I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 312 Pain on Both Sides

Ye Ao stood atop the city wall of the west gate, looking out over the distances beyond the reach of the city wall's cannons, watching the reinforcements engage in battle with the Minieses amidst the dense sounds of gunfire and billowing smoke.

He sighed deeply, but there was nothing he could do.

"Damn, it's too far away. These little cannons on the city wall can't reach it."

"Even if we can reach it, it's useless; we have to keep the gunpowder."

Alibaba, standing nearby, complained.

“Look at the firing rate those guys are using now. Once they come in, they’ll definitely run out of ammunition. We need to conserve gunpowder for them, otherwise their flintlock muskets will be useless.”

"Okay, okay... now, should we do something?"

"What are we doing? Resting. The battle is far from over. There are a lot of Minieses in the city."

……

The smoke was so thick it was impossible to disperse, like clumps of scalding, choking gray cotton, tightly filling Dorok's nasal cavity and throat.

Each breath carried the spiciness of gunpowder, making his throat tighten and almost causing him to cough, but the urge to cough was suppressed by a deeper numbness.

The view was a blur; the enemy lines that should have been there, the blurry lines ahead, had completely vanished behind the billowing smoke, leaving only indistinct, ghostly human silhouettes.

The constant buzzing in Dorok's ears was background noise; the sharp gunshots, the muffled thuds of artillery shells, and the screams and commands coming from all directions seemed to come through a thick layer of water, distorted and lost their concrete meaning.

Another muffled roar came, seemingly from a great distance, but the crucial syllable "fire" pierced the buzzing in Dorok's ears like an invisible needle.

There was no thought, no hesitation, not even fear or excitement. The word acted as if it were directly affecting his spinal cord.

His body moved faster than his mind; his shoulders, already soaked in sweat and stained with gunpowder, instinctively thrust forward to brace against the familiar, heavy wooden stock.

Almost at the same instant, his eyes, reddened by gunpowder smoke and almost unfocused, reflexively peered through the blurry mountain-shaped camera shutter at the rolling gray expanse.

Nothing could be seen there except for the smoke of gunpowder; the fingers pulling the trigger moved stiffly yet swiftly.

"boom"

The butt of the rifle slammed backward, and a familiar dull pain shot through my shoulder.

The flash of flint striking the gun disappeared in the thick smoke, and the flame from the muzzle briefly illuminated a small patch of smoke-filled space in front of him, reflecting the frozen, lifeless expression on Dorok's face before being swallowed up by the even darker gray.

Then a stronger, hotter wave of gunpowder fumes hit him, making the hairs on his face seem to curl up.

The vibration of the rifle butt striking his shoulder became the only signal in Dorokh's chain of actions. He immediately lowered the heavy musket from his shoulder.

Retreat, brush past the advancing players, stand at the very back of the others, and begin a new round of reloading.

The scorching gun barrel burned Dorok's fingers, but the burning sensation seemed to come from another body; his movements were chillingly skilled.

With his left hand, he quickly gripped the swivel, and with his right thumb, he skillfully flicked open the gunpowder bath cover, letting any residue inside fall out. Then, with the smoking muzzle facing upwards, he inserted the swivel to poke out any remaining bullets and grease-soaked cloth scraps.

The movements were precise, swift, and devoid of any emotion, as if they were not cleaning a murder weapon but wiping a farm tool.

Then, Dorok pulled a paper-packaged fixed round from his ammunition pouch at his waist, mechanically biting open the paper casing with his teeth, and a bitter taste of black powder instantly filled his mouth.

Then, numbly, he poured gunpowder into the muzzle, inserted lead bullets, and rammed them in with a scouring pad, "thump! thump!" Each impact carried a dull, resolute force.

After reloading, Dorok once again held the butt of the rifle in his palm, the scalding hot barrel against his shoulder, the muzzle pointing towards the gray, smoke-shrouded sky.

Dorok had just returned to his position in the queue, waiting for the player in front of him to move forward, when suddenly the latter fell forward, creating an empty space. Dorok instinctively moved forward to fill that space.

