Margaret couldn't help but look up when she heard this, her face turning ashen, her lips pale yet her eyes bloodshot.
It is often said that geniuses must have pride, and this made her recall when Lance refused her previously on the grounds of never having killed anyone.
Can this be tolerated?
She cast a glance at those charging soldiers, only to awkwardly realize a problem: which of them were of value?
Earlier, shields were raised in protection, and as they hadn't entered shooting range yet, the ambush snipers had no shooting space, allowing the crossbown to fire a round.
But now, with the musketeers not continuing to shoot, the Shield Guards accelerated, while the crossbown needed to reload, thus naturally getting out of sync.
During previous battles with the Barbarian Plunderers, the crossbown, being at range, hadn't lost many, and their formations were relatively intact, but even they couldn't endure such sniping.
In one round, over ten of them were killed or injured, basically eliminating any crossbown that showed their heads, leaving her without a target.
However, amidst the charging troops, there were a few conspicuous ones; in an instant, she set her sights on the Standard-Bearer carrying the flag, raised her gun, and aid.
Originally, she aid for the head, confident she could hit even while in motion.
But thinking of such a scene made her nauseous again, so she slightly lowered the muzzle.
Bright fire erupted, and in the distance, a bloom of blood blossod from the Standard-Bearer's side chest as he struggled and fell.
Margaret's face was still grim, knowing she had aid for the heart but had missed; fortunately, she hadn't aid for the head, or she would have embarrassed herself.
The significance of a flag to a unit is self-evident, so when the Standard-Bearer was shot, the flag he carried toppled over.
Surprisingly, the previously unaffected morale was shaken, and those nearby rushed to prop it up without hesitation.
It's not that they were particularly loyal, but because Michelle prized appearances, if her representative flag fell, life would be miserable for everyone.
But it wasn't just snipers waiting for these Personal Guards; as they stepped into the designated range, the musketeers, waiting long for orders, finally received them.
"Seventy yards… fifty yards… thirty yards, fire!"
With the command, the roar of two hundred muskets in unison was soul-stirring, the rising white smoke overshadowing the spreading scent of blood, replaced by the acrid sll of gunpowder.
The barrage of firepower from two hundred muskets covered the old road, and the advancing Personal Guard with shields couldn't withstand the hot lead bullets, shields pierced, armor torn, drilling into their flesh.
Those without shields were even more exaggerated, their flesh splattered, and so unfortunate ones hit in vital areas died instantly.
Or perhaps they were the lucky ones, for those wounded but not dead faced the agony of broken hands and feet, their innards spilled over the ground, uttering piercing screams of despair.
The Personal Guard of over a hundred had suffered continuous losses along the way, leaving just over seventy; this round alone resulted in over thirty casualties, effectively halving their numbers.
When faced with such a high casualty ratio, even elite forces reduced to the ard forces of Feudal Nobility couldn't help but fall into collapse under such pressure.
Yet the gap between both sides had narrowed, and the Personal Guard, braving the barrage, sought to seize a last chance.
Perhaps they hadn't realized these musketeers dared engage in close combat.
"Fix bayonets, everyone!"
At the command, all the musketeers affixed socket bayonets, turning the "scrap tal" into a weapon roughly two ters long, akin to a "spear."
Though called a bayonet, it was essentially a thin, long spike, yet after training, its thrusting power could pierce ordinary Knight's Armor, let alone veterans with boldness or spearn transferring their skill, ending lives with one stab.
"Kill!"
A series of shouts accompanied by the cold gleam of bayonets being thrust forward ensued.
The Personal Guards collided with this forest of bayonets in fierce combat.
But one side's formation had already been torn apart, while the other remained solid, thinking they could break through seed overly optimistic.
"Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you won't be killed!"
An unending wave of shouts beca the final straw breaking their backs. Once a single person chose to surrender, it quickly spread like a contagion, with the rest throwing down their weapons, having no intention to fight to the death.
"I surrender, don't kill !"
"All of you, lie down!"
The soldiers quickly moved in, disarming and controlling them, then pulled them away from the battlefield.
Those remaining tended to the wounded, administering finishing blows where needed, or providing help where possible.
At this mont, the remaining surviving Personal Guards looked back, witnessing a truly despairing scene.
Michelle's luxurious carriage, until now, had yet to turn around, remaining motionless in place.
The path paved with the blood and deaths of their comrades against the musketry now seed utterly laughable.
It wasn't entirely their fault, for the carriage was opulent and this area wasn't particularly spacious; turning around in a short ti really wasn't feasible.
anwhile, the cavalry weren't waiting, already charging in, repeatedly breaking into the convoy.
If the Personal Guards were tied to Michelle, willing to fight, those within the convoy had no such inclination to resist, complying obediently under cries for surrender from the cavalryn.
These resources were of significant value to the Lord, and as the cavalry's leader, Reynard was naturally not going to engage in pointless slaughter, taking imdiate control of the large convoy.
With both front and back handled, for a mont, only a few around the carriage protecting Michelle were left.
The situation was now firmly in Lance's control, and the entire actual battle took less than five minutes.
Such is war, with a lengthy preparation, boiling down to a swift conclusion.
It was so fast that at this point, the man in the black robe had just gotten off another carriage, as had the Heavy Armored Knight.
The strength of Transcendents is indeed powerful, not to ntion a spellcaster with unknown power, whose eerie sorcery had previously severely damaged the Barbarian Plunderers.
But the problem is that casters need preparation ti, and by the ti they erged, the battle was already over, making it a rather awkward situation.
The current situation left the head of the Personal Guards in unspeakable despair; their elites had fallen to these forces...
Seemingly realizing his own fate, the leader remained very calm, but his raised longsword posture signaled his intent.
However, the few soldiers beside him were evidently not prepared to go down this path; with the ones in front surrendering, resisting was a dead end, and neither the Heavy Armored Knight nor the man in the black robe made any moves.
Due to Michelle's status and the grievances with Dismas possibly involving so unsavory matters, Lance did not have the soldiers directly charge in for a killing spree. Instead, he signaled the cavalry to secure the caravan's wagons away from here.
Then, he and Reynard rode over on horseback, with Dismas leading a troop, disengaging from the rear battlefield and moving towards the luxurious carriage.
"Do you know who the person inside the carriage is? If you leave now, we can still treat this as a misunderstanding."
The leader tried to hold on, yet Dismas responded by raising his musket, and the soldiers unabashedly aid their guns.
"Get lost; this is not your concern." Dismas gestured dismissively, his face not showing anger, instead remaining calm, even a bit indifferent.
The leader seed unperturbed by these words, turning back to a despairing sight: the few remaining Personal Guards all chose to surrender, dropping their weapons, being escorted away by soldiers.
The other two said nothing but their shifting steps indicated they didn't intend to fight to the death either.
Noting their actions, the leader glanced at the two horsen approaching and seed to understand sothing, re-holstering his sword into the ground, sighing.
"I surrender, please don't harm the people inside the carriage."
"Why resort to violence? I'm not fond of seeing blood," Lance quipped with a smile, riding up in agreent.
But just as Lance approached, the man in the black robe threw sothing forward as the leader grabbed his weapon and lunged at Lance…
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