Chapter Thirty-Two: The Shock of the Beastmen

Across the endless plains, a human army marched steadily toward the battlefield, their ranks impeccably aligned. They wore boat-shaped hats, scarlet uniforms, white breeches, and carried marching packs and flintlock muskets. This ensemble, unmistakably inspired by the famed redcoats of the British Empire, was yet another of Sun Li's eccentric indulgences. He proudly declared that these uniforms signified his ambition: to plant the banner of Song in every corner of the world, just as the British once did, and forge an empire upon which the sun would never set.

As the vanguard of the million-strong orc horde came into distant view, Sun Li’s two divisions—over fifteen thousand men—swiftly shifted from column to line formation, forming compact platoon squares. Each square consisted of four ranks, and the army spread itself across the battlefield, presenting a thin but unbroken line to face the overwhelming numbers of the orcish legions.

Behind the infantry, forty six-pounder cannons were strategically dispersed, ensuring that each platoon square received ample artillery support. These muzzle-loading guns had an effective solid shot range of around eight hundred meters, and could fire canister out to four hundred—more than enough to give any orcish assault a bloody reception.

Anticipating the orcs’ vast numbers, Sun Li, though skeptical of the so-called "hand grenades" produced by the system—which were little more than iron balls packed with gunpowder and a crude fuse—nonetheless equipped all his infantry with these dubious weapons. Despite their clumsy design, they remained a potent tool for breaking enemy formations and shattering morale. Once better stick grenades and more reliable explosive shells could be developed by the scholars at the university, they would replace these stopgaps. For now, his instructions were clear: however the men managed it, the grenades were to be hurled when the enemy drew within a dozen paces, and each one was to explode with a resounding blast.

The disciplined Song army settled into their lines, artillery batteries in place, showing no intention of advancing. Sun Li believed that, against these blockheaded orcs, nothing would better display their supposed valor than letting them charge to their own demise.

As expected, the disorganized orc emperor, upon seeing Sun Li’s meticulously ordered ranks, acted out of either jealousy or rage and ordered over a hundred thousand goblin conscripts to launch a chaotic assault.

By the emperor’s side, the chief shaman, Frido, regarded the human formations and artillery with a deepening frown. For the first time, he began to doubt whether this decisive battle, which would determine the fate of the orc race, could be won. The memory of human artillery haunted him, and he could only hope that the bloodlust enchantment would force the humans to expend as much ammunition as possible.

As the goblin horde’s vanguard entered within eight hundred meters, the forty Napoleonic six-pounders thundered to life. Solid iron shot whistled from their muzzles, plunging into the dense goblin ranks. The massive projectiles bounded along the earth like mischievous children skipping stones, carving entire swathes of goblins to pulp—their frail bodies shattered on contact, annihilated even by glancing blows.

To Sun Li, it was like a game of bowling, each strike sending goblin bodies tumbling and splintering with a cacophony of impacts.

After two or three salvos, goblin morale plummeted and their advance slowed. When they drew within four hundred meters, the artillery shifted to canister shot. The air was filled with a different, sharper roar, and under the storm of iron pellets, goblins screamed in agony, their bodies riddled with bloody holes. The canister’s devastating spread was far more efficient than solid shot; the entire front rank of the goblin vanguard was scythed down. If the goblins pressed on, there would be no time to reload for another canister volley—the process was slow and laborious.

But the goblins’ brittle nerves snapped after just one such volley. Collapse was imminent—a rout seemed certain. Though infuriated that these cannon fodder had failed before even reaching the enemy, the orcish mages had no choice but to invoke the bloodlust aura. The spell was time-limited and their power finite; to cast it too soon would squander their trump card.

Bloodlust, as ever, did not disappoint. On the brink of collapse, the goblins instantly transformed into the fiercest of orcish warriors, charging at the Song lines with renewed, reckless fury.

“What a monstrous combination—such numbers paired with this bloodlust spell. No wonder such a backward race has survived until now. It’s fortunate the spell doesn’t work on other intelligent peoples, or we’d be in real trouble,” Sun Li mused. As the blood-crazed goblins weathered another bout of grapeshot, they finally surged into musket range.

“Ready—fire!” The flintlocks erupted in coordinated volleys. First one rank, then the next, cycling through four rows, so that by the time the fourth had fired, the first was ready to shoot again. The relentless fire mowed down the unarmored goblins in droves.

And that was not all. When the goblins closed to within a dozen meters, the first four ranks ceased reloading, produced their makeshift grenades, lit the fuses, and hurled them into the massed enemy. Some failed to detonate, but over half exploded, turning the goblin vanguard into a living hell.

“Fix bayonets—charge!” With a hoarse shout from the regimental officers, the entire line of over ten thousand infantry surged forward with gleaming steel. Stunned and battered by the makeshift grenades, the goblins stood no chance against the high-spirited human assault.

Even with their minds seized by bloodlust, the goblins’ resolve dissolved before the walls of bayonets. Anyone would lose heart at the sight of a living wall of steel bearing down upon them, much less these pitiful creatures. The shock shattered what little consciousness remained, and, driven mad by the spell, the goblins became frenzied berserkers, lashing out at friend and foe alike.

Frido and the orc emperor were left utterly stunned. No other human army had ever employed such tactics—bayonets and grenades in unison. Was it the fearsome strength of the Song army, or the pitiful cowardice of the goblins, that had caused even the bloodlust spell to backfire?

Gazing across the chaos of the battlefield, the orc emperor could only resign himself to abandoning the hundred-thousand-strong cannon-fodder force. It was no great loss; he still commanded several more legions. But would Sun Li let such an opportunity slip through his fingers?