The service soldiers in the rear carried round shields, hunched over, pulling soldiers under their arms, struggling to drag them towards the rear.
Arrow rain and lead shot exchanged fire from afar; at this distance, holy guns were inaccurate but powerful, while bows and arrows were precise but less powerful.
Each side sustained losses, but they were minimal.
Watching the Salvation Army troops quickly cross the top of the mound, Griffin's forehead was soaked with sweat. He gritted his teeth: "Mad, let's do it. The left flank, advance fifteen ranks, the rear stays put. Once the front is on the slope, you charge."
Picking up a heavy kite-shaped shield wrapped in iron, Griffin donned iron gloves, with his servant following behind, carrying a flaming heavy sword.
The sword was too long; it couldn't be drawn when carried on the back or at the waist, so it had to be carried by a designated person.
Norsemberk, holding a spear, stepped forward three tis, hearing Griffin's call in his ears.
"Raise shields up front with heavy armor, stand in the front line; those with long halberds and spears stay behind. When I shout, you all charge at full speed. Break through the enemy formation, and I'll reward each of you... reward each with 1 gold pound and 50 acres of land! The fallen will get double!" Griffin roared angrily, biting his lip, enduring the pain.
The rcenaries stared wide-eyed, unable to believe their ears. The commander was really putting everything at stake today.
"I'm done living like this; if we win, I'm a Count." Griffin shouted, red-eyed, "Those who perform well, becoming a Knight is no problem!"
Rewards! Knights!
Many rcenaries who had previously scorned imdiately stood up straight, questioning from the crowd: "Is this genuine? Commander, don't break your word."
"Absolutely! Back when we attacked Sandcastle, was there even one acre less than promised?" Griffin bumped the bottom of the kite shield against the ground. "If I can't pay, I'll leverage my wife and daughter!"
"I'll gladly take your wife, but your daughter stays with you; I don't want her."
Laughter erupted imdiately in the battle formation.
Griffin spat on the ground: "Enough jokes, a group of farrs with devilish strength are still just farrs! Charge through, and we'll be the masters!"
Upon hearing these words, the rcenaries who were initially slacking off beca energetic, while Norsemberk couldn't suppress his smile.
Although Griffin's words were rely encouragent, Norsemberk, who hadn't engaged the Salvation Army yesterday, took them seriously.
A group of farrs with devilish powers... the boasting was loud yesterday, but seeing it today, it's just this?
Hiding on the mound, only relying on shields and crossbow arrows to harm people, and with poor accuracy too.
Norsemberk built his reputation on killing farrs; his subordinates counted no fewer than eighty or a hundred farrs, so why should he fear them?
Amid the orders, though rcenaries lacked strict discipline and rules, their rich battlefield experience swiftly shifted them from a horizontal to a vertical formation.
"Charge!" Glancing at the Salvation Army atop the mound, Griffin charged forward with his shield raised.
"Charge! Victory!"
"Kill the witch's spawn!"
"Ura—"
"Damn the waste shovelers!"
In the midst of battle cries, amidst the vulgarities and colloquialisms from various regions, the rcenaries hid their heads behind kite shields and wind shields, organizing into neat formations and charging towards the slope.
The entire mound shook from the footsteps, the ground's rubble vibrated, causing slight changes in the War Monks' expressions.
"Stand steady, let see who dares to move!" Legion Commander Lefi rushed to the front with a feather spear, prompting the previously wavering soldiers to straighten their postures.
As Lefi's gaze swept over them, phantom pain subtly erged in their thighs and buttocks, preventing them from moving recklessly.
"Look at those Black Champion bastards next door, then look at yourselves, damn it!" Lefi shouted at the Holy Gunn standing on the side with a feather spear, "Fire two rounds at them."
Then, he proceeded to the rear line, shouting at the nearby Imperial Guard's legion commander on the mound: "Send over two fifty-man Holy Gunman teams to the adjacent mound for flank shooting."
"You owe a bottle of wine." The shout echoed between the hollows and ditches, surprisingly carrying a touch of vagueness.
"I'll give you a booger, hurry up."
"Screw you mother!"
Despite the swearing, the rear legion commander wasted no ti; two Brigade Commanders of fifty-man teams ran through the dirt ridge between mounds to the other mound.
Lefi continued exchanging words with the other legion commander, while the Holy Guns had already begun firing at the front.
This elite rcenary team had spirits and training levels that surpassed the guards by a tier; even on this uphill path, their speed remained undiminished.
"Praise the Holy Wind!"
Comb-like lead shots swept across the charging vertical formation, and with a crack, a large patch in the first three rows instantly fell.
Wounded soldiers lay by the roadside, painfully clutching their wounds, curling and convulsing.
But due to the vertical formation charge, the rear remained unaffected. This explained Lefi's reason for pulling people for flank shooting.
At the rear of the formation, a line of feather arrows neatly flew up, falling in the front-line long spearman formation.
Amid a series of dull groans, more than a dozen front-line long spearn fell. Except for the unlucky ones hit in the throat, their armor protection rendered it difficult to inflict mortal wounds.
These n either walked to the side to vacate positions or were dragged away by service soldiers, as the long spearn in the rear seamlessly filled the ranks.
Fifty paces, forty paces, thirty paces!
Norsemberk ran while silently counting his steps, his cheek pierced through by lead shot, yet half the ruined face inspired fury instead of fear.
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