“Already here, huh.”
Duke of Barelmud.
Plains near the Duke’s estate.
The Duke of Barelmud, serving as the Supreme Commander of the hastily formed Allied Noble Forces, clicked his tongue as he observed the approaching Central Army.
After hearing about the tragedy that befell the Roengram family, he had scrambled to prepare for several days.
Now that the moment had finally come for his efforts to be put to the test, frustration bubbled within him.
“Because of that bastard Carolus, I’m going through all this trouble…”
Under his command were 46,000 troops—a colossal force that, even for a powerful ducal house, was impossible to organize or maintain alone.
He had been forced to solicit aid from neighboring territories, but that process had been far from simple.
How would the greedy nobles react to such a sudden, massive request for support?
Of course, they hadn’t agreed readily.
Far from offering assistance, they had resisted fiercely, extracting every conceivable concession in return for providing soldiers and supplies.
“The funds alone cost nearly three years of my budget.”
Except for Count Kirchheis, who cooperated under the immediate threat to his life, the Duke had to pay a steep price to assemble such a force.
In other words, the army under his command represented the Barelmud family’s future, sold off for the sake of survival.
This was a one-time chance, born solely from desperation.
“We must win. We must crush his power and foundation. Only then can our house—and the kingdom—survive.”
To make the most of this opportunity, merely repelling the invading enemy wasn’t enough.
Victory was essential, but the ideal outcome would be to press the momentum, launch a counteroffensive on the capital, overthrow Carolus’ regime, and restore the old order.
Even if that wasn’t achievable, at the very least, they needed to secure a decisive victory, guaranteeing their power and halting the suppression of the nobles.
The goal was daunting, but there was no alternative.
Failure meant the ruin of his house.
This was a matter of success or death.
As he wrestled with these thoughts, someone beside him broke the silence.
“Your Grace, why the somber expression?”
“Ah, Count, you’ve caught me. It seems I’ve caused you some concern.”
The speaker was a man with curly red hair and a stout build: Count Kirchheis, the Vice Commander of this army and the second-largest contributor of troops after the Duke of Barelmud.
Believing that his own ruin would follow if this position fell, Kirchheis had personally joined the effort, making him the Duke’s foremost ally.
“I am troubled about what we must do next. And I can’t help but wonder how the great Kingdom of Ulranor came to this sorry state.”
“Haha, it seems you’re worrying too much, Your Grace.”
The Count chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s no point in agonizing over a future that hasn’t yet arrived. For now, focus on the task at hand. If we win here, any plans for the future will naturally become possible.”
“…You’re right about that.”
“Save your deep deliberations for after the battle. Once you’ve severed Royten’s head, I’m sure your mood will improve, and your thoughts will become clearer.”
The Duke nodded at the well-meaning advice.
The Count was correct: only by overcoming the immediate challenge could he think about what came after.
“Thank you. I feel as though my head is a bit clearer thanks to you.”
“I’m glad to be of help.”
Shaking off his earlier doubts, the Duke set aside his distractions and focused on the battle ahead.
His mind now turned entirely to the enemy he was about to face.
“It’s about time we prepared to shift into battle formations. Have we confirmed the size of the enemy force?”
“According to the latest reports, it’s just under 40,000. Likely around 36,000 to 38,000 troops.”
“If I recall, the Central Army totaled just under 50,000…”
That number included both the troops who had directly participated in the coup and the reinforcements sent to bolster them.
It seemed they had scraped together every available unit, leaving only a modest garrison behind to defend the capital.
“They are fewer in number than us.”
“But we can’t underestimate them. Their troops are on a level far beyond comparison to ours.”
Even with a numerical advantage, there was no room for complacency.
The Duke of Barelmud knew all too well how formidable the enemy was.
He did not disregard the intelligence sent by his vassals and relatives within the military.
These were the elite forces directly commanded by the legendary general known as the Northern Wolf.
They had accumulated countless achievements on the battlefield.
How could such an army be considered weak?
While arrogant young nobles might dismiss them as mere rebels, the Duke acknowledged their strength.
Underestimating an opponent out of prejudice was a surefire way to court disaster.
“On the other hand, we’re just a coalition army—a haphazard mix of troops with wildly varying levels of training and organization.”
Aside from their superior numbers, his forces were at a disadvantage in almost every other respect.
The Barelmud family’s own soldiers were of commendable quality, but the rest were not.
Some units barely reached the level of city militia.
Their equipment, training, and overall combat capabilities were far from uniform.
“At least we’re fighting on our home ground. That’s the one advantage we have.”
The terrain was the only clear benefit on their side.
Being familiar with the land gave them a strategic edge.
They had also been able to set up defensive positions and fortifications in advance.
It wasn’t much, but it was something they could rely on.
It would be a tough battle, but there was a chance for victory.
Resolving himself, the Duke gave his orders.
“Send messengers to all units. Form defensive formations and position the artillery. Everyone is to move to their assigned positions and prepare to meet the enemy.”
Within minutes, the army had assembled into standard formations, waiting tensely for the approaching enemy.
At last, the Central Army closed in, spreading out their forces as the curtain rose on the battle.
