was singled out dared not speak, but finally stamped his foot and said, "I'll listen to everyone."

Schle then pointed to another militiaman: "You say it."

After hesitating for a long time, the militiaman muttered under his breath, "We definitely need to protect the south city first."

Schle then pointed to the next militia member.

"Yes, the southern city is important, but we can't just watch the old city be ruined..."

"Do you think I don't know what you're thinking?" Schiller roared. "Your workshop is in the old city. You're afraid it will be looted and burned, but have you thought about others? Our homes are all in the south. We can rebuild a workshop if it's gone, but if our homes are gone, we have nothing!"

Seeing that Schler had the situation under control, the messenger interrupted Schler's speech and loudly asked Bittler, "Mr. Renettal, you are the sheriff! You make a decision!"

Bitler's gaze swept over the group of militiamen. The firelight reflected in their eyes their weakness, selfishness, and fear; their usual courage and boldness had vanished.

Bitler was grinding his teeth in frustration. Schle had ignited the militiamen's survival instincts and self-interest, but had extinguished all their noble sentiments.

Seeing that the old sheriff remained silent, the anxious messenger bypassed Bitler and directly relayed the order to the militia: "By order of Colonel Bern, the militia of the South District..."

"The militia are directly under the city council! They are not under the control of the legion!" Schle retorted. "Bern wants to mobilize us? Let him bring the mayor's order!"

"You bastard! You're asking for death!" The messenger pulled on the reins and drew his sword with a "whoosh."

Schleer jumped onto the barricade, staring defiantly at the messenger: "You dare?!"

"Stop!" Bitler shouted. "I've made my decision..."

"Listen!" a militiaman exclaimed in alarm, interrupting the old sheriff. "What's that sound?"

Hearing this, everyone strained their ears to listen, and a series of chaotic footsteps, the sound of many people walking, clearly came from the direction of the old city. At first, the sound was faint, then gradually became clearer, and then heavier and louder. Without stopping, it grew closer and closer.

The sounds of horses neighing, people crying, and the creaking of cart axles mingled with the footsteps and reached everyone's ears.

A large group of figures emerged from the smoke and darkness, a procession fleeing a disaster. There was an old man driving a horse-drawn cart, men carrying loads on their shoulders and in their hands, and women holding children.

Unlike the scattered people who fled to the south city before, this time there was a continuous stream of people fleeing the old city, carrying all the possessions they could, and desperately abandoning their homes.

"Fire! What a big fire!"

"Mom! Where are you?"

"It's hopeless!"

"Have some compassion!"

Behind the roadblocks, the militiamen were momentarily stunned. They had set up the roadblocks to stop rioters from looting, vandalizing, and burning, but they couldn't stop so many people seeking refuge: "What...what do we do..."

Schle reacted swiftly, grabbing a musket: "Fire! Don't let them come any closer!"

A flash of gunfire illuminated the houses along the street and the expressions of the refugees, as if the door of a fireplace had suddenly opened and then immediately closed.

"what!!!"

"Help!"

"Escape!"

The refugee crowd, which had been maintaining a certain order, instantly descended into chaos. Startled horses charged wildly, and those who couldn't dodge in time screamed in agony.

Some people ran off the road and disappeared into the houses and woods on either side. Others, in desperation, stepped onto the frozen lake in an attempt to bypass the roadblocks.

The shaky ice creaked and cracked, but people kept pushing their way onto the frozen lake.

"The rioters might be hiding among them!" Schle shouted sharply. "Don't let them..."

Unable to bear it any longer, the old sheriff smashed Schiller on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, knocking his deputy unconscious.

"Don't let them onto the frozen lake!" Bitler shouted, ordering his militia: "Move the roadblocks, let them in, but don't let them run around... Don't panic! Stay calm..."

Some militiamen carried out the orders, but others couldn't hear what the sheriff was saying at all. In the ensuing chaos, a single cry could be instantly drowned out by a wave of despair.

