Chapter 18: The Imperial Guard Shall Prevail!

"Long live the Franconian Empire!"
"Long live!"

After reforming their ranks, the Cuirassier regiment charged once more toward the disciplined pike phalanx!

Watching the iron hooves thunder forward, earth-shaking in their approach, the Imperial Guardsmen did not display the frantic desperation or terror seen in the Republican troops. From the 40,000 men came only a single, rhythmic roar:

"The Germanic Imperial Guard shall be victorious!"

With a sickening thud, two of the most iron-willed forces of the era collided. The Imperial Guardsmen, though less experienced on the battlefield, were slightly outmatched; even as they fought to the death, the Cuirassiers carved a path through them with the cost of their own lives.

But the Germanic Imperial Guard held one supreme advantage: they outnumbered the Cuirassiers four to one!

Many Guardsmen, shouting of their inevitable victory, threw themselves at the horses, clinging to legs and tails, letting themselves be dragged and trampled just to bleed the cavalry's momentum dry.

Even the arrogant Cuirassiers were moved; these men were truly hellishly brave!

Yet, no matter how brave the enemy, they had to be slain. Beyond a flicker of sentiment for the madness of their foes, the Cuirassiers did not slow their pace, trampling through formation after formation!

But... how were these Germanic Guardsmen still refusing to break?

More lethally, there were nearly 40,000 of them!

After suffering immense casualties, these soldiers, still chanting of their victory, finally succeeded in stalling the Cuirassiers with pikes, spears, and their own bodies.

For the first time in the battle, the Cuirassier regiment was forced to a halt!

Of course, this did not mean they were spent. They had been bogged down in enemy infantry before, only to hold out until reinforcements arrived to shatter the enemy from within. Surrender and collapse were words absent from the Cuirassiers' lexicon; they were the noblest and most valiant warriors of the Franconian Empire. The great Emperor Maurice once remarked: "Give me ten thousand Franconian Cuirassiers, and I shall trample the entire Holy Kingdom of Light!"

Deprived of their momentum, the Cuirassiers closed ranks into defensive formations, fighting on horseback or on foot, locked in a brutal melee with the madmen who continued to cry out for victory. The Cuirassiers realized that while these Germanic Guardsmen possessed extreme resolve, their martial skill was lacking. In the chaotic fray, despite the Cuirassiers' superior prowess, they could not overwhelm the sheer numbers. Both sides traded lives, awaiting the moment one would finally collapse under the weight of the slaughter.

The Cuirassiers would sooner die than surrender, and so they remained deadlocked with the Guardsmen. It seemed the final outcome would depend on the fighting elsewhere.

Amásia watched as his 40,000 men pinned down the enemy's most elite and terrifying force. He nodded in satisfaction, drew his sword, and ordered his 50,000-strong musketeer corps to advance!

Along the way, the Germanic Imperial Guard cut down every routing soldier from the first line—the Franconian Empire’s 20,000 fresh reinforcements were still approaching from the rear.

Gradually, marching over the corpses of their own men, the Germanic Imperial Guard encountered the 20,000-strong main force of the Franconian Empire. These Guardsmen were Amásia’s prized assets, and he had no desire to repeat the attritional musketry duels of before. The front ranks were comprised of over 10,000 elite musketeers, matching the Franconian numbers, with the standard ratio of two musketeers to every one pikeman in the Maurice phalanx.

The Germanic Imperial Guard halted first. Lacking the bottomless confidence of the Franconian Empire, Amásia ordered a defensive stance.

"Porter, these fellows are much tougher than the last lot of softies. It looks like we're really going to earn that ten-acre plot for the family back home!" Bobby joked to his comrade.

"Haha, boss, let's make sure we take a few of them with us so we aren't lonely when we meet the God of Light!" Porter replied with feigned ease.

"Brother, if we survive this, it's our time to soar!" Bobby said, his eyes resolute.

Neither spoke of victory or defeat. If they lost, the enemy would simply step over their corpses. Such was the faith of the Germanic Imperial Guard.

"Present arms, aim—fire!" As the commands rippled out, the Germanic Imperial Guard unleashed their volley first. The first rank stepped back, the second stepped forward—the standard triple-volley drill of the European continent. Unlike the high-stakes, maximum-firepower gambles favored by the likes of Paris, most powers here had yet to grasp the true psychological terror of a concentrated, overwhelming barrage.

Paris, of course, had realized it, but he kept such strategic insights locked away.

The Franconian ranks collapsed in droves; the musketry of these Guardsmen was far more accurate than the matchlocks of the Republican army.

The Franconian Empire responded with their own triple-volley fire. Both sides engaged in a grim, static execution on the narrow battlefield.

By now, the Franconian artillery had been destroyed during the initial collapse by the Germanic Republican army. Given their limited range, the guns were deployed at the front; once the lines broke, they were either captured or spiked and rendered useless.

*Splat.* A spray of red and white hit Bobby’s face. He glanced calmly to the side, confirmed the poor soul wasn't his friend Porter, and resumed the rhythmic cycle of loading, aiming, and firing.

The entire Germanic Imperial Guard had been indoctrinated as staunch supporters of the Germanic nation—Amásia’s die-hard loyalists. A volley resulting in dozens of casualties could not shake their resolve. Though their rate of fire lagged slightly behind the Franconian veterans, their courage in the face of lead was now the equal of the Franconian Royal Guard.

Watching his men stand firm in their lethal exchange, Amásia issued a new command:

"First Division, advance by fire! Rear units, follow up! At thirty paces, deliver a final volley, then prepare for the bayonet charge!"

"Understood, Consul!"