allendalepharm Chapter 196 Canney
Chapter 196 Canney
Chapter 127 Canney (4)
"Turn around! Target—enemy cavalry on the right flank!" His command was concise and powerful. The cavalry group, having just completed a devastating blow to the left flank, displayed a chilling tactical discipline and mobility under Jules's leadership.
A double loop!
Yes, according to existing military manuals, heavily armored assault knights are like heavy hammers, and it is recommended to only strike hard at the decisive moment.
However, Jules knew that simply defeating the left wing was far from enough!
The enemy outnumbered them by two to one, and moreover, the enemy had a superior heavy infantry force in the center.
If we are only satisfied with defeating the enemy's left flank, we are wasting the opportunity that Tiberius and his men bought for them in the center!
They were like a giant, blood-stained steel boomerang, drawing a deadly arc in the center of the battlefield. Their hooves kicked up grass and mud, carrying lingering murderous intent and blood-stained weapons, as they charged straight at the right flank!
There, the light cavalry of [Summer Storm] had just launched an unsuccessful charge against the wagon camp under Varo's strict orders. They were in disarray and demoralized due to the thwarted attack and the harassment from crossbows and javelins within the wagon camp, and their backs were turned to the direction from which Jules had charged.
"Behind us! Cavalry! Enemy heavy cavalry!!" This time, it was the Summer Storm riders' turn to be terrified. They were already unwilling to storm the fortified position, and now they were facing a terrifying iron torrent from behind, the very same iron cavalry that had just crushed their heavy infantry!
The advantage of light cavalry lies in mobile warfare and harassment, rather than in direct confrontation with assault cavalry, especially when caught off guard, out of formation, and attacked from both sides.
Kadar saw the approaching storm of death, his expression changed drastically, and he instantly understood the whole situation.
"Retreat! Scatter! Avoid the enemy's advance! Do not engage in battle!!" He roared the most correct instructions at the top of his lungs.
The bugle sounded, and the drums thundered.
However, some of his cavalry attempted to turn and fight or flee, while others remained in place or became even more confused.
The reason is simple: some people realized that they could not retreat. If they did, wouldn't Navarro's central army be at the mercy of others?
But it was this brief hesitation that gave Jules his chance!
Jules' cavalry slammed into the rear of Summer Storm like a hot knife through butter.
This time, it was a brutal, uncompromising crushing defeat! The crisp sound of lances breaking, the sparks of scimitars clashing against heavy armor, the mournful neighing of warhorses, the dull thud of riders falling to the ground—
The right-wing offensive of [Summer Storm] instantly crumbled. The surviving light cavalry no longer cared about orders, following their instinct for survival and the commands of horns and drums, scattering and fleeing, completely exposing the right flank.
As for the main force of the Twilight Raiders in the middle? They could only watch helplessly as the left flank collapsed and the right flank cavalry scattered.
The heavy infantry's formation was slow to turn, and they were unable to break free from Tiberius's central army to intercept the high-speed cavalry.
They were like a giant beast with its limbs bound, only able to roar in anger and in vain, watching the hunters cut off its limbs at will around them.
When Marcus Varo was on the high platform, through the swirling dust and blood, and after hearing the communications soldier's report, he finally saw the overall situation of the battlefield.
His blood then almost froze.
The left wing is collapsing; the remnants are being slaughtered or driven into the river.
On the right flank, the cavalry scattered, while the wagon camp remained intact and even began to advance.
Meanwhile, his main force in the center was being tightly entangled by Tiberius's central army, while his flanks were completely exposed!
After completing their attack on the right flank, Jules' cavalry did not move away but instead roamed the outer perimeter, like a sharpened scythe, ready to strike again at any moment.
A perfect, desperate pincer movement has been formed!
His army was plunged into one of the most terrible nightmares in classical military history—the beginnings of a battle encirclement were completed by an enemy with inferior forces!