Two seconds later, Dorok heard the indistinct command again.

"Fire!"

And so, the repetition began.

Raise the gun, butt against shoulder, aim blindly at the void in the thick smoke, pull the trigger, bang! Shoulder jolted, choking smoke rushed into lungs, lower the gun, step back, clean the powder pit and barrel, load, raise it, and wait.

The smoke grew thicker, almost solidifying in the air, making each breath feel like swallowing grit. In the ranks beside him, someone let out a short, muffled groan and fell to the ground, the heavy thud standing out sharply between the dense gunfire.

Dorokh didn't even glance at him. His world shrank to just a few actions: raising the gun, firing, reloading. His senses were numb, leaving only the impact on his shoulder, the burning pain in his fingers, the burning sensation in his throat, and the incessant, tidal buzzing in his ears.

He was like a machine with a pre-programmed sequence of actions, repeating the killing process over and over again in the thick fog of death.

What was the objective? What did the enemy look like? What was the significance of this battle? All these thoughts were completely crushed and drowned out by the deafening gunfire and choking smoke.

He was simply carrying out an order etched into his very bones, mechanically and dazedly pushing death forward in the choking hell, and then preparing for the next one. Each gunshot was merely a node in his numb cycle, a moment that required no thought, only the body's effort.

Once reloaded, the gun pressed heavily against his shoulder again, the scalding metal against his skin. Through the shoulder of the player in front of him, Dorok, with tears streaming down his face and his eyes bloodshot, still saw that all-consuming, choking gray expanse.

He waited, waiting for his companion in front to turn around so he could step forward, and then came the next ear-piercing, deathly syllable.

While waiting, a thought suddenly popped into Dorok's mind.

"Damn it, how come I haven't been shot dead yet?"

……

Iron Heart was panting heavily, and with each heavy breath, pink foam escaped from the corner of his mouth. Bloodstains were slowly spreading on the neatly wrapped gauze around his chest.

He was about to die, but the players guarding Heart of Steel didn't want him to die easily, so they put him on a unicycle with a wooden frame behind him and ropes binding him so that Heart of Steel could sit on it without slipping off.

Not only that, but four players also lifted Ironheart's unicycle up shoulder to shoulder, allowing him to observe the entire battlefield from above through the smoke.

"Hey bro, what do we do now?"

Underneath the wheelbarrow, a player with a "messenger" flag stuck on his back was asking a question loudly.

"Hey buddy, what do we do now? We've driven back the cavalry behind us, but the musketeers in front are still there. How are we going to fight them? Say something!"

Iron Will looked down at the messenger helplessly. He wanted to complain about how inhuman these guys were, forcing seriously wounded soldiers to fight while injured. But the words that came out of his mouth turned into a pink bubble.

That's fucking amazing!

Ironheart was the elected interim leader. He was a veteran player with some reputation, but not much.

He was elected because he participated in more campaigns than other candidates, so the other players voted for him.

Becoming the boss should have been a great thing, but Iron Heart feels very unhappy and uncomfortable now.

Iron Heart felt as if his lungs were filled with a pot of boiling molten lead, and every breath felt like someone was stirring his chest cavity with a red-hot iron hook.

That damned lead bullet was still lodged in my lung, causing it to tremble slightly with every heartbeat, rubbing against my fragile internal organs and bringing sharp, tearing pain.

Hearts of Steel feels terrible; I feel like I'm suffocating. Lowering the pain level doesn't mean I don't feel anything.

He wanted to cough, to spit out the blood clots and bits of flesh blocking his trachea, but each violent gasp only caused more blood and foam to spill from the corners of his mouth. Pink foam dripped down his chin, spreading new blood flowers on the already soaked bandages on his chest.

His breathing became more and more rapid, but he could only inhale less and less air, as if his entire chest cavity was tightly wrapped by a soaked cotton cloth.

"Hey bro, stop just blowing bubbles! Give the order!"