Bitler grabbed the messenger and yelled, "Go back and tell the colonel what happened here! Even if I wanted to help him, there's nothing I could do! Tell him!"

The messenger angrily cracked his whip and, amidst another gasp and a flurry of dodges, burst through the crowd and into the night.

……

At the same time, in the North District, on Constitution Avenue.

The roadblocks built by the North City militia were also being attacked by refugees, and although the North City militia was far fewer in number than the South City militia, they were responding with much more ease and composure.

"Men, go to the right! Women and children, go to the left!" A dozen riders patrolled in front of the barricades, their canes whistling as they swung, shouting, "Throw your weapons in front of the barricades! Anyone carrying weapons into the North District will be charged with rioting!"

Similar arguments could be heard from time to time at the entrances on both sides of the roadblocks:
"We are a family!"

"That won't do! Men, women, and children must be separated!"

"Why?"

"Just because of Captain Bern's orders! Your wife and children are with other women, what are you afraid of? Get out of here!"

Another example:
"This is my carriage!"

"Hang this sign on the horse. Take this sign and come back to collect the horse after dawn!"

or:
"What are you hiding in your clothes?"

"I...I...I'll throw it outside the barricade right now!"

"catch him!"

"No! I didn't do anything!"

"Tie them up!"

"What are you doing? I really didn't do anything!"

"Ha, go tell the sheriff! Lock him up!"

According to Winters' experience, separating adult men from women and children is more effective in controlling them during emergencies. If they are not separated, the safety of women and children cannot be guaranteed, and men cannot exert their combined strength.

Therefore, as instructed by "Captain Bern," the refugees fleeing the old city were first divided into men and women and children, and then further subdivided into smaller groups for easier management. Mules, horses, and other livestock were all confiscated, and wagons and similar items were directly used as roadblocks.

Wooden stakes and ropes were used to form simple fences, dividing the lake beach and open space at the foot of the mountain into separate rest areas.

Winters rode his horse around the roadblocks, clearing blockages, resolving conflicts, and ensuring everything proceeded smoothly.

As he gradually formalized this simple framework, an unexpected person approached him—Member John Servit.

"Captain, some respectable ladies in the North City are willing to provide blankets and winter clothes to the refugees, but because of your curfew, please send someone to receive them." Councilor Servet still had a stern face: "The residents of Republic Avenue are also willing to provide hot water and meals, please send someone to assist in the distribution."

“No problem.” Winters immediately assigned some men to take the confiscated wagons and go with Servit’s men to receive the winter supplies. He also assigned more men to help distribute hot water and meals.

Servet watched silently as Winters commanded the militia with ease, offering no comment.

After Winters had everything arranged, Servet bowed and said, "Tonight, on behalf of Steelburg, I thank you."

Although Winters was wearing a helmet, he wasn't sure if Servet recognized his voice. But since the other party didn't call him out on it, Winters decided to continue the charade.

“Serving the Republic is my mission,” Winters said, his platitudes already practiced and polished. He tapped his boot heel against the wall and extended his hand to Senator Servet.

Servetus paused, raised an eyebrow slightly, and extended his hand as well.

After shaking hands, Servet turned and walked away.

“Mr. Congressman,” Winters called out to Servet, “where are you going?”

Servet replied matter-of-factly, “I also have civil rights, so I am now a conscripted militiaman. You don’t need to worry about it, just order me around like you would any other militiaman.”

“That would be too wasteful.” Winters stroked his long mane. “I want to hand this place over to you to command.”

"Me? Then what are you going to do next?"

"I'm going……"

A hail-like clatter of hooves interrupted Winters's words.

Charles rode his horse, carrying a plump man dressed in fine clothes, and stopped in front of Winters.

The well-dressed fat man had just slid off his horse when he vomited with a "whoosh".

Servet frowned: "Mr. Mayor?"

The well-dressed fat man waved his hand, finally straightened up, and inadvertently saw what he had vomited, so he vomited it up again with a "whoosh"—it seems he ate quite a bit for dinner.

