I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 358 The God of War Sings

Before the dawn mist had completely dissipated over the plains of Golden Harvest City, the horns of the Reteria camp shattered the morning silence.

Seba Reteria chose not to wait any longer, and his massive war machine finally began to crush the Rocky Heights.

Chris stood in a hidden observation post on the Rocky Heights, watching through binoculars as tens of thousands of Retalians rode eastward. He watched them stop two kilometers away, then dismount and begin preparing for their attack.

"Tsk tsk tsk, Seba can't wait any longer!"

Chris said with a smile, and the Marquis Dirac next to him immediately replied with a humorous remark.

"Too many horses can also be a problem."

"I really wish I could have those kinds of troubles too."

"Hahaha……"

Chris and Dirac both burst into laughter, their laughter filled with contempt for their enemy.

"Alright, Your Highness, I should head back now. The Reteria are about to arrive."

Dirac politely bid farewell to Chris, then turned and left the observation post.

Chris just had a short meeting with Dirac here. The meeting was simple: when the Retalians attack from other directions, he hoped that the Hegland Legion led by Dirac could be the first to respond.

After the war in Minicia, Chris realized he had made a small but significant mistake... he shouldn't have let the players be at the forefront.

Chris counted his troops and could easily tell that the players were the most powerful group under his command.

Although the players have slight issues with discipline, once they're released, they can't be brought back, but this doesn't hinder the group's formidable combat power... similar to Norse berserkers, they can't control themselves once they see blood.

Sending out elite troops immediately during a battle is a foolish thing to do. Although these players can be resurrected, that's something that happens after the battle.

If something unexpected happens on the battlefield, or if the advance of the front line is stalled and a strong team is needed to break through the enemy's lines, the player is undoubtedly very suitable.

Chris saw many such opportunities during the raids on the Minisians, but unfortunately the best players were all on the front lines, and he couldn't find a second elite commando team that could play the same role as the players.

This resulted in Chris defeating the Minisians, but not winning the war completely.

That's a real shame.

Therefore, in this defensive battle, Chris wanted the NPCs to take the lead first, and the players could join in later.

……

Centurion Glenn Master wiped the sweat from his eyes with his rough fingers and squinted at the damned rocky hill.

The huge, barren hill, devoid of any greenery, gleamed ominously in the morning sunlight.

Behind Glenn were his hundred soldiers, a large group of newly conscripted farmers, a few brave young men, a few old ruffians with cloudy eyes, and his most trusted squire, the young and strong Hack.

These are Centurion Glenn's soldiers.

Glenn's Hundreds were now crammed into a larger, noisier infantry square, like a muddy stream carrying silt, slowly and heavily surging toward the slope.

"Hold your ground, shields up, keep your distance, don't fucking swarm together!"

Glenn's voice sounded dry and hoarse amidst the metallic scraping and heavy footsteps as he brandished a short-handled heavy hammer, a symbol of his identity, and struggled to maintain the outline of the group.

The order was given directly by Prince Seba: the auxiliary infantry would advance first, taking the high ground from the south to draw the attention of the Bagnians and create an opportunity for the real killing blow later.

Glenn didn't really believe this nonsense, but as a veteran, he was more inclined to believe what he saw: a dense forest of spears, and in the distance, the Minieses finally came out of the city and started making a great commotion on the other side.

With so many people, they can surely make it onto the platform, right?

That's all he could think.

"Centurion, what's that... that dark thing up there?"

Recruit Eric pointed behind the high ground ridgeline, his voice trembling slightly. With his farsightedness, he saw several thick, short, dark iron pipes peeking out from behind the earthen mound, like the fangs of a lurking monster.

"Who cares what this crap is!"

Glenn spat. He knew the young man's exceptional eyesight and believed him, but now, the centurion had nothing left but to try to make his voice sound disdainful and appease his subordinates.

"That's a trick by the mountain barbarians! When we charge in, we'll show them with iron and blood who truly rules the battlefield! For Retelia! For Prince Seba!"

He roared a call, and the surrounding soldiers joined in, their pace seemingly quickening slightly. Hack gripped his spear tightly, his eyes sharply fixed ahead.

at this time……

A thunderous roar, so deep it seemed to explode from the depths of the earth, ripped the sky apart without warning. The sound was so loud that Glenn's eardrums ached, and the ground beneath his feet trembled slightly. Then came a second, a third... like the frantic beating of a giant drum from hell!
Glenn's heart clenched, and a chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Before he could see what was happening, he caught a glimpse of a blinding crimson bursting forth from the center of another densely packed hundred-man squad a few dozen steps to his right.

