Chapter Thirty-Five: The Elegy of the Moris Empire (V)

When the army of the Grand Marshal of the Holy Knights entered firing range, Paris’s troops did not immediately open fire. The line infantry, arranged three deep both at the front and on the flanks, took their positions: the first row knelt, the second crouched, and the third stood, all taking aim at the cavalry of the Holy Order. Determined to teach them an unforgettable lesson, Paris abandoned the principle of sustained fire and resolved to unleash the maximum possible damage in a single volley.

As before, the Grand Marshal of the Holy Knights concealed himself behind the cavalry ranks, while the knightly horsemen, without the slightest complaint, accepted this as their duty. In their hearts, laying down their lives to protect and follow a commander of such extraordinary prowess was only natural, even a point of pride.

When the cavalry closed to within thirty paces, the Grand Marshal wondered in confusion why the enemy had yet to fire—were they collectively paralyzed by fear?

At Paris’s command, a thunderous, overwhelming volley erupted. The simultaneous discharge of three ranks dwarfed the impact of any single volley; the effect was titanic. At a range of thirty paces—well within the maximum killing distance for flintlock muskets—their otherwise dismal accuracy soared above sixty percent. Normally, within effective range, the hit rate barely reached twenty or thirty percent.

With the line deepened by two extra ranks, the probability of hitting doubled, and the result was instant devastation. In a heartbeat, vast swathes of the Holy Knights’ charging formation were annihilated. The Grand Marshal suddenly found himself at the very front—he who, moments before, had brought up the rear.

Of the three thousand cavalrymen, half were cut down immediately. Even with their unwavering faith in the God of Light, their hearts skipped a beat in terror—such slaughter was simply beyond belief.

The shock of seeing one’s comrades fall, not singly but en masse, was overwhelming. The survivors could only stare, dumbfounded, as those around them were sent to meet their god. A single, chilling thought rose unbidden in the minds of these remaining knights and their commander alike: could they possibly survive another such volley?

Their once-unstoppable charge was utterly broken by the musketry; many knights, unnerved by the carnage, faltered, their advance slowed to a crawl. Confusion spread—already exhausted, their charge had never been swift, and now, forced to pick their way over the bodies of their fallen brothers, they descended into chaos.

Mad, panicked, or suicidally reckless riders collided with one another; some were even trampled by their own side. The charge was no longer a charge—had the enemy counterattacked at that moment, it would have been doubtful whether the knights could withstand it at all.

Watching the imperial musketeers calmly reload, the Grand Marshal saw his own men in utter disarray. In truth, the fact that they had not broken completely was a testament to their faith; in modern history, how many armies had collapsed after a single three-rank volley from the British? These knights, though shaken, had not routed—already a sign of their devotion.

But the Grand Marshal knew that such chaos was deadly. He bellowed for order and urged his men forward. If they could only maintain momentum, the musketeers would never reload in time for a second volley.

Yet, at the thought of enduring another such storm of fire, the Grand Marshal himself shuddered; he no longer had any battle energy to shield himself.

With a few desperate swings of his blade, the Grand Marshal cut down several of his own men, forcing the remainder to rally and resume their charge. But too much precious time had already been lost.

As the cavalry closed to within a dozen paces, Paris’s infantry had finished reloading and reformed their ranks. At the order to fire, the Grand Marshal’s worst fear was realized—the second terrifying three-rank volley crashed down upon them.

At this closer range, accuracy soared above eighty percent. Against such a storm, only a hundred or so of the luckiest survived, shielded by the bodies of their fallen comrades; the rest were left dead or dying, and the battlefield fell eerily silent.

The Grand Marshal, riddled with bullets, stared in disbelief at the musket line just paces away. A few more seconds, and he would have reached them! But in those few seconds, over three thousand knights had been reduced to barely a hundred survivors, who, their spirits utterly shattered, turned and fled in tears.

It was not a lack of faith that sent them running. Even if the indomitable system soldiers under Sun Li had lost three thousand men in an instant, their morale would have broken too.

Smiling with satisfaction at the overwhelming power of his new formation, Paris nodded approvingly. He ordered his long-pike phalanx forward—not in strict formation, but simply to charge.

The broken remnants of the first line and the surviving knights, confronted with the memory of the devastating volleys and the corpse of their fallen Grand Marshal, lost all will to resist. Save for a few stubborn souls, all scattered and fled, discarding weapons and armor—anything that might slow their escape—leaving only their horses. None ever wished to face such horror again; war was terrifying, and in a single volley, thousands had been sent to meet their God of Light.

Clearly, the surviving knights would never again dare face troops like Paris’s. The power of that musketry would haunt them for life.

Paris, having his pike phalanx symbolically drive away the remnants, gave up further pursuit. That was the advantage of cavalry—defeated, they could escape at will, while infantry had no hope of catching them. Even the most demoralized rabble could vanish without a trace.

Paris cared little for slaughtering a few more knights; he was not one of those fanatics who would sacrifice everything for vengeance in the name of Emperor Morris. Those zealots had all perished in the first line beneath the Grand Marshal’s blade.

Only those less valued, the marginal regimental commanders, had been left behind to oversee the less distinguished units at the rear. No one had anticipated that the Grand Marshal’s ferocity would so utterly crush the best of the front lines. With both lines routed, Paris’s dramatic reversal suddenly elevated his standing in the eyes of the fleeing troops, and he easily absorbed the survivors of the first line. As for the battered remnants of the second, it would be some time before they recovered from the trauma.

Thus ended the first national-scale battle on the continent of Europa. The victor was, of course, the Morris Empire. But whether Paris would continue to serve the military grandees in the capital was now anyone’s guess.