Winters frowned upon hearing this. He carefully examined the well-dressed, portly man and realized that it really was Paul Wooper.

Things have become a bit complicated.

Winters knew perfectly well that, procedurally speaking, the vomiting, well-dressed fat man in front of him was currently the highest-ranking commander of the Steel Fortress militia.

Captain Berne's status and Colonel Berne's orders could overpower the sheriff, but they were no match for the mayor's authority.

Paul Wuppert was unlucky; upon seeing the fire at Estèphe House, he was initially too afraid to leave the house. However, Mrs. Wuppert, a strict woman, immediately kicked her son out of the house upon hearing the alarm.

Paul Wuppert had no choice but to wander aimlessly through the streets with a few servants, trying to prolong the journey, but he was caught on the spot by patrol riders enforcing the curfew.

As night fell and Paul Wuppert was too embarrassed to admit he was the mayor, he thought he might as well spend the night in jail. However, the patrol riders didn't take him to the jail, but instead brought him before the sheriff. Seeing that he could no longer hide it, Paul Wuppert reluctantly confessed his identity.

The sheriff dared not delay and quickly sent someone to find the captain. Thus, by a twist of fate, Paul Wooper, who had no intention of showing his face that night, was brought directly to the front lines by Charles.

Just as Winters was considering whether to "hide" Mayor Woodper to prevent him from interfering with command,

Paul Wuppert finally vomited up his dinner and bile, wiped his mouth, and looked up, panting, glancing at Winters through teary eyes, then at John Servet.

Then, without hesitation, he embraced Winters with tears in his eyes.

“Captain Bern, I’m just a good-for-nothing who knows nothing,” Paul Wupper cried, tears streaming down his face. “Tonight, it all depends on you!”

“This guy isn’t entirely useless,” Winters thought. “At least he’s self-aware.”

……

[Old Town, St. Paul's Avenue]
Scorching flames, smoke-filled streets, and continuous gunfire.

Colonel Bern had never imagined that suppressing a few petty thieves would be so troublesome.

No matter how far it extends to the north and south shores of the lake, Steel Castle is essentially a city situated in a river valley.

Her only land access point is the narrow valley path on both sides of the Rose River.

On the north bank, it's called St. John's Street; on the south bank, it's called St. Paul's Street.

The north bank is steep and difficult to traverse, so vehicles and pedestrians mainly travel on the south bank, where the Solingen garrison is also located.

However, the wide road on the south bank, which can accommodate four carriages side by side, is unusually difficult to travel on tonight.

Because someone had built barricades to block the troops from Bern.

The barricades were taller than a person and were built with wagons, planks, and other miscellaneous materials. In theory, they should not have been difficult to breach, but the rioters defending the barricades employed extremely clever tactics.

They did not engage Bern's men in close combat.

They would fire guns when the enemy was far away, and throw grenades when they were close.

The silent soldiers of the Monta Standing Army, braving the smoke and debris, finally managed to reach the barricades, only to be tossed up by a torch, instantly turning the barricades into a wall of fire.

Yes, fire was more effective than the barricades themselves in slowing down the troops' advance.

Fire was everywhere—fire on the barricades, fire in the houses along the street, and even the bushes and woods on the south side of the valley were burning.

Colonel Bern's troops had to advance while fighting the fire.

The colonel ordered his men to demolish the burning houses along the way, but this slowed the troops' advance even further.

After finally breaking through one barricade, another one awaits in front.

St. Paul Street is bordered by the Rose River on one side and houses on the other.

Colonel Bern made a decisive move, ordering a hundred-man squad to cross the river on the ice and occupy the north bank, abandoning the plan to continue the direct confrontation on the south bank.

However, before the hundred-man team could reach the center of the river, a series of flashes of light erupted from the pitch-black night, and gunfire echoed across both banks of the valley. Then, barrel after barrel of gunpowder was pushed into the river—the people blocking the garrison had also deployed their forces on the opposite bank.

Even the most obtuse officer would have realized that the ambush was premeditated. Colonel Bern, whose intuition was far sharper than most, was even more so.