A dark, bowl-sized lump of iron, accompanied by a piercing shriek that tore through the air, slammed into the crowd at a speed he could not comprehend.

There was no fire, no explosion, only pure, savage impact!

"Pfft... Crack... Splash..."

The sound was terrifying, like a heavy iron hammer smashing into a sack full of bones—dull, heavy, mixed with the chilling sounds of bones cracking and metal twisting.

Glenn jerked his head around, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. He stared wide-eyed at the black Grim Reaper, who had carved a straight, bloody path through the dense infantry ranks.

A soldier holding a spear aloft vanished instantly from his upper body as he stood in front of it, leaving only his legs below the waist standing eerily for half a second before collapsing limply, his crimson internal organs and bone fragments splattering out like garbage.

A soldier holding a shield was grazed by a cannonball, his shield and the man himself shattering like paper. His entire right arm and half of his shoulder were torn off, and the jet of blood spurting from the cut was as high as two or three people. The warm liquid even splashed onto Glenn's face.

Several soldiers were thrown into the air by the terrifying kinetic energy of the shells, tumbling like rag dolls and crushing even more people behind them.

The passageway was suddenly covered with twisted and deformed corpses, broken limbs, shattered armor, and entrails covered with mud and bits of flesh. The pungent, nauseating stench of blood instantly filled the air!
Time seemed to freeze; the previously loud battle cries instantly fell silent.

"Uh... ah..."

Eric, standing next to Glenn, let out a groan that sounded like air leaking from his throat. His eyes were wide open, almost bursting out of their sockets, and a strong, pungent stench emanated from his crotch... The greenhorn had lost control of his bladder from seeing too much.

Fear, pure, primal, irrational fear, exploded among the Reteria infantry like a plague.

"Divine punishment, it's divine punishment!"

"Sun God, oh my god..."

"Help! My legs! My legs are gone!"

A soldier whose lower leg had been severed by flying shards of leg bone rolled on the ground, howling in agony.

A second and a third large-caliber solid shot followed in quick succession. They slammed into different positions of the Retalian infantry phalanx with the same piercing shriek, as if they wanted to crush everything.

Each impact was like a giant's iron fist smashing into an anthill; each impact created a new, even more gruesome alley of flesh and blood in the dense crowd, with broken limbs and internal organs flying up and falling like raindrops!
Glenn felt his blood freeze. He saw a shell fly past the edge of an old soldier's shield in front of him, the scorching air from the high-speed object stinging his cheek. The shell crashed into the crowd not far behind him, followed by another tooth-grinding cracking sound and desperate screams.

Then he saw half of a helmeted head spinning and flying over his head.

"Hold on, don't retreat, charge forward, charge forward and... victory will be achieved..."

Glenn roared with the last vestiges of his professional soldier instincts, trying to pound his shield with a heavy hammer to quell the comrades' fears, but his voice trembled so badly that he could barely hear himself.

Fear had completely consumed everyone. He saw Huck, the brave squire whom he regarded as a son, now as pale as a corpse, his lips trembling, his eyes unfocused, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind, and the spear in his hand falling to the ground with a clatter.

"Boom!!!"

Another shell was fired, this time landing even closer. Along with the loud noise came the severed human body that flew backward and slammed into Glenn's chest.

Glenn felt a sudden darkness before his eyes, and he was thrown into the air, crashing heavily onto the muddy, blood-soaked ground. All he could hear was a sharp, piercing buzzing in his ears, and the whole world seemed to be spinning.

Glenn struggled to lift his head, his helmet askew, obscuring one eye.

What he saw was a scene of hell, where utterly broken soldiers, like a flock of frightened sheep, pushed and trampled each other, just to escape the ever-falling iron lumps that brought absolute destruction.

The supervisory team frantically hacked down the deserters from behind, but the retreating wave instantly overwhelmed them. What formation, what honor, what Prince Seba's orders... all became bullshit in the face of those terrifying, unstoppable solid iron balls.

The thought of surviving was like a red-hot branding iron, searing through all of Glenn's reason and dignity.

He scrambled to his feet, not even realizing he had vomited; the vomit, mixed with mud and blood, covered his breastplate.

