"Slow down, prepare to thrust spears!"
The veteran soldiers quickly reduced their pace, reorganizing and extending their spear formation at the sa ti.
"Level your lances!"
Griffin's command echoed in his ears. Norsemberk laughed, as he could already see the cowardly faces of those peasant soldiers at the very front.
How dare they use such long spears, and without placing shields in the front row, thinking they could lee with these veterans?
What a joke!
"Charge!"
"Peasants, the guards are coming!" Norsemberk, charging with his head down, lifted his head and shouted the battle cry he used whenever he decapitated countless peasants.
Just one roar would terrify those cowardly peasants, just like today.
Only today, the peasants were so cowardly they seed numb, without the slightest expression of fear on their faces.
With half of his teeth exposed on one cheek, Norsemberk appeared unusually sinister. Compared to the silent war monk, he roared like a lion: "Die, you impurity!"
Norsemberk stomped his right foot and fiercely swept his spear at the black-robed monk.
This strike was naturally smooth; the spear in the peasant's hand was loose and flimsy, knocked to the ground with one sweep.
And the peasant conveniently knelt down, was he ready to beg for rcy like a dog?
As Norsemberk mocked, he suddenly felt sothing wrong, because the peasant in front suddenly lunged forward, rolling next to his legs.
Instantly, a warm liquid sprayed from his ankle.
Norsemberk imdiately felt as though he lost all strength below his left ankle, he couldn't even stand steadily.
"Damn peasant, despicable peasant!"
He tried to kick the peasant away in shock and anger, but the peasant skillfully evaded.
At the sa ti, four or five lances thrust out, aiming like vipers at Norsemberk's throat, thighs, arms, and other weakly protected spots.
In the past, Norsemberk would definitely dodge them.
But now, even with all his strength, three lances pierced his thigh and arm.
As they were withdrawn, blood poured out like a waterfall.
"Damn it, damn it..." Norsemberk staggered, his voice hoarse as he attempted to retreat, but he slipped and fell backward due to blood loss and imbalance.
As his back hit the ground, he didn't have ti to voice his pain before that kneeling soldier, knife in mouth, approached him.
With a deft slice across Norsemberk's throat, he rolled away to the feet of other rcenaries.
"Peasants, peasants..." Lying face up in a pool of blood, Norsemberk twitched, staring blankly as countless legs moved past him.
Hairy legs, shoes sared with dirt, countless peasant legs.
The dense collision of wooden spear and lance shafts cast shadows over motionless, pale-faced Norsemberk.
Beneath the pushing lances, the Salvation Army's Leaping Soldiers, gripping daggers and sabers, squatted or knelt, wildly hacking at the legs and even abdons of the Eagle Corps rcenaries under the spears.
Though the rcenaries were the charging side, they were forced back like waves crashing against a dam.
The resilience and training of these peasants far surpassed the rcenaries' expectations.
With the front-line shield soldiers cleared by the Holy Gunn, those detestable Leaping Soldiers exploited the lack of leg armor under the lances to harass wildly.
With support from flank gunners, these seasoned veterans were actually driven into retreat.
At this mont, the creaking sound of clockwork finally emanated from the slopes on both sides. The rcenaries who had battled the Salvation Army in the village yesterday imdiately crouched down.
The other rcenaries, puzzled by their comrades' actions, quickly mimicked them.
Continuous gunfire erupted from both sides, waves of Holy Wind attacks hit the flanks of the ranks, and under the fierce wind, corpses rolled down the slope one after another.
"Boss Griffin, we can't hold it anymore." Clutching a flare-shaped sword, an attendant hunched his shoulders, exclaiming with a sorrowful face.
Soldiers on the outer front were scattering, fleeing to the rear from both sides.
Out of 750 veteran rcenaries, almost 200 were down, holding out this long was a miracle; if they didn't retreat, the rest might completely fall apart.
Griffin's shoulder bled profusely; looking at the reinforcents climbing up, he gritted his teeth, glanced at the ever-turning Holy Gunn on both sides, and slapped his thigh fiercely: "Retreat!"
After all, gunners were positioned on both sides. Even if reinforcents arrived, they faced the sa fate of being shot down.
The passage was narrow, and they couldn't deploy properly.
Since they couldn't break through, the frontal assault had failed, and they could only try a side climb for a surprise attack.
But before that, they needed the second team to go downhill first, or the two teams would collide.
"Retreat, retreat, there's Holy Wind on both sides, we can't charge through." Griffin waved the flag toward the rear forces.
They lined up in even narrower ranks, only five rows deep; weren't they just offering themselves to the gunners?
However, these soldiers seed oblivious, still charging straight ahead.
"Didn't you hear? Retreat!" Griffin, hand on his shoulder, angrily shouted at the leading company commanders.
"Boss, it's not that we don't want to retreat." A company commander wailed, "The commanding Master Knights are behind us, killing any deserters!"
As soon as he spoke, Griffin felt the hill vibrate like an earthquake, and when he looked up, he saw a dark mass sweeping by.
With the rush of wind, Griffin almost fell over.
That was—a hundred knights charging up the hill!
Wait a minute, Griffin blinked, the chubby one leading the charge, wasn't that Prince Kongdai?!
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