"No—impossible—" Varo murmured absentmindedly, the telescope slipping from his hand and shattering on the ground.
When Jules' cavalry swept across the flank and rear of Summer Storm like the Grim Reaper's scythe, causing a collapse in the right flank, the right-wing wagon battalion, which had been silent and patient, moved.
"Open the passage! Spearmen, advance! Crossbowmen, advance fifty paces and unleash a barrage to rout the enemy!"
The veteran officer in charge of the right-wing wagon battalion gave the order in a hoarse voice. The wagons, which had been tightly linked, were quickly pushed apart in several places, and the spearmen hidden behind the wagon formation stepped out, not to pursue the scattered cavalry, but to advance steadily forward and actively move closer to and connect with the right flank of Tiberius's central defensive line.
Meanwhile, the crossbowmen and javelin throwers in the wagon camp quickly moved forward to new firing positions, raining deadly arrows and short spears upon the scattered Valantis troops attempting to regroup or rescue the central route, as well as the backs of the fleeing cavalry.
The right-wing wagon battalion, which had been a solid defensive stronghold, was instantly transformed into an offensive fortress protruding forward. In coordination with the central army, it began to squeeze and cut off the right flank of Varo's main force in the central route.
As for Jules, he and his shock cavalry needed rest, but any experienced centurion would despair when the heavy cavalry appeared on the enemy's flank and rear.
Why?
This meant that their flanks and rear would then be threatened by a group of elite heavy cavalry, enough to whip them around like tops.
Of course, Jules and his men were actually exhausted, but in the eyes of the Valantis, Jules, who had made two maneuvers and defeated their left and right wings, was like a god of war from heaven. He was not "exhausted" at all, but clearly a "powerful and iron-blooded army".
"Damn, boss, I'm exhausted." Calvin yanked off his helmet, large beads of sweat popping out of his forehead.
"Boss, give the order! Let's do it again?" He was eager to try.
"What the hell are you talking about!" Jules rolled his eyes at him, glaring at his reckless subordinate.
"Charging now would be sending us all into a fire. Our horses need rest, our lances need changing—no, we're just standing on the outskirts, we don't even need to patrol. Just standing here will make the enemy consider surrendering!"
"Have that kid Leon go to the edge and keep an eye on the Summer Storm light cavalry. Report back as soon as they return. Tell him absolutely not to make any contact, or the enemy's numbers will be enough to crush his men."
Jules raised his lance and pointed it into the distance.
"Next, it all depends on Tiberius's central army. The encirclement is complete; even if the enemy is highly disciplined, they should collapse by now, right?"
"Now! Push back across the entire front!" Tiberius's voice was hoarse with excitement and exhaustion. He drew his sword sharply and pointed it at the main force of the Twilight Raiders, whose morale was clearly wavering and whose offensive was obviously stalled.
Under the aura of the "Ruthless One," his soldiers feared his orders more than their exhaustion or the sheer number of enemies. Especially this time, their motto was: "For freedom! For gold! For survival! Kill—!"
Officers and non-commissioned officers at all levels roared, unleashing their pent-up frustration and fighting spirit.
The Lightning Regiment and the central army soldiers, who had been retreating and struggling to hold on, seemed to have been injected with a final boost of energy.
They were no longer passive anvils bearing the impact, but springs that suddenly burst forth! Shields thrust forward, spears jabbed fiercely, and their steps were firm as they marched forward! Although their formation was no longer as orderly as it had been at the beginning, the ferocious momentum of their desperate counterattack, combined with the pressure from the flank wagon battalions and the increasingly dense and precise support fire from the Vito crossbowmen in the rear, caught the Twilight Raiders completely off guard.
Varo's central position was met with a fierce counterattack, his right flank was harassed by the spears and arrows of the wagon troops, and his left flank—was already gone. They were truly surrounded on three sides.
