Chapter Sixteen: The Power of the Grand Knight

“Even the regular forces of the Madrid Empire on the European continent have begun to replace their equipment with flintlock rifles and advanced smoothbore cannons. The world knows well the vast difference between matchlocks and flintlocks. Does that provincial governor, Amaska, really believe a single great knight leading a backward army can work miracles?” General Gregor, stationed at the rear of the battlefield, casually mocked Amaska’s overconfidence with his subordinates.

“Perhaps Amaska’s thinking is still stuck in the age of knights, believing that with sheer spirit and personal valor he can be invincible. Ha! That suddenly reminds me of those clowns in the theater—equally ridiculous,” Gregor’s adjutant chimed in, eager to please.

Thus, the English officers vied to ridicule Amaska and flatter General Gregor, hoping the general, in his merriment, might remember them and regard their ‘insightful opinions’ with favor. With such recognition, their path to glory would be near!

One cannot blame the English officers for their confidence in this battle. Had Amaska chosen to defend the city with its fortifications, the English—outnumbered—might have been forced to withdraw. After all, General Gregor had already seized the largest coastal port and could afford to slowly erode this ‘provincial’ land rich in gold.

Indeed, the powerful English Empire, while engaged in wars with other foes, had dispatched its limited regular troops to seize this remote and sparsely populated southern continent precisely because multiple gold mines had been discovered here—promising to greatly offset the English war expenses!

Moreover, as this region was a distant backwater to the European powers, not only did it suffer from various semi-autonomous conditions, but the pace of advanced weaponry updates lagged behind in every respect.

Everyone knew that Amaska’s troops were still armed with matchlocks or even older arquebuses—antiques from decades past. These weapons relied on slowly burning fuses to ignite powder and fire bullets; cumbersome to operate, slow to reload, and unreliable. The fuse itself was a liability: unstable, susceptible to water, easily extinguished, and if ignited carelessly, could spell disaster for the squad. At least the matchlock had a fuse; as for the arquebus, one had to improvise a way to spark it.

Even flintlock mechanisms were not entirely reliable—though their firing rate was higher than matchlocks, one might count oneself blessed if four out of ten shots actually fired! Yet compared to the matchlock, whose likelihood of killing the enemy or blowing up its own wielder was nearly equal, the flintlock’s flaws seemed trivial.

Most crucial was the rate of fire: while a line of matchlocks discharged once, flintlocks could volley four or five times, and with their far superior ignition rate, only the most reckless souls would dare try a second round of matchlock volleys!

Naturally, when the decisive battle began, the Madrid Imperial troops wielding matchlocks collapsed instantly against the English Imperial forces armed with flintlocks. Regiment after regiment marched onto the field, only to be mown down by English volleys—executed in lines. Who could endure standing tall while watching comrades fall one by one, unable to return fire in kind, without breaking?

Yet, did Amaska simply stand by and watch as his men were sent to die in such piecemeal fashion?

While General Gregor was gleefully observing the mass executions on the battlefield, Amaska had already left his command post, circling the field alone, his sights set directly on the English command!

The English, no fools themselves, spotted a lone knight charging toward their headquarters. Hundreds of musket-bearing guards at Gregor’s side immediately moved to block Amaska, aiming at what they deemed a madman.

“Fire!” At the order, a volley rang out near General Gregor, white smoke clouding the soldiers’ vision for a few seconds. They were used to it: loading powder, ramming their barrels, as routine.

But Amaska, with reflexes beyond ordinary men, leapt from his horse as the volley was fired. The horse fell with a mournful cry, but Amaska, protected by battle energy, emerged unscathed, closing the distance to the musketeers with astonishing agility.

By the time the English guards had reloaded, expecting the madman to be riddled at close range, Amaska was already ten meters away, bearing down on them. “Is this even human?” the musketeers gaped in disbelief. Some, quicker on the trigger, managed a shot, but there was no time for a coordinated volley.

With smoothbore muskets, hitting the target was a matter of divine luck; these sporadic shots, even by chance, posed little threat to Amaska. Even at close range, if his battle energy shield faltered, he could simply clench the bullets between his muscles.

Then came the slaughter—like a tiger among sheep, cries of anguish erupted everywhere. In moments, hundreds of musket guards were smashed aside by a single man. Amaska seemed insatiable, his sword energy weaving through the ranks until their formation was utterly shattered and the survivors scattered in panic, allowing him to charge straight for Gregor.

As soon as Amaska broke through the musket line, Gregor, well aware of the power of a great knight, was already scrambling to mount a horse and flee. He knew that without an army to block such a monster, nothing could stop him.

Nearby units were hastily retreating; the front lines, sensing something amiss, halted their advance, giving the beleaguered Madrid troops a moment to breathe.

If it were a race, Amaska, at the rank of great knight, broke through the last group of pikemen without suspense. He leapt high, sending a blade of sword energy over ten meters to slice Gregor—horse and all—cleanly in two. The cut was so precise it seemed forged by a machine, smooth and neat, organs splattering everywhere.

The officers and soldiers at headquarters were dumbstruck. Before their very eyes, a spectacle unfolded that few would witness in their lifetime—a general beheaded from miles away.

Amaska, of course, did not spare the stunned enemy officers. In a short time, the command post became a blood-soaked abattoir, shrieks and severed limbs everywhere. By the time the main force arrived, Amaska had snatched a horse and departed with panache.

Returning to his lines, Amaska swiftly led his men in a direct assault. With the command post wiped out, and by superhuman hands no less, the English troops had lost all will to fight. Once Amaska spearheaded a breach, the English retreated rapidly, fleeing at ten times the speed of their advance. Though the withdrawal was chaotic, the English, true to their reputation as a military powerhouse, managed to preserve most of their forces, having lost little of their main contingent. Seeing no advantage in pursuing further, Amaska halted the chase—he had more important matters yet to attend to.