The players below were still shouting, their tone even carrying a hint of impatience, as if Iron Will was deliberately stalling for time by appearing half-dead.

Damn it, these bastards… Iron Will cursed inwardly, but as soon as he opened his mouth, another string of blood bubbles gurgled out.

He barely managed to raise his hand, pointing tremblingly to the still-firing front line ahead, and then made a gesture to steady himself and continue firing... hoping those bastards would understand.

Half an hour ago, he was shot. Iron Heart still remembers that he was standing on the left side of the large horizontal formation, in the third row. He was observing the battle through the shoulders of the players in front of him when he suddenly felt a jolt in his chest. He had been shot.

If it weren't for the lead bullets coming from the front, and if he hadn't seen someone turn around and point a gun at him, Iron Will would have thought someone was shooting him in the back.

Damn it, with two rows of human shields blocking the way, bullets still managed to hit me. This level of bad luck is outrageous. It's understandable if I get hit by a shell, since human shields can't stop it after all. But to be hit by a bullet that goes through two rows of human shields is like having a toothache even when drinking cold water.

Because of his severe injuries, he wouldn't die, which forced Iron Heart's command to become more concise and conservative.

Know yourself and the enemy, a hundred battles will never end.

For now, only a confidant can understand the Iron Will.

Two-thirds of the less than two thousand player infantrymen are newbies who have just entered the game. During the time they were attacking the castle, they became very familiar with the flintlock muskets in their hands, as well as the processes of loading and firing.

Overall, their stationary output is passable, or even excellent.

Even if NPC soldiers perform exceptionally well in training, they are already considered elite if they can perform at half the level they did in training on the battlefield.

But these players are different... They are not afraid of death, blood, or even pain (as long as the pain threshold is set low enough). They can execute commands with machine-like precision, loading, aiming, and firing, in a continuous cycle until they run out of ammunition or the enemy is routed.

Being good at long-range shooting doesn't mean these new players are good at close combat... On the contrary, if they were to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy, relying on the bayonet on the flintlock musket, they would definitely be beaten to a pulp.

The flintlock musket was heavier than the knives, swords, and spears used in actual combat, and its center of gravity was unstable. Some people say that a flintlock musket with a bayonet can be used as a short spear, but this is just a consolation for the musketeers out of desperation. If they were given a knife or sword when they really needed to fight, the musketeers would definitely drop their fire sticks.

Therefore, Iron Will judges that their long-range shooting is excellent. If they enter the melee phase, even if the players have the passive ability of "fight to the death", the casualties will soar due to the newcomers' lack of proficiency.

Veteran players can engage in melee combat, let them take the lead?

With fewer veteran players remaining, they still have to act as junior officers, directing new players to avoid mistakes. If they are truly treated as melee fighters, then the overall organization of the infantry regiment will plummet.

Furthermore, Iron Will can't even do the most basic "know your enemy" right now.

He couldn't see the enemy's formation, couldn't hear the changes on the battlefield, and couldn't even tell if the Miniese musketeers had begun to waver. He could only piece together fragmented information from the scattered shouts of the players below...

"The cavalry has retreated!"

"Damn, why do they have a reserve team?!"

"Ammunition! Does anyone have any ammunition?!"

So, steely resolve, gritting his teeth and suppressing the surging blood in his lungs, made another gesture... Stabilize formation and continue firing. Musketeers and cannons alike, continue firing freely, no charging!
……

Colonel Corbot of the 3rd Infantry Regiment of the 7th Army Corps of Miniscia used his saber to cut through the smoke in front of him, the taste of blood in his throat.

This was his fifth charge, but the wall of sighs made of gunpowder and lead bullets on the other side remained unmoved.

"Damn it! Don't these strangers have any brains?!"

He complained to the standard-bearer beside him, but his voice was swallowed up by the explosion of a new volley. Thirty yards in front of him, another swordsman and shieldman fell backward, his helmet exploding like a ripe pumpkin as it was blown away by lead bullets.