Panic, like the most potent toxin, spread throughout the entire army in an instant. Even the strictest discipline crumbled under such a desperate, multi-pronged encirclement and relentless attack.
"Retreat! Move towards the center! Reorganize the formation!" Varo's voice was hoarse and distorted, but any command he gave sounded weak and powerless.
Communication between squadrons was cut off; commanders could not find their soldiers, and soldiers could not see their flags.
The rotating squad tactics of the [Twilight Raiders] became completely ineffective when surrounded on all sides and their formation was broken up.
The troops on the right flank and those in the rear that were under pressure were the first to collapse.
Faced with the slowly approaching steel wall, a forest of spears, and the steel knights lurking behind them, some soldiers finally broke down, dropped their weapons, turned and ran, disrupting their already crumbling formation.
Next came the frontline troops, who bore the brunt of the counterattack and completely lost their will to fight after Tiberius's counterattack.
The collapse happened like an avalanche. It was no longer a local retreat or disintegration, but a complete and utter collapse.
The soldiers sought only to escape death; they trampled each other, discarding their armor and weapons—symbols of honor—all in an effort to run faster.
Jules' cavalry promptly increased their speed, shifting from "crushing" to "driving," like sheepdogs driving the large groups of routed soldiers in a more chaotic direction and intercepting any small groups of resistance attempting to regroup.
The advance turned into a mopping-up operation, while Tiberius's central army continued to expand its gains during the pursuit.
What is the current situation?
On the front, there was the shield and spear line, which was unbreakable under Tiberius's influence and even began to push back.
To the right, there was the silent and deadly gaze of the Jules cavalry, and the infantry of the "Cheertown" that began to advance step by step.
To the left and to the left rear were veterans covered in blood, who were like deadly wedges slowly being driven into the giant log of the [Twilight Raiders].
Space is being compressed at a speed visible to the naked eye.
"Don't panic! Maintain formation! Move towards the center! Shield wall! Raise your spears!"
The centurions and deputies at the front shouted themselves hoarse in an attempt to maintain order. At first, it worked; the soldiers instinctively performed the actions they had been trained on countless times.
But soon, everything changed.
People were packed together, and armored vehicles collided with each other.
To cope with the frontal pressure, the soldiers in the back row involuntarily pushed forward; to guard against flank threats, the soldiers on both sides desperately shrank towards the middle.
The square formation resembles a steamed bun being squeezed by an invisible giant hand, rapidly twisting, expanding, and deforming from a regular rectangle.
A soldier roared and tried to parry the short spear thrusting from the side with his sword, but his elbow slammed into the full-coverage helmet of his comrade behind him. His sword was deflected, and his ribs were exposed. A hooked spear, which appeared out of nowhere, hooked into the gap of his armor plate. He screamed and was dragged down, never to get up again.
Another soldier tried to raise his shield to block the spears thrusting from the front, but found that he could barely lift his shield arm—there was an impenetrable wall of men and towering spear shafts all around him, and the edge of his shield got stuck in the shoulder armor of his comrade next to him. In that instant of hesitation, at least three spears pierced the blind spots of his shield from different angles.
"Scatter! Give us some space!" someone shouted desperately.
"Hold on! Don't retreat!" the officer roared.
But "space" has become the most luxurious thing.
The outermost soldiers were subjected to weapon attacks from three directions, falling one layer at a time like an onion being peeled.
The soldiers on the inner layer were in an even more terrifying situation—they were trapped in an increasingly dense mass of people, barely able to move. Their heavy full plate armor or chainmail, normally a life-saving shield, had become steel coffins. Sweat, blood, and mud soaked through their linings, and the sweltering heat and lack of oxygen made them dizzy.
A tall sergeant major, who once single-handedly beheaded the enemy chieftain at Broken Sword Fortress, was now being squeezed so that his feet were slightly off the ground.
He tried to draw the warhammer from his waist, but his hand was caught in the arm armor and weapon of the person next to him, and he could only twist in vain.
