CHAPTER 349: CHAPTER 249: THE WHOLE ARMY ATTACKS_2

But Barton, behind the lines, had reacted as soon as the first musket shot rang out.

He immediately stood up, brandishing his military saber towards the front.

"Advance! Seize the terrain! Musketeers, fire at will!"

When the escaping Heretics passed, what awaited them was a line of muskets ready for their arrival.

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

The effect of muskets wasn’t great when the crowd was sparse, but it still crippled a portion of them. The greater impact was the fierce gunfire that shattered their courage in an instant.

"No! God has forsaken us."

"Heavens! We are surrounded!"

"Don’t kill me, I believe in the Holy Light..."

However, among these people were Heretics who had seen the world and remained calm.

"Quick! It takes time for the muskets to reload! Charge now while they’re reloading to escape!"

This shout gave them their last hope, and they rushed forward en masse, looking to break through the encirclement and escape.

But they failed to notice that the one who had shouted silently retreated to the back of the crowd.

He had been a soldier, but his unit was defeated by refugees. To survive, he had become a deserter and had even turned to banditry on the road. He had come here simply to live. He too had tasted that wondrous power, and if possible, he still wanted to delve into that mysterious force, but when it came to survival, escape was his only option. All along the way, he had evaded countless calamities and believed this time would be no different.

He spurred the Heretics to charge at the encircling soldiers. As a former soldier, he knew how to deal with them. In the army, muskets were so disdained that dogs wouldn’t use them. The enemy had to be within a hundred meters to fire once, and it took a minute or two to reload. By then, the enemy would already be upon them, turning unloaded muskets into mere sticks for burning. Amongst the soldiers, these men were always the quickest to flee, and he believed these would be the same. If the distance was close enough, they would panic and run. The real challenge was the soldiers with the long spears. Before that, he needed his "comrades" to wear them down for him.

Indeed, as the Heretics advanced, he saw the Musketeers falling back, ceding the front to the spear-wielding soldiers.

Desperate to survive, the Heretics unleashed their maximum potential. The power of Flesh they had obtained here manifested, and its transformative effects meant many of them were even physically stronger than the soldiers.

This strength gave them confidence, even daring to charge forward with only their bodies, and he blended into their midst.

But... charging a phalanx with only their bodies came with a price.

"Kill!" The phalanx thrust forward in an ordered fashion, their rigorous training paying off as sharp spear tips pierced the Heretics, opening several bloody holes in them.

And those with better skills even aimed for the head, taking one down with every thrust.

What kind of fucking Heretics? I’ve fought who knows how many of them.

In war, individual bravery doesn’t make much difference until it reaches a certain level. Even the strongest body is still human. Wound it, and it will die.

He watched as a comrade right in front of him was impaled with three spearheads in an instant, his face still showing panic when they were pulled out.

He seized the opportunity, lifting his not-yet-dead comrade’s body and ramming it into the phalanx as they retracted their spears.

If he had a weapon, he would have taken the chance to roll inside and slash at their legs. Unfortunately, now he could only do this.

It has to be said, compared to those who rushed the phalanx in a panic, his timing was excellent, entangling the long spears with the body of a comrade who hadn’t fully died.

If it had been a regular army, he might have succeeded, but unfortunately...

"WAAAGH!"

A roar exploded beside his ear, and he inexplicably felt a sharp pain in his heart. Looking down, he discovered a weapon had pierced right through the meat shield and into his own chest.

Before he could react further, the weapon was yanked out. The intense pain made him instinctively let go and try to cover the spurting wound. The moment his companion’s corpse fell, all he saw was a woman wielding a War Halberd charging toward him.

That was his last memory, for in the next second, Boudica had hacked him to death with her halberd.

Clever ones like him were numerous, trying to breach the defenses in various ways. Yet they struggled to shake the phalanx, which stood united as one, let alone the fact that Musketeers were also firing point-blank.

Any who stuck their necks out would become targets for Boudica and Barton, whose combat prowess was no joke. Between her halberd and his blade, their damage was overwhelming.

In a short time, the casualties they caused were even more direct than the harvesting of the muskets, with countless Heretics falling every second.

Blood splashed onto Boudica, even reaching her face, but she simply wiped it off without a care.

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

Feeling the thick scent of blood in the air ignited excitement on her face. Boudica became ecstatic. She hoisted her bloodstained War Halberd, laughed maniacally, and then charged into the Heretics, indulging in the frenzied revelry.

Compared to her, the Heretics were terrified, momentarily confused about who the hell were the true Heretics?

They were like fish caught in a net, frantically trying to escape from the encirclement. Not to mention there was a shark among them—Boudica—chasing and scattering them in every direction.

"Damn," Barton muttered under his breath as he watched her charge.

Her reckless charge made her own allies hold their fire for fear of friendly fire, and she nearly led the team to collapse. They were tasked with holding the line and letting not one enemy through—how would they explain to the Lord if any slipped past because of her? Of course, a bigger part of him also wished to charge forward, but his duty to lead the troops meant he had to stay and uphold the position while watching others relish the fight.

Eventually, as the situation tipped, the seasoned Heretics within could no longer sit still. At this rate, all the effort they spent training would vanish—who would care about Ascension then?

"CLANG! SCREECH!"

Sparks flew, and the sound of metal clashing rang out as Boudica’s War Halberd was blocked by a muscular man.

Boudica didn’t believe anyone could truly withstand her attack. She pressed on, overpowering him and causing him to stagger backward. She then took the opportunity to swing her halberd, slashing a wound onto his body.

Damn it! If I can’t beat a Ghoul, can’t I beat you?

Yet, this man, bearing such a heavy wound, did not cry out or show pain. Instead, his face was full of zeal, and the disabling wound started to heal within moments, although it still left a scar.

In the next second, the Heretic Warrior cried out to his deity and charged at Boudica. She was not alarmed but pleased—she had been worrying that those fools were too weak and she had no worthy opponents.

When the two clashed, this situation had different levels of impact on both sides.

The Heretics noticed the miracle that befell their fellow Heretic Warrior, and their initial fear dissipated. Instead, their faith in their god was reignited, and they united, loudly chanting for Ascension.

On the other hand, soldiers from Boudica’s side could not help feeling somewhat grave upon witnessing this, having seen such feats before...

"What do you fear when your Lord is here? Show these scoundrels the might of the weapons in your hands!" Barton shouted, instantly relieving the soldiers’ pressure.

Right! The Lord was on the battlefield! The Lord was watching over them...

A soldier steadied his musket, his breathing slowing, his sharp gaze locked onto one of the frenzied Heretics.

He pulled the trigger. After the gunshot, he didn’t even look, promptly reloading his musket.

One of the loudest Heretics was shot in the head, falling stiffly. It seemed his god had not favored him.

The voice of the Heretics was quickly suppressed, while the morale of the soldiers surged. Barton seized the moment and bellowed,

"Hamlet Must Win!"

For a moment, every soldier’s face showed a fervor that was no less intense than that of the Heretics, maybe even stronger, as they sought to take the initiative in the attack.

Scattered gunshots rang out. As they aimed carefully, the hit rate surged significantly. Practically every shot achieved a result. Most targeted the body; only a few confident in their skill aimed for the head.