Colbert witnessed firsthand how the first wave of musketeers' charge crumbled. Those young men in blue jackets had clearly advanced to within fifty meters.

At this distance, a smoothbore musket should have been able to hit its mark every time. However, when the Minisians stopped to take aim, the strangers opposite them fired three volleys in a minute amidst the thick smoke, driving these brave young men to despair.

Without panic or firing prematurely, they were like wind-up dolls possessed by a demon, orderly and disciplined to an inhuman degree.

The men in blue coats lying haphazardly in the middle of the battlefield are the price of their charge.

"Second sword and shield company, push forward!"

Corbert pointed his sword forward. He had deliberately kept these armored elites for this moment. Three hundred heavily armored warriors immediately formed a wedge formation, their kite-shaped shields forming a steel wave in the sunlight. This was a trump card that could break through any musketeer formation.

In this era of transition between cold and hot weapons, heavy armor still plays a decisive role on the battlefield. Even lamellar armor, which is despised by some, can stop lead bullets fired from muzzle-loading smoothbore muskets at medium to long ranges.

Lead is a soft metal. When a lead bullet hits heavy armor, it does not penetrate directly like a hard metal bullet. Instead, it deforms on the armor surface. This deformation dissipates a large amount of impact energy, allowing the heavy armor to effectively resist the attack of the lead bullet.

Although it will most likely result in blunt force trauma, at least it won't cause someone to collapse and die from being hit by a lead bullet.

The reason why heavy armor will be phased out in the future is simply because its cost-effectiveness has decreased. In the 21st century, armor will reappear.

This proves the theory that history progresses in a spiral.

Therefore, as the swordsmen advanced, despite the dense rain of lead bullets coming from the front, with each step forward, the soldiers at the front would have their shields shattered and their breastplates pierced, before collapsing to the ground with a muffled groan.

However, the swordsmen and shieldmen were indeed advancing, and the musketeers who had retreated to the sides were also firing freely to provide fire support for their friendly forces.

But as the swordsmen charged within thirty meters, a cloud of white smoke suddenly rose in front of the enemy ranks, and Corbert heard the familiar "bang bang" sound.

Those damn light artillery pieces!

Sure enough, when the thumb-thick shot swept across like an iron broom, the shields and breastplates of the front-line warriors instantly became blood-stained sieves, and dozens of Minieses fell backward, spitting blood.

The originally neat and dense wedge formation turned into a sparse skirmish line in just a few breaths.

Corbert watched helplessly as his most elite soldiers were harvested like wheat; the thumb-thick shotgun shells were terrifyingly lethal at close range.

They can not only easily penetrate shields and breastplates, but they can also continue to roll after penetrating a human body, knocking down the soldiers behind them as well.

"Don't stop! Charge through the death zone!"

Colbert screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice filled with desperate madness. He knew that retreating now would only lead to more casualties, and the only way to survive was to charge into the enemy lines and fight hand to hand. The standard-bearer behind him waved the flag with all his might, and the bugler blew the bugle with all his might to convey the major's orders to the front.

However, while Colbert, standing at the back, could shout things like "Charge!", it was all easy for him to say without thinking, whereas the swordsmen and shieldmen at the front really didn't want to charge, nor could they.

The lead bullets fired from the front are no joke. Even with a leather-covered wooden shield and a steel breastplate, it still hurts a lot when you get hit.

If the shield is pierced, the hand will be injured; if the breastplate is hit, even if it is not pierced, the chest will feel stuffy and painful; if the lower body, which is not protected, or even the neck is hit, the swordsman and shieldman will die like a dog.

When the enemy's light artillery bombarded them, it was even more deadly. They were like rats being swept and beaten with an iron broom, suffering heavy casualties. The lucky ones who died simply lay unconscious on the ground, while the survivors were exhausted and in pain just by standing.

rush?
How can we charge forward? There's a hail of bullets ahead, and our brothers' corpses lie on the ground.

Colbert was both angry and anxious as he watched the swordsmen and shieldmen in front of him standing still. He wanted to ride over and pull their ears so that they would continue their charge.