A short spear, treacherously thrust out from the gaps in the crowd, aimed at the neck joint beneath his visor, and with a gentle push, the veteran died at the hands of a former slave soldier from the Lightning Regiment.
There was no earth-shattering battle, only the sickening sound of metal scraping together, the dull thud of sharp weapons piercing flesh, the dying groans, and the utter cries of collapse.
The formation began to crumble internally, not by being broken down, but by being crushed.
The soldiers lost the space to wield their weapons, the ability to move, and even the right to fall. There were people all around them, and falling meant being trampled.
They were like sardines in a can, watching helplessly as enemy weapons flew from above the shield wall, through the gaps between people's legs...
Pierce, cut, or smash in from any unexpected angle.
Discipline has collapsed.
The instinct for survival overwhelmed everything. Some people began to desperately remove their heavy helmets and tear at the fastened breastplate buckles, just to catch their breath and move their arms a little.
But this often led to even faster deaths, causing greater disorder. Some people threw away their shields and spears and pushed forward with their bare hands, trying to make a way out, but this only caused more chaos and trampling.
Varo saw that his once-commanding, steel-machine-like legion had transformed into a massive...
A bloated mass of flesh, flowing with blood and despair.
The enemy's pressure from three sides was like the three plates of a hydraulic press, steadily and relentlessly closing in. Each squeeze made the mass of flesh even tighter, extracting more life.
Tiberius's central infantry, his personal guard of the Blitzkrieg regiment, had become the most efficient "bulldozers."
These former slaves formed tight squads, using shields to hold back the chaotic enemy in front of them, and continuously stabbing any heavily armored figure still standing through the gaps in the shields with their spears.
They didn't need complicated tactics; they followed the instructions Tiberius had given them: maintain formation, advance forward, a thousand men thrusting, a thousand men thrusting back; hands and feet moving in unison, without hesitation.
With each step forward, the ground beneath their feet became increasingly muddy—a muddy mixture of blood, entrails, and crushed limbs.
Jules' cavalry finally moved. They did not charge towards the densest core—there was no room left for a charge there.
Like scalpels, they moved along the edge of the collapsing phalanx, using their lances to pry away stragglers and their hooves to trample fleeing soldiers, driving even greater panic back to the massive, dying mass of flesh.
Varo's lips trembled as he tried to give the order, to make the final adjustments, even if it was just a last-ditch effort for honor.
But when he opened his mouth, no meaningful sound came out. The adjutants stared at him, their faces ashen, then at the unfolding spectacle known as the "massacre." The messenger had long since lost the courage to traverse the battlefield.
The guards below the platform began to stir, and some involuntarily looked back.
It’s over.
The Twilight Raiders, the pride of Valantis, the ever-victorious Fourteenth Legion, were being brutally crushed and pulverized before his very eyes. There were no glorious duels, no heroic deaths, only a cold, mechanical, and almost suffocating mass death.
Marcus Varo stood on the high platform, watching helplessly as his prized Twilight Raiders, the pride of Valantis, was transformed in less than an hour from a mighty, victorious army into a pack of defeated, fleeing dogs, abandoning their armor and weapons.
The legion's battle flag, embroidered with half a skull and half a blazing sun, fell in the chaos, trampled into the mud by countless panicked feet, and was never raised again.
The battle has devolved into a one-sided pursuit and slaughter.
The plains along the Canni River were littered with the corpses of the Valantis, abandoned equipment, and desperate prisoners.
"General, give the order! Give the order!" Lucius's face was ashen, and his hands trembled as he gripped Varo's robe.
"There must be a way!"
"What can we do?" Varo's anger was completely ignited.
"It's all because of you, you Elephant Party brat! Glory, decisive battle—bah! I should have listened to Warmaster Marcus, delayed them, kept an eye on them, instead of—instead of like today—" Varo said tremblingly, pointing with his scabbard at the smoke and the situation in the distance.
