Chapter 19: The Imperial Guard, Bayonets Fixed!

Advancing while firing is significantly slower than standing still to load and fire. Advancing under a hail of enemy bullets? It seems Amasga has immense confidence in his Imperial Guard.

The First Division of the Germanic Imperial Guard, a force of ten thousand musketeers, did not hesitate to march forward upon receiving the order. As the distance closed, their casualties mounted steadily. Yet, by doing so, they shielded their matchlock-wielding comrades behind them from the vast majority of the enemy's fire—they were quite literally using human lives as meat shields. Advancing fire served only to prevent the enemy from unleashing their full firepower; reloading while under fire is vastly different from reloading while watching the enemy approach. By the time they reached within thirty paces, the First Division had lost nearly half its strength.

Finally, the order to retreat was given. Having suffered such heavy losses, the soldiers shielding the front had long reached their breaking point. Had it not been for the confidence inspired by the sheer number of comrades behind them, the First Division would have shattered long ago. Bobby and Potter retreated with the main body, feeling as if they had been reborn. As they pulled back from that hellish battlefield, they felt as though they had just awakened from a nightmare. "I actually survived!" This was the singular, overwhelming thought shared by the survivors.

"Ready—" The matchlock troops within thirty paces formed three ranks for a full volley. Despite the enemy's constant fire, men fell, and those behind them immediately stepped into their places. "Fire!" Bang, bang, bang...

Marshal Max, though he had witnessed this three-rank volley before, could not help but close his eyes in despair once more. He had severely underestimated Amasga in this campaign. To think he could train an army so devoid of fear for their own lives! Even the regular armies of other nations could not advance to such close range to unleash a volley; the sheer willpower required to walk into the face of a firing squad and wait until the final moment to return fire was unimaginable.

Marshal Max looked toward the distant battlefield where his cuirassiers were bogged down in a sea of infantry. He knew those elite units could no longer be relied upon. Alas, he should not have committed all his cavalry so early. If he had even a thousand cuirassiers now, he could have punched a hole through the enemy’s musket line. If the enemy formation were thrown into chaos, a single charge from his pikemen would have shattered these fearless peasant levies.

But there is no medicine for regret in this world. Marshal Max had no choice but to order the Frankonian Imperial Guard to form up and prepare for battle, attempting a hasty reorganization of the broken troops fleeing toward him. With their formations shattered, how much combat effectiveness could these men possibly retain? Marshal Max was left with nothing but prayers to the God of Light.

As expected, the last cohesive musket regiment of the Frankonian Empire, now reduced to ten thousand men, was decimated by over a thousand casualties in the exchange. Yet, the main body of the Frankonian force held on, gritting their teeth. They were indeed the elite of the Frankonian Empire; without a bayonet charge, breaking them through musketry alone was no simple task.

However, Amasga was undeterred. The greatest advantage of the Germanic Imperial Guard in this battle was not their indomitable spirit, but the fact that they possessed three times as many musketeers as the enemy. After the first three ranks of matchlock men fired, they retreated in perfect order. The second three ranks, already prepared, stepped into position and, at the officer's command, unleashed another devastating volley.

This time, the Imperial soldiers—many of whom had been so unnerved by the first volley that they had fumbled their reloading—could no longer endure the carnage. Huge gaps were torn through the musket regiment’s formation. The sight of corpses littering the ground and comrades collapsing all around shattered the soldiers' fragile nerves. How many more volleys could the enemy fire? It was simply too brutal to bear.

And so, the Imperial musketeers retreated in a rout. Amasga still had one more volley in reserve, but since the enemy musket regiment had withdrawn, he ordered his men to press forward. Amidst the beating of drums and stepping over the corpses of the Frankonian musketeers, the Germanic Imperial Guard reached the pikemen's phalanx, which was still doggedly holding its formation and advancing. There could be no more retreats—there was no one left behind them!

"Ready—fire!" The Germanic Imperial Guard unleashed their three-rank volley directly into the face of the thousands-strong pike phalanx. The elite Imperial pikemen gritted their teeth and pressed on, convinced they could reach the enemy before the next volley. Then, they were met with the first volley from the original matchlock troops. These two volleys effectively sheared off an entire layer of the phalanx. A strange thought surfaced in every soldier's mind: If there is another round, will I survive?

Naturally, the soldiers lacked the courage to wait for the next volley. They broke and fled toward the rear in a disorganized rout, yet even in retreat, they maintained a semblance of formation. The Frankonian soldiers were indeed elite.

Amasga would not let this prey escape. "Imperial Guard, fix bayonets!" The command echoed repeatedly. Over twenty thousand strong, the Germanic infantry launched a bayonet charge. The fleeing twenty thousand Frankonian soldiers shattered completely, stampeding toward the Imperial Guard arriving at the scene. These soldiers were at least better than the Germanic Republican Army; they knew not to crash into their own lines and veered off to both sides.

Marshal Max, having painstakingly reorganized over ten thousand routed troops, saw the collapse ahead and ground to a halt. Their spirit was broken; facing those madmen, they had no heart for battle left. Marshal Max sighed and ordered his Imperial Guard, which had stood as firm as a mountain, to charge the oncoming Germanic Imperial Guard. It was a desperate gamble. Now, it would be determined whose will was stronger, for hand-to-hand combat is the ultimate test of an army's resolve.

As they neared the enemy, the Frankonian Imperial Guard halted with disciplined precision, fired their muskets, drew their swords, and launched a "Long Live the Empire" charge. The two armies, both fueled by adrenaline, collided. Initially, the Frankonian Imperial Guard, possessing superior individual strength compared to the Germanic peasant soldiers, surged forward and brought the enemy's charge to a grinding halt. Amasga watched the battle teetering toward a stalemate and prepared to deliver the final, lethal blow to his enemy.