CHAPTER 560: COLLAPSE 2

TL: Rui88

The militiamen continued to advance, their faces etched with hesitation and doubt, but their steps remained uniform and determined…resolutely carrying out orders was a crucial part of militia military training.

On Schroeder’s side, twenty Alda soldiers armed with the new muskets stepped out from the ranks and stood at the very front.

“Aim!” At the chief of staff’s command, the twenty soldiers raised their muskets. If one were to peer closely down the muzzle, they would discover spiral grooves inside the barrel.

From Burgan’s perspective, the situation on the other side was very strange.

Logically, shouldn’t all the horizontal lines immediately raise their guns to meet the enemy?

Why were only twenty men getting ready?

Then he immediately noticed something even more peculiar.

The flintlock muskets currently in common use, due to their very low accuracy, often employed the volley fire method…soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in a tight line, all pointing their muzzles straight ahead, and fired in unison upon command. Although the accuracy of a single musket was very low, the overall hit rate was considerable. Even if the bullet’s trajectory veered wildly, it was not as if it would make a 90-degree turn; there was a high probability of hitting some unlucky soul in the opposing line…after all, the enemy also had to be arranged in horizontal lines or squares, and the casualties caused by collective fire were even greater.

Therefore, when firing at a greater distance from the enemy, soldiers were not required to deliberately aim at a specific target.

But now, in Burgan’s eyes, the twenty soldiers at the front of Schroeder’s line had their muzzles…all pointed at him.

What was going on? Were they trying to take out him, the commander, first? Could they even hit him?

A sense of foreboding washed over Burgan, making the hairs on his body stand on end.

But what could he do now?

Hide behind his subordinates in front of everyone? What a joke.

Burgan clenched his jaw, maintained his posture with his head held high, and continued to advance on horseback with the militia line.

“Haha!” Lieutenant Colonel Claude, commander of the Ninth Infantry Battalion, grinned and said cheerfully to Chief of Staff Schroeder, “He’s asking for death.”

Seeing that Burgan had entered effective range, the old knight roared, “Fire!”

With the command, twenty flintlocks with rifled barrels fired in unison. The bullets spun as they sped towards their target.

As the head of the training section, Burgan was frequently handling guns, teaching soldiers to shoot, and supervising their training. He himself often practiced his marksmanship. Every time he touched the cold gun body and bullets, he marveled at this miraculous creation from the hands of Paul Grayman…unfeeling, cold, powerful, unstoppable, and fatal with a single shot. It was truly the perfect weapon for taking a human life. What were swords, what were bows and crossbows? In the face of this weapon, they all paled in comparison.

And Burgan had imagined more than once in his mind what it would feel like to be hit by such a terrible weapon. Having been on the battlefield, he had seen the wounds of enemies who had been hit, and the sight was undoubtedly horrifying. He had also asked the wounded how they felt, but the verbal descriptions of others could not replace personal experience.

If he were hit by a musket, what would it be like?

Now Burgan knew. In just a fraction of a second, he had been pierced by at least ten deformed lead balls, one of which went straight through his shoulder blade.

Was it painful? Burgan did not know, because he had been hit in a vital spot in an instant. Perhaps his brain did not have time to register it. His only feeling was that his life was rapidly draining away.

He felt as if he were gradually being separated from everything outside his body by an invisible, transparent barrier. First, his sense of touch grew dull, but he could still see the terrified expressions on the faces of the militiamen looking at him, and he could still hear their panicked shouts. Gradually, even the sounds began to blur. Finally, he could not see, could not hear, and the flame of consciousness began to extinguish.

Father, Grandfather, will the ancestors of the family be proud of me? Alas, perhaps the Warren family will cease to exist after this…

But… how did Count Grayman escape the attack? How did the people in the Lord’s Manor get news from the outside? Where did the Chief of Staff find his army?

The lord’s guards were elite, it was true, but they were outnumbered by his side. If that failed, they could set fire to the forest. To cut off communications, the signal towers at several key locations were under his control. He had used the martial law to control the major roads of Lakeheart Town. Finally, he had waited until the Lakeheart Town garrison was far away before making his move. Every carefully considered and prepared measure had, against all odds, gone wrong.

With these few mysteries, Burgan’s life completely faded away.

Burgan Warren, the current commander of the militia, was dead!

The army he had organized just two days ago lost its final restraint. The doubts swirling in their minds, the anxiety that they themselves might be the traitors, the fear of the regular army…especially those cannons that glinted with a menacing cold light…finally crushed their spirits.

A clattering sound arose, the sound of muskets being thrown to the ground. The militiamen hung their heads, their shoulders slumped, awaiting the judgment of fate.

Would they be executed by cannon? There were ready-made cannons on the other side. Many thought this with hearts as dead as ashes.

Accompanying Burgan were a few of his die-hard cronies, but their prestige was insufficient to reorganize the army. In fact, their own will had already collapsed. The cannon fire from the Lord’s Manor had already declared that they had no way out, so they immediately raised their hands high in the air.

Schroeder nudged his horse’s reins and rode forward to a closer distance. He took the megaphone and shouted, “All militiamen, listen up. Captain Claude will take you back to the camp in Lakeheart Town. You will stay there for the time being and are not to go out!”

He emphasized the last two words, “not to go out.”

“Later, someone will talk to you one by one. If you were merely deceived by the traitors during the rebellion and did not actively commit any evil acts, the lord will be lenient with you. If anyone colluded with the traitors from the beginning, or committed evil acts during the chaos, and the evidence is conclusive, then they will absolutely not be spared!”

Upon hearing the chief of staff’s words, most of the militiamen felt as if they had been granted a great pardon, looking as though they had just survived a disaster. A few, however, remained uneasy, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Burgan’s few cronies were tied up and given a good beating.

Captain Claude pointed in the direction of Lakeheart Town and said to Schroeder, “Sir, someone is coming from the city.”

Schroeder looked and saw two knights galloping towards them, kicking up a long trail of dust behind them.

“They seem to be from the internal security forces.”

Claude, who had excellent eyesight, recognized the uniforms of the newcomers.