It's over, it's over!
I should have listened to Qatar!
Varo's army was utterly crushed.
It was not merely a defeat, but a devastating end for an effective fighting force.
This is the most shameful chapter in their legion's history!
Finally, he saw the young enemy commander, Tybello Mode, the "somewhat clever mercenary brat" mentioned contemptuously in the intelligence, the nominal leader of the "Lightning Squad," Jules Mode's nephew and puppet.
He's really young, just like the intelligence reports said, he doesn't even seem to be fifteen.
But those eyes—Varo had never seen such a cold, focused, and—calm gaze in anyone his age. There was no victor's ecstasy, no post-slaughter exhilaration, not even the usual cruelty or triumph.
The young man simply rode on his horse, occasionally giving brief orders to the messengers beside him. His gaze swept across the battlefield, like a craftsman examining a work nearing completion, his calmness chilling.
Then he saw him too.
He saw the "Lightning" kid sneer.
Varo's face turned grim, and he suddenly grabbed the legion's banner from his hand.
"Prepare for a counterattack!" His voice was hoarse; he would rather die than be labeled a "defeated general."
He carried the heavy, bronze legionary banner, which stood proudly.
In that moment, Varo felt as if he could still win!
As long as the soldiers see the flag.
Whenever soldiers see their commander.
As long as the military flag is pressed forward—
These words and the scene of turning defeat into victory seized his mind, completely bewildering him, and he led a small number of his personal guards straight into the enemy's center!
Yes, we can win! We outnumber them, as long as our soldiers see our flag—
"Boom!"
A bolt of lightning struck from the sky.
Then?
Then there is no more.
A blinding flash of electricity engulfed the decorations at the top of the flagpole, then surged wildly down the highly conductive copper pole, instantly engulfing Marcus Varo, who was carrying the flagpole!
There were no screams, no struggles. To everyone's utter horror, Varo shuddered violently, like a puppet struck by an invisible hammer. Acrid smoke billowed from the seams of his helmet and the joints between his armor.
Immediately afterwards, he and the legion flag on his shoulder, like two pieces of charred wood, remained in a forward-charging posture and crashed straight and heavily into the sticky blood and mud at his feet.
The skull and sun motifs on the flag were slightly curled and charred in the embers. The tassels, however, were ignited by the intense heat.
The guards following behind him suddenly stopped in their tracks, like frozen statues.
[Heh, I actually also hired a mage, you idiot.] Tiberius thought to himself, smugly admiring the figure that had been struck dead by lightning.
"Damn, Tiberius, how come you're so lucky?" Vito exclaimed in disbelief.
"Luck is also part of strength, my dear Vito." Tibi coughed lightly.
"Alright, I reckon they're close to breaking down. Now, let's have our lads keep going and crush them!"
Then, he rushed to the front line and roared in the most sorrowful tone.
"The general was struck dead by lightning! This is divine punishment, divine punishment!"
"Divine punishment—it's divine punishment!" Upon hearing this, a soldier suddenly dropped his weapon, knelt down in the mud, and frantically drew the flame symbol of the King of Light towards the overcast sky, filled with fear.
"Run!" Someone let out a shrill scream, and then chaos completely engulfed the enemy's battlefield.
"The military flag has fallen!"
"The commander is dead! He was struck by lightning!"
"The gods have forsaken us! We are cursed!"
Whispers, gasps, and cries erupted like a plague in the crowded throng. It was a complete breakdown of discipline, the instinct for survival exploding in the most chaotic and desperate form.
"Get out of the way! Let me out!"
"Don't push! You bastard!"
"We surrender! We surrender!"
The legion's formation began to collapse explosively from within, turning into countless small groups of terrified jostling and trampling each other. The setting sun dyed the battlefield blood red, corpses littered the ground, and the smoke of battle still lingered. Jules struggled to pull the nearly broken longsword from the corpse of a Valantis officer, leaning on the hilt and breathing heavily.