“These bastards are sticking to us like snot.” Witnessing the hundred-man assault being forced back by the fire once again, Bern’s deputy [Lieutenant Colonel Thomas] punched his leg and said bitterly, “We advance, they retreat. We retreat, they advance. They just want to hold us back and keep us from moving. But they won’t engage us in direct combat, leaving us with no way to use our strength.”

Colonel Bern clenched his fists and said irritably, "Enough nonsense! Am I blind? Do you think I can't see it? The key is, what do we do?"

Lieutenant Colonel Thomas was well aware of the colonel's bad temper, so he wasn't angry: "What else can we do? They don't have many men. As long as we can drag them into close combat, we can take them down in one charge."

"Drag it into close combat? How do you mean drag it out?"

Lieutenant Colonel Thomas sighed: "Then we can only hope that the militia in the South District arrives soon."

"Hope for anything! Relying on anyone else is worse than relying on yourself! Not a single one of you in Steel Fortress can be trusted!" Colonel Bern surveyed the terrain on both sides of the valley and pointed with his riding whip: "Remember my orders: have the second and third hundred men charge along the riverbank; the fourth and fifth hundred men return upstream to cross the river and eliminate the musketeers on the other side. Be quick."

“The front…” Lieutenant Colonel Thomas hesitated.

"Don't waste lives. Withdraw them all." Bern said coldly, "Demolish the houses, break through the walls, demolish and break through one building after another."

"Demolishing a house and chiseling through walls takes a lot of time."

“It’s better than risking lives and getting nowhere. My lads can’t be wasted in a place like this.” Colonel Bern’s eyes widened. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take responsibility.”

"What are you saying?" Thomas spat. "Although you are my senior, this is far too disrespectful. Joint decision-making naturally means joint responsibility."

The clatter of hooves cut through the noise as a rider galloped along the river.

A series of gunshots rang out from both sides of the strait, with lead bullets shattering ice and sending pebbles flying.

The rider clung tightly to the horse's back, desperately urging it to gallop wildly, narrowly navigating through a hail of bullets.

The skilled and daring rider galloped right up to Colonel Bern, raised his hand in salute, and whispered, "Colonel, the militia in the south... won't be here."

Colonel Bern took a deep breath and waved his hand: "Understood."

"The militia from the south won't be here?" Lieutenant Colonel Thomas asked doubtfully.

"Yes," the messenger replied, "they are neither willing nor able."

Thomas pointed towards Steel Castle: "So, what's that?"

Colonel Bern, the messenger, and everyone present couldn't help but look in the direction the lieutenant colonel was pointing:

The sound of hooves was like thunder, and the flames were like dragons.

Iron horses galloped across the icy river.

[Working hard to pay off the debt!]
[To reduce the number of chapters, we've decided to write longer chapters! (Not really!)]
[Actually, I didn't finish writing it yesterday, but it didn't feel right to publish it in the middle...]
[The three urban riots and disturbances mentioned in this chapter all have historical prototypes: the Cambridge riot, the Cayde Revolt, and the London May Day riot. Unrest and violence, to some extent, were a central theme of civic life during the Renaissance.]
[Regarding arson, regardless of nationality, urban construction materials are primarily wood and mud; the extensive use of stone is a modern phenomenon (this was also true in Rome, only what has survived is stone). (Cement can be considered artificial stone.) Therefore, fire is the most feared disaster for urban residents.]
[In parts of Germany, arsonists were sentenced to death by burning at the stake, and those who threatened to commit arson were also prosecuted for arson. Because fires were so terrible, many thugs used arson for blackmail.]
The song "We Are the Black Legion of Gaye" mentions, "Let the red rooster stand on the roof of the monastery." The red rooster is a symbol of arson. Arsonists would paint a red rooster on someone's door beforehand to threaten or warn the homeowner.
[Thank you to all the readers for your collections, reading, subscriptions, recommendations, monthly tickets, rewards, and comments. Thank you everyone!]
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(End of this chapter)