He threw away the cumbersome heavy hammer, and also ripped off his helmet, finding it in the way. Like a wounded beast, he turned around with all his might and joined the torrent of fleeing soldiers.

Glenn trudged through the sticky, slippery swamp of flesh and blood, feeling the sensation of breaking bones or sinking into soft entrails under his feet. He dared not look down, shoving aside those blocking his way with his shoulder, his mind filled only with the deafening roar of cannons behind him, like a millstone turning in hell.

"Run, run quickly!"

He howled hoarsely, his voice filled with despair and collapse that he himself was unaware of.

What centurion's authority, what Leterian warrior's pride—all were crushed to dust before those black pipes spewing deathly lumps of iron, utterly worthless, mixed in with the mud and flesh. He just wanted to get away, as far away as possible! He felt like a terrified rat, truly fleeing in a panic, a pathetic mess, through the mud, blood, and broken limbs.

The shrill whistling of the iron ball tearing through the air, the horrific sight of a human body being instantly smashed and torn apart, the thick, unbearable stench of blood and entrails—all these were deeply etched into his very bones.

This was no longer a battle; it was a one-sided massacre carried out by cold, hard metal.

Glenn Master, a self-proclaimed brave civilian centurion, was left with only primal fear and the instinct to escape in the face of this rain of iron.

……

Sebalema stood on a slightly higher earthen slope, holding a monocular telescope, his eyes fixed on the battlefield beneath the rocky hills to the east.

The morning breeze carried the faint sounds of distant commotion. It was the sound of five thousand-man squads, composed of conscripts and auxiliary infantry, moving slowly and steadily toward the barren hillside, just like two turbid iron torrents, one on the left and one on the right, under his orders.

His plan was clear and ruthless: launch a coordinated attack from the east, using these "consumables" to draw in and entangle the main force of the Bagnians, especially their formidable artillery.

Once the attention of the high ground defenders was drawn to him, his elite forces, thousands of heavily armored knights and dismounted riders who were like mobile steel fortresses, were poised to strike.

It will come from the south, like the sharpest dagger, and stab fiercely at the seemingly weak flank of the Hegland Legion's camp.

The defensive line consisting of barbed wire, chevaux-de-frise, and trenches was troublesome, so Seba knew he had to forcibly interrupt the process before the enemy could perfect their defenses.

"here we go."

The adjutant's voice carried a hint of barely perceptible tension.

Seba nodded slightly, a cold smile even curving his lips.

He saw his own infantry formations, urged on by the supervising officers, quickening their pace with a clamor, their spear tips gleaming coldly in the rising sun.

In the distance, towards the direction of Golden Harvest City, the disorganized flags of the Miniese began to move, and the sound of drums and horns drifted from the north. Although chaotic, the sound was quite powerful... According to the plan, the Miniese approached the Rocky Highlands from the north.

Very well, at least these "allies" are somewhat useful in drawing fire.

However, the smile on his lips froze abruptly the next second.

In the telescope's field of view, behind the ridgeline of the rocky highlands, several huge, orange-red flames suddenly erupted.

Immediately afterwards, a deep, muffled roar, like thunder deep within the earth, pierced through space and slammed into his eardrums.

The continuous sound of cannon fire, with a rhythm so steady it was chilling.

Seba's pupils contracted instantly!
He saw the first black dot-like iron ball, with a trajectory too subtle to be seen with the naked eye, precisely smash into the center of the densest part of the thousand-man squad on the right flank.

There was no explosion, only a pure, devastating physical impact.

The telescope's field of vision seemed to be instantly stained red with blood mist.

The terrifying iron ball ripped a straight, bloody trench through the dense crowd, breaking, tearing, and pulverizing the soldiers' bodies like straw.

Limbs, broken shields, and fragments of armor were tossed into the air like trash. He could even "see" the pieces of internal organs that were sprayed out in that instant, reflecting a dark red glow in the morning light!
Time seemed to stretch out at that moment.

Seba's hand holding the binoculars tensed instantly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

The color drained from his face in an instant, leaving only a cold, ashen blue.

He was no stranger to dead bodies or horrific battlefields, but the carnage caused by the god of war still sent a chill through him like never before.

"Do not……"

Peren let out an unconscious groan beside him.

The second and third shells followed in quick succession.