Under such circumstances, Corbert witnessed the most horrific sight.

Even when the swordsmen and shieldmen were almost in front of them, the foreigners remained calm. The musketeers at the front silently took a half step back, then crouched down, revealing three rows of dark gun barrels behind them, and then they all opened fire... It turned out that the entire line formation had a depth of five ranks!
The sparks from the striking flint merged into one, and the moment the five rows of flintlock muskets simultaneously spat fire, the entire battlefield seemed to be struck by an invisible giant hammer. Corbert saw the swordsmen and shieldmen in the front row crash into an invisible wall, falling backward in unison.

This was not a sporadic gunshot, but the deafening roar of hundreds of muskets firing simultaneously. Corbert's eardrums throbbed with pain as he watched the shockwaves from the smoke spread out like ripples, sending the front-line swordsmen and shieldmen flying.

An officer standing at the front, holding a broken sword, suddenly exploded in mid-air, like a watermelon smashed by an unseen giant hand... His officer's helmet and fringed coat were so conspicuous that at least ten muskets were aimed at him and fired.

Even Corbot, who was standing 200 meters away, felt hot iron scrape against his cheek, and the flag bearer next to him suddenly lost half of his head.

After the fifth salvo, no swordsmen and shieldmen could be seen standing on the battlefield. The surviving Minisians were either kneeling in pools of blood groaning or dragging their severed limbs backward. A standard-bearer lying on the ground was still trying to raise the military flag, but after swaying it a few times, the flag fell to the ground.

Given the massive blood loss, he wouldn't survive long.

The remaining swordsmen, less than a fifth of the total, were already running back; their courage had been shattered by the relentless barrage of fire.

Colbert was at a loss for what to do when he heard five muffled cannon shots behind him, five solid shot shells whistling across the battlefield with a deathly shriek.

The first shell created a deep crater thirty meters in front of the enemy lines, kicking up a cloud of mud.

The second shot struck precisely in the center of the enemy ranks, severing three Bagnian barbarians in half at the waist, their flesh and entrails flying like rags.

The third shot grazed the edge of the enemy ranks, taking down two enemies. The fourth and fifth shots, like bowling balls, plowed two bloody lanes through the dense ranks.

This single shelling inflicted at least twenty casualties on the Bagnians on the other side.

"Artillery fire! It's our artillery!"

Colbert heard cheers behind him, and in fact, he was also very excited. However, his joy did not last for more than a few seconds. Looking at the enemy in front of him who were still standing firm and orderly adjusting their formation, preparing to fire again, his burning heart quickly cooled down.

If it weren't for the shell craters still being there, the steam rising from the shattered corpses of the enemy, and the loud cheers of the soldiers nearby, Corbert would have thought that seeing five shells was just his hallucination.

These Bagnians are too calm, too...

For a moment, Colbert couldn't think of an adjective, and he didn't know what to do.

"Quickly, messenger, go and notify the artillery to fire rapidly, and keep the artillery firing!"

The standard-bearer had just been killed, so Corbot had no choice but to call on the messenger to act as a human mouthpiece to relay the orders.

When the messenger left, he ordered the other musketeers to continue firing at a range of 200 meters. Although the effect was not very good, it was safer.

A short while later, the messenger ran back.

"Sir, the gunner said their cannons are overheating and can't be fired anymore."

"How can the enemy's artillery still fire?!"

Colbert pointed angrily ahead, while the messenger remained silent, unable to explain the situation.

Corbot really wanted to win; he wanted to keep those Bagnian barbarians in front of him.

This is not only because of military orders and military merits, but also because winning this battle will make the whole family rich. These two thousand barbarians mean two thousand finely crafted flintlock muskets!
Corbert had met some officers who had fought in Bagnia. Some of them sold captured flintlock muskets privately. Even if they lost their military posts, they would take the money back to their hometowns, buy land, and become well-off landowners.

