After a while, the Turka forces assembled.
The cannons were positioned at the front, barrels loaded and elevated, with the musketeer units standing ready behind them, their new firearms loaded with gleaming magic-piercing rounds.
The 2000 magic archers ford a dense, staggered formation three rows deep, arrows nocked, bowstrings taut with enchanted energy.
In front of them, a wall of 4000 soldiers in full plate armor stood with magic-reinforced swords and tower shields, forming a solid, shimring defensive line.
At the very back, the heavy cavalry waited mounted on enchanted warhorses, lances raised, ready to charge once the bombardnt softened the enemy lines. Their armor polished to a nacing sheen.
The assistant smirked, standing atop the highest remaining section of the crumbled wall, giving him a clear view over his assembled army and the distant Armand position.
Heh... I’m sure those 200 soldiers know they’re outnumbered. That’s why they haven’t moved. They’re probably waiting for reinforcents that will never co.
And yet that shitty captain was scared of this? A re 200? And those little things flying in the sky... The assistant started counting them with his eyes and smirked. Ten! Only ten!
He glanced at the leader of the magic archers.
"One thousand of you, focus your fire on those flying machines! The remaining thousand, aim at the Armand soldiers on the ground!"
"Yes, Chief!"
"Musketeers!"
"Yes, Chief!" The musketeer captain stood straight, bringing his musket vertically across his chest in a crisp salute.
"On my signal, you will fire everything you have straight into the Armand formation!"
The air grew thick with anticipation. The cannons were prid, the archers’ bows were drawn, the musketeers had their weapons shouldered.
The assistant raised his hand high, a triumphant, arrogant grin spreading across his face.
"Ready..."
"Aim!" the assistant shouted, his smirk widening into a full, arrogant grin.
The cannons were adjusted, their heavy barrels pointing toward the 200 Armand soldiers standing motionless in the distance. The magic archers raised their bows, arrows glowing with mana. The musketeers shouldered their weapons, fingers on the triggers.
Heh! Beco free target practice, assholes!!
"FIRE!!!"
The assistant’s hand slashed down.
All fifty cannons fired at once, a thunderous, ear-shattering volley that shook the ground. Explosive shells scread through the air and slamd into the ground around and directly on top of the Armand formation. Dirt, smoke, and flas erupted in a chaotic storm, completely obscuring the soldiers from view.
A split second later, the sky darkened as two thousand magic arrows were loosed. A thousand streaked upward toward the ten hovering aircraft, glowing trails cutting through the air. The other thousand rained down into the billowing smoke where the Armand soldiers had been standing.
The musketeers fired in a staggered, disciplined rhythm. Magic-piercing rounds shot from their barrels with sharp cracks, punching into the smoke with lethal precision. As soon as they fired, they began the swift, practiced motion of reloading, pouring powder, ramming the next enchanted bullet ho, priming the pan.
For a full ten seconds, the Turka army poured overwhelming firepower into a single patch of earth. The air filled with the roar of explosions, the hiss of arrows, and the sharp reports of gunfire. Smoke and dust churned into a thick, impenetrable cloud.
The assistant watched, chest swelling with triumph.
Nothing could survive that. Nothing.
"Keep attacking! Show them who’s the strongest! So everyone will know! So the Lord of Tybalt will know how powerful Turka is and beg for our rcy!"
The assistant laughed out loud as he saw most of the flying vehicles ascend rapidly, climbing out of range.
"Reload the cannons and fire again!!!"
"Yes, Chief!"
The cannon crews leapt into action. A team of three per cannon worked in practiced, frantic unison: one swabbed the hot barrel with a wet sponge to douse any lingering embers, the second ramd ho a fresh cloth bag of gunpowder, and the third heaved a heavy explosive shell into the muzzle before it was ramd down solid. The gun captain adjusted the elevation screw, took aim, and touched the slow match to the vent.
Another thunderous volley roared out, the explosive shells arcing through the sky before crashing down into the sa churning, smoke-filled zone.
"This! This is the real power! No one will be able to match Turka’s New Army under my command!" The assistant shouted and laughed, his voice ringing with manic triumph.
The soldiers’ morale soared as they watched the continuous explosions and the thick, black smoke completely engulfing where the Armand soldiers had stood.
"They’re already dead!"
"Yeah! No way they could survive that. Even magic armor exploded in the training grounds!"
"After all, they’re just human!" one soldier laughed, continuing to fire his musket.
"Don’t stop there!" the assistant kept laughing, his eyes wild with excitent. "Keep firing! We’ll show Tybalt what’s coming for them next! How dare they invite those weakling Armand to help them!"
After volley after volley.
The assistant raised his hand, his smirk triumphant.
"Cease fire!"
The attack stopped. Every soldier was smirking, laughing, slapping each other on the back.
"Chief! I’m sure they’re all dead already!"
"Yeah! Just like those old-school Tybalt soldiers, swinging their rusted swords, crying for their mothers before we put them down!" one soldier mocked, mimicking a pathetic, flailing sword swing before making a crude throat-slitting gesture. The others roared with cruel laughter.
The cannon crew celebrated. One of them, overjoyed, leaned in and kissed the hot iron barrel of his cannon, only to yelp and jump back, clutching his burnt lips. The surrounding soldiers howled with laughter.
The assistant smirked and puffed out his chest.
This was easy, and yet that weakling captain was scared. I’ll tell Lord Turka the captain fled the battlefield. His family will be stripped of their na, and his head will roll.
The smoke was still thick, a dark, churning wall obscuring the impact zone.
Everyone was laughing.
But one soldier near the front narrowed his eyes, peering into the dissipating smoke.
A pair of gleaming red points of light appeared within the gloom.
Then another.
And another.
Until two hundred pairs of unmoving, nacing crimson lights glowed steadily from within the haze.
"C... Chief?" the soldier’s eyes widened, his voice a whisper swallowed by the laughter.
The assistant, still smirking, glanced at him. "What!?"
But before he could say anything more, a loud, chanized voice, cold and devoid of emotion, echoed from the front of the Armand formation.
[Confirmation of Retaliatory Protocol Received. Comncing Offensive Mode Operation.]
( End Of Chapter )
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