More shells, accompanied by the same merciless whistling, slammed into different positions of our own infantry like giant hammers. Each impact created new and even more horrifying bloody alleys within the dense infantry formation.

Fear spread like a plague through the telescope's field of vision, and the formation that had just been barely maintained instantly exploded violently, like water ripped open by a stone.

collapse.

A complete, avalanche-like collapse!
After more than two hundred men were killed in an instant by the thousand-man squad on the right wing, the soldiers who saw their comrades being bombed to pieces threw down their weapons, pushed their comrades down, and fled frantically like an ant swarm being doused with boiling water.

Further back, the supervising squad wielded swords and cut down a few deserters, but they were immediately overwhelmed and swallowed up by the surging tide of retreat.

Orders and honors are all a joke in the face of those black pipes that spew out lumps of death.

All of this happened only after two salvos from the enemy's five heavy artillery pieces.

Seba clearly saw that the two thousand-man squads on the right flank hadn't even entered the range of the arrows, nor had they even touched the foot of the rocky hill. They were completely crushed and disintegrated at least five hundred meters away from the hill.

The infantry on the left flank didn't need any retreat horns or flags; these conscripted infantrymen immediately turned and ran back, so decisively that even the supervising team was somewhat at a loss.

Seba abruptly moved the telescope away from the east and scanned the direction of Golden Harvest City.

Miniese troops?

Their drums and bugles seemed to have stopped, and the messy flags to the north were swaying in place, even showing signs of retreating. They hadn't even reached their designated "feint" positions, let alone entered a battle state.

"waste!"

Seba spat out two words through gritted teeth, his voice icy and chilling, containing boundless rage and a hint of fear that even he himself was unwilling to admit.

He put down the binoculars, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Despite the distance, he could smell the mixture of gunpowder and blood in the cool morning air, a peculiar odor that irritated his nostrils.

The accompanying attack force on the eastern front failed.

The plan to wear down artillery with infantry became a complete joke in the face of the Bagnians' unimaginable artillery range and terrifying killing efficiency.

Sending more people up there would only be providing them with more flesh and blood as sacrifices to those black tubes.

"Your Highness..."

Perrin's voice trembled with inquiry.

Seba suddenly opened his eyes, forcibly suppressing all the shock and anger in them, leaving only an icy calm and resolute expression.

He could wait no longer. Every minute and every second, his tens of thousands of horses were consuming an unbearable amount of fodder and water! The Bagnians' cannons were like the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head; if he continued to delay, morale would only drop further.

If the eastern front is impassable, then the second plan must be implemented immediately! With the Bagnians' attention drawn to the collapse in the east and the chaos among the Minieses, it is the perfect time to launch an attack on the southern front.

"Peren!"

Seba's voice was firm and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

"exist!"

"Send the order!"

Seba's gaze, sharp as a quenched blade, suddenly turned southwest, where the outline of the Highland Legion's camp could be seen.

"Heavy cavalry, first and second echelons, target the enemy camp to the south. Charge immediately, at all costs, tear through their defenses! Infantry assault groups, follow closely behind, seize the gate and break into the camp!"

"And our cannons, those stone-throwing cannons, push them all up and fire them as close as possible."

He paused, his voice growing even colder:
“Send someone to Golden Harvest and tell Charles that his troops must immediately launch a real attack from the east to tie down the defenders on the high ground, or else…we’ll leave here now.”

He didn't finish speaking, but his chilling killing intent was enough to convey his message.

"Yes, Your Highness!"

Perrin's spirits lifted, and he immediately turned his horse around and loudly relayed the order.

The deep, resonant bugle call instantly changed its rhythm, and on the south side of the Reteria camp, the steel torrent, which had been unable to contain itself any longer, let out a deafening roar.

The sound of hooves gradually increased, rising like rolling thunder. Thousands of heavily armored knights, each wielding a lance, led by their respective lords, charged like a torrent of steel bursting its banks, raising clouds of dust as they launched a thunderous charge toward the south gate of the Highland Legion's camp.

Seba raised his binoculars again, and behind the cold lens, he saw the surging torrent of iron.

The gloom in his heart caused by the disastrous defeat on the Eastern Front was temporarily replaced by a desperate determination and a strong desire for conquest.

"Chris... let's see if your iron lump is harder, or my iron cavalry is sharper!"

He muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the southern front.

Success or failure depends on this!
(End of this chapter)