Chris's Bagnian barbarians are savage, but their weapons are also very valuable. If he could acquire two thousand flintlock muskets, he could make a fortune, even if he had to share the spoils with his superiors and subordinates.

Therefore, Colbert wanted to win more than anyone else.

However, given the objective conditions, even with reinforcements coming from behind, they simply couldn't break through. Their own musketeers, who had a numerical advantage, were utterly defeated in the exchange of fire, further proving that the enemy's flintlock muskets were indeed formidable.

Colbert sighed.

"Retreat! Musketeers, retreat! First Company swordsmen and shieldmen, stand by until my order..."

Corbert thought that since they couldn't break through, they should retreat a distance to lure the enemy into charging. Once the enemy was charging, the swordsmen and shieldmen would launch a counter-charge to get close to the enemy and engage in hand-to-hand combat.

The plan was good, but Iron Will, half-dead on his wheelbarrow, wasn't fooled.

You ran away?
I didn't chase them. I let the players methodically collect the bodies of the dead, carry the wounded, gather the flintlock muskets and ammunition, and then slowly form a hollow square formation, advancing towards the city at a leisurely pace.

This infuriated Corbert, and when the Minieses came again, the player stopped, deployed in a horizontal formation, fired the tiger cannons first, followed by a volley of flintlock muskets, a single trick that worked wonders.

Iron Will knew perfectly well that even if he rushed into the city, he would still have to fight the Minisians in the city. Rather than a bloody battle in the city, it would be better to fight each other in open field, where the casualty exchange ratio between his side and the enemy would be higher.

The Miniese bronze field cannons had a range advantage, and the tiger-squatting cannons would be at a disadvantage in a firefight with them.

However, Iron Will doesn't care, nor do the players who get hit by the shells. If the range isn't enough, they'll just move a few more steps until the range is sufficient, then they'll let the Tiger Crouching Cannon fire and kill the enemy's artillery.

After three rounds of fighting, the reinforcements advanced one kilometer into the city, and two of the Minieses' ten gates were damaged. Most importantly, their artillerymen were almost wiped out.

This caused the bronze field guns of Miniscia to become increasingly inaccurate. By the afternoon, the remaining eight field guns were firing shells at a range of 300 meters with almost no accuracy, relying purely on luck to maintain their hit rate. This resulted in a sharp decline in the threat level of the artillery.

Artillery players operating the Tiger Crouching Cannon also suffered heavy casualties in the firefights, but Hearts of Steel was not afraid of such things, because if you just grab any player and let them fire a couple of shots, they will quickly become skilled gunners.

This is possible entirely because every player is an intellectual, which is a crushing advantage over the Minisians in terms of learning ability and education.

The player made several stops along the way and saw the walls of Tavitsky in the early hours of the morning, but it took them a whole morning and most of the afternoon to get close to the city.

The fiercest battle took place in the morning, with the Minieses losing nearly 1,500 corpses and the players losing over 400 lives.

After this battle, the Minieses, who were trying to stop the players, were nearly broken. In the following battles, they fought only small skirmishes, firing muskets, cannons, and crossbows from a distance, but never considering launching a full-scale attack.

The reason was simple: under the instructions of Iron Will and the command of one-third of the veteran players, the new players marched and lined up, firing their weapons in formation. From day to afternoon, they remained in formation and queued up without any disorder.

After driving the enemy away, I didn't pursue them. I stopped where I was, adjusted my formation, treated the wounded, and carried away the bodies.

Steady as an old dog, moving like a tortoise, my motto is "do whatever you want," I'll just follow my own pace, I'm not in a hurry.

The west gate is right there, and there are still fifty veteran players defending it. Since it can't be lost at night, it certainly won't be so easy to lose during the day either.

Despite their slow and hesitant movements, Iron Heart and his team managed to avoid giving the Minisians any openings, and it wasn't until after 3 p.m. that they entered Tavitsky.

Once inside the city, the already doomed Iron Will finally breathed its last, no longer tormented by the bullets in its chest and lungs.

(End of this chapter)