The engagement began with light skirmishes.
“So, they’re all out in the open, just as His Grace predicted, huh?”
The Central Army confirmed that the Duke of Barelmud’s forces had taken up positions in the open field.
They saw this as the perfect opportunity to crush the main force of the enemy.
For defenders to leave the safety of their fortress and venture outside suggested one thing: they didn’t believe they could win a siege.
It also meant they had no choice but to defeat their foes in battle and claim a decisive victory to secure a path to survival.
This led the Central Army to conclude that the nobles had committed their entire main force to this confrontation.
If the Central Army could secure a decisive win here, they could swiftly seize the territory and end the civil war.
“Spread the formation wider. Who’s in charge of our right flank?”
“That would be General Elan. Do you have any specific orders for him?”
“Tell him to probe their defenses lightly. No deep engagements—if resistance is strong, pull back immediately.”
“Understood, sir!”
The Central Army deployed here consisted of 37,000 troops.
The battle was 37,000 against 46,000—a contest of numbers where the nobles had a slight advantage.
As the Central Army moved to initiate an offensive, the Allied Noble Forces quickly responded, sending their left wing to counter.
Numerically, the sides were comparable.
However, in terms of tactics, the gap was vast.
It was as if a 17th-century pike-and-shot formation had faced off against Napoleonic-era line infantry.
By all logic, the latter should have completely overwhelmed the former.
“Hold the formation! Advance at a steady pace!”
“First and second ranks, prepare to fire! The third rank, stand by! If the front row falls, step up and fill the gap immediately!”
Before the pikes could even close the distance, the overwhelming firepower of the muskets tore through the ranks with rapid volleys.
The Central Army, composed of highly trained veterans, executed their maneuvers with precision and speed, their rate of fire mercilessly effective.
Even before reaching melee range, the noble coalition’s formations were already half-destroyed.
And when they did manage to close the gap, the bayonets of the Central Army rendered hand-to-hand combat impossible, crushing their efforts entirely.
Just as the Empire’s troops had fallen before the might of advanced tactics in past battles, so too did the Allied Noble Forces.
However…
An unexpected turn of events occurred.
–Bang!
“What’s going on? Why aren’t they going down?!”
“You fools! We came prepared with breastplates! Let’s see how you handle pure melee combat!!”
The soldiers—no, the iron-clad warriors—weren’t falling.
The muskets had been aimed directly at them and fired, yet the soldiers pressed forward, unflinching, without so much as a scream.
The secret lay in the steel breastplates, which had been procured at great expense.
These were the same heavy armors the Duke of Barelmud had once purchased in his efforts to train a corps of heavy cavalry.
With Carolus converting all his troops into musket infantry, the Duke had thought it prudent to repurpose the armor for infantry use.
It was this decision that now bore fruit.
“Unless we hit their heads, they won’t go down. This puts us at a disadvantage.”
“Looks like they came prepared. This is going to be annoying.”
“What should we do?”
The number of armored troops wasn’t overwhelming; armor was prohibitively expensive, after all.
Even with all the funds at their disposal, only about 5,000 suits had been made—far too few to equip an entire division.
However, distributing the armor evenly among the vanguard units had been enough.
Worn by elite soldiers and combined with heavy infantry formations, they had created an almost impenetrable iron wall.
Of course, the breastplates weren’t invincible; a well-aimed shot from close range could still penetrate them.
But with muskets’ notorious inaccuracy, landing such a shot was far easier said than done.
The distance between the Central Army’s right flank and the noble coalition’s left flank rapidly closed.
The concentrated musket fire from the Central Army’s line infantry barely inflicted casualties, let alone broke the formation.
It was clear who would gain the upper hand if things continued this way.
“What do we do?”
“Retreat. Maintain the formation and pull back to our original position.”
General Elan immediately ordered a tactical withdrawal.
Staying and fighting under these circumstances would only result in unnecessary losses.
“Raise the red flag. If we’ve brought the new weapon for a situation like this, it’s time to use it.”
“Understood!”
As the Central Army began to withdraw, the noble coalition eagerly pursued them.
The weight of the armor and the density of their formations slowed their advance, but they persisted, striving to keep up and maintain the pressure.
“Stop right there, you traitorous scum!!”
“Traitors? Who do you think you’re calling traitors? Would you stop if someone told you to?”
Having seized the initiative, the noble coalition sought to capitalize on their momentum.
Following the left flank, the main force of the Allied Noble Forces began to rise and advance, their ranks moving forward like an unrelenting wave of humanity.
And then—
“Fire!”
Rockets rained down from the sky.
–BOOOOM!!
“Cannons! Bombs! It’s raining fire from above!!”
“What the hell did those lunatics bring with them?!”
Carolus had developed a ballistic weapon inspired by the Hwacha—a self-propelled, unguided rocket device.
Packed with high-explosive gunpowder and capable of being launched from angled platforms, the rockets streaked across the sky in fiery arcs, painting it with blazing trails before detonating over the coalition forces.
General Elan watched the chaos unfold with satisfaction and muttered to himself.
“Allahu Akbar, you bastards.”
It was a phrase Carolus had insisted they say whenever firing these rockets.
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