Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 568: Section 389: Help (Part 4)_2

Chapter 568: Section 389: Help (Part 4)_2

Although the Church troops, like them, were walking atop the hillock, these thickheaded soldiers insisted on sticking to the road.

Walking along the road was not a problem, but to the east of them, covered in vast expanses of pristine forest, no one knew if the Black Orcs would head south—if they did come south, perhaps an encounter would occur here or somewhere else.

The veteran didn’t know if he would die, but he feared this defense force wouldn’t withstand even one charge.

This stupid commander, whom no one knew from which Noble family he came, had been chosen by the Guards Army among the soldiers and military academies. Despite this, Nobles still based their choices on bloodlines, naively believing that lineage was the foundation.

Indeed, the higher Sequences and innate professions needed the support of noble bloodlines, but on the battlefield, a great lineage didn’t mean one was adept at commanding legions.

Malin had said that what the battlefield needed was a professional commander, not a fool whose incompetence killed thousands.

That kid from the East had run down the slope, approaching the defense force’s ranks once again, but this time, he didn’t even get to see their commander before being blasted away from the formation.

"He is a courageous and decisive lad, though unexpectedly merciful. At least he didn’t abandon others to their fate," said the approaching Elf in his hoarse voice.

The Elf was a standard Sharpshooter, rumored to have adventured with Malin before and was a survivor of an encounter with a Chaos squadron.

In any case, he was a marksman capable of hitting the center of targets half a mile away; with him present, the veteran dared to peek out of the trench to look around—knowing even if he was killed by the enemy, the Elf would avenge him.

"Are you suggesting I abandon others to die, you damned long-ear," the veteran glared at him.

"No, I’ve seen the mercy of your short-lived kind. It’s just that you don’t get a second chance to show it, while he does," they teased each other’s races, then the veteran and the Elf both laughed heartily.

"He’s back," said the approaching Gnome as he glanced at his military chief and chief Sharpshooter: "Speaking of which, I never understood this human concept of ’face.’ Aren’t we ’clodhoppers’ better at walking? Those Southerners who have never even been North, still using bolt-action Firearms, what right do they have to laugh at us as a worker patrol."

"At least it’s a patrol, Bigfoot. They haven’t compared us to a band of brigands under some nouveau riche, which is pretty good," the veteran laughed as he responded to his logistics officer’s gripes, watching his political commissar walking back, "Although a bit too merciful for my tastes, at least he’s not obsessive-compulsive. Otherwise, we’d probably have to go down there and scrap with them... Damn this foul mouth of mine."

Atop the hillock, the veteran and his officers watched the young man stomp his foot, then turn and head back toward the defense army.

"Long-ear, is this what you called ’at least he didn’t abandon others to their fate’?" the Gnome cursed under his breath, "He’s nearly got himself killed... Why has he stopped?"

The Elf squinted his eyes, then the reflections from within the forest captured all his attention.

"There’s light in the forest... Black Orcs!" Without hesitation, the Elf raised his firearm, "Target, edge of the woods!"

......

As the commander, Ron Salman had spent the past two days feeling as though he had lost all face he could in a lifetime.

Two days ago, when he first received orders from the military department that his corps would follow the Church army north to exterminate the Black Orcs, the only born son of the Salman family felt fortune had turned in his favor—his corps had just been equipped with new bolt-action rifles, and though he had paid for half of them himself, these five-shot firearms were far superior in every aspect to their predecessors, the single-shot muzzle-loaders.

Black Orcs? Those creatures wielding melee weapons and charging at targets hundreds of steps away?

May the Lord have mercy, and may their skulls be tough enough, because a head with a hole is worthless, and Farolians certainly wouldn’t pay for such unfortunate souls missing half their brain.

On the battlefield, his corps would staunchly guard the Church army’s flank. Although Black Orcs were fierce and fearless, in the face of modern firearms and bayonets, these devils couldn’t hope for any advantage.

Then Ron’s beautiful dream shattered.

On the first day, the entire army had marched close to seventy kilometers, and out of his 2,400 men, nearly 400 fell behind. If it wasn’t for Ron having a horse, he was sure he would have fallen behind too—he simply couldn’t go on.

The division he had trained so diligently couldn’t keep up with the Church army, known for its individuals as strong as dragons, but why couldn’t they even keep up with the Malin factory guard!

They are just workers! Mere civilians swinging various tools!

Why have we lost three men after a day’s march?

One was a scout who sprained his ankle while crossing the river.

Another was a medic who accidentally fainted from the deadly foot odor of a soldier he was treating. Ron had a look and didn’t have to say it, the personnel were right to wear gas masks—the smell alone, even from twenty paces away, made Ron’s head spin.

And one was taken down by a bear-man snapping his leg. Carrying what’s called a bear-man machine gun, he slipped at the top of the hill and slid all the way down. He was unharmed, but that poor sod was knocked to the ground and now can only sit on the back of a horse in the cavalry.

"Three hundred and eighty-seven men to three, facing the fact that they outnumber the enemy by a fraction, Ron couldn’t help but ask himself over and over again, what mistake had he made to lose the face of the Salman family in front of the whole world."

As he was cursing, His Excellency the Commander noticed his adjutant approaching.

"How many more men have we lost?" he now despaired, for it would be a small solace for him to lose a little less face.

"No, men from the other side have come again." The adjutant wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then sighed in despair.

"Has he come to propagate their ridiculous theory about Black Orcs possibly rushing out of the woods again?" Ron gritted his teeth, raging as he ordered his adjutant to send the young man away—were the Black Orcs supposed to have flown here when they were still hundreds of kilometers away from our target?

Do they have gryphons? Or horses?

Can’t you parvenu rebels just quietly go die?!

Ron was furious, and at the same time, he glanced at his adjutant—Dear Lord, he had finally driven that little scoundrel away!

This eased Ron’s distress somewhat.

But before he could be happy for long, he saw the young man who had just turned away stomp his foot... and he’s come back!

St. Maria! Couldn’t he take better care of where he’s stepping! Why does he always insist on his ridiculous and crazy theory? There are no Black Orcs here! There couldn’t be any ambushes! The whole Dalsak Domain hasn’t seen a Black Orc in three hundred years!

As he cursed, Ron saw the young man suddenly stop.

He laid his hand on his gun holster.

What is he trying to do?!

Ron also put his hand on his gun holster—was this damned civilian trying to revolt because no one was listening to his alarmism?!

Then Ron saw the upstarts’ thugs on top of the hill lifting their guns.

And then, he clearly heard the words that the elf was shouting—as the bandits were repeating them.

The edge of the woods?!

"Black Orcs!" The young man’s voice had become shrill with fear, yet he didn’t run, pulling out his gun to point at something behind Ron and his men.

Not to intimidate them?

Ron turned around, and amidst confusion and disbelief, he saw the huge Black Orcs charging out of the woods.