He looked around at the soldiers, who were equally exhausted but whose eyes burned with the ecstasy of surviving a disaster, and his voice was hoarse but filled with unbelievable certainty.
"The Valantis retreated—no, they fled! We truly crushed them in a head-on confrontation!"
Jules looked somewhat bewildered, but more than that, he was filled with the joy of victory.
"Tiberius, we—we have won!" He sheathed his sword and said in a tone of utter astonishment and disbelief. "We have truly won! We have won head-on, through courage, wisdom, and the art of war—"
Tiberius collapsed onto a blood-stained rock, barely able to lift his hand. He looked at his uncle and gave a weak smile.
Tiberius: "Yes, Uncle—we won. Although—strictly speaking, we only crushed—"
Vito strode over, covered in blood, but in much better spirits. He patted Tiberius on the shoulder hard, almost knocking him over.
"Rout? Tiberius! Look at all that's lying here!" He waved his arms, pointing to the vast battlefield.
"Six thousand Tiger Robe Army soldiers! How many of them can escape back? Three thousand? Two thousand? Or even fewer?" His tone was full of victorious pride.
"Seriously, kid, look for yourself, the whole river is full of corpses! It's all our handiwork!"
"Oh right, Sevita's here!" Vito shouted.
"Sevita, my sailor, what good news have you brought?" Tiberius almost collapsed to the ground.
Severta limped over, his axe stained with dark red blood and a few horsehair hairs, a cruel yet satisfied smile typical of the Ironborn on his face.
"Captain, we Iron Boys haven't done anything else. Old Captain Jules told us to sneak into the enemy camp. I know what to do: besides making money—cough, I haven't delayed anything. I know we'll just focus on their horses and kill them! Slaughter all the ones we can, and for those we can't kill right away, we'll target their legs and heads, saving our energy while ruining a few more!"
"Hmph, they think they can escape? No way! They'd better ask themselves how many legs they have left!"
"There are still a few wrecked boats floating on the riverbank, the ones they used to escape. Should I take my brothers to the water to send them off on their final journey? In the water, we're the ones who truly take lives!"
Tiberius shook his head and forced himself to stand up.
"No, Sevita, you have no ships. What kind of Ironborn are you without ships? We have to go—go now."
His self-illumination cast into the distance, carrying a deep sense of worry.
"The Tiger Robe Army is an elite force, but unfortunately, they are only the vanguard. The enemy's main force has not disappeared; they have simply been left behind, and now—they are probably rushing here at full speed."
Jules had already wiped the blood off the sword with a cloth, though the blade was chipped in several places. He nodded, his eyes regaining the calm and decisiveness befitting a commander.
"Tiberius is right. We must leave, the sooner the better! We must use this time difference, before their main force arrives, to create distance."
However, Tiberius stared at the ground, his brow furrowed. Suddenly, he abruptly raised his head, a glint of almost madness flashing in his eyes, a stark contrast to his previous weariness.
"No, Uncle—wait a minute. I might—have a new idea."
He told Lisanro to quickly spread out the badly worn map, and everyone gathered around Tiberius, wanting to know what other schemes or tricks this kid had up his sleeve—cough, what other ingenious ideas he might have.
Tiberius's finger moved quickly across the map, from their current location to the capital of Valantis, and then back to the present.
Tiberius narrowed his eyes. "Look, we've been running all the way here from the outskirts of Valantis."
"And the main force of Valantis, if my deduction is correct, should be about five days away from us."
"If they abandoned the heavy elephants and some of the radiators and marched lightly, it would take them at least three days to reach where we are now."
"In that case, we actually have a time difference?" His finger traced the map, his expression somewhat strange, but he couldn't help but get excited.
Lisanro leaned over to look at the map. When he heard Tiberius's analysis, he was initially puzzled, but when he saw where they were pointing, his eyes widened and he gasped.