When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#309 - Cave Forest Forest

The assembly horn sounded, and even those eating had to put down their wooden bowls.

Laurent's spear company quickly dropped their bowls and stood up at the company commander's shout, picking up their spears from the ground beside them.

"Third Spear Company, form up on my left!" The company commander shouted, striding to the slope in front of the camp and holding his feathered spear horizontally.

As the platoon leader, Laurent quickly moved to his designated position.

According to the 《Holy Book》, the feathered spear indicates the direction to face, and the platoon leader at the head must be parallel to the feathered spear.

Beside him, war monks carrying spears rushed over and stood firm, relying on muscle memory.

Looking down from the sky, it was as if shattered black sword fragments were being reversed and restored.

Pieces of the longsword constantly gathered, and two spear companies eventually formed a 10x10 spear formation.

In just over two minutes, Laurent's spear company was the first to prepare for the enemy because they were nearby.

"Third Spear Company—" The company commander blew his whistle and shouted, "Dress ranks!"

Under the guidance of the platoon leaders, the war monks quickly straightened their ragged formation, aligning themselves with the person in front.

Laurent looked forward, judging that he was an arm's length from the person in front, so the front-to-back distance was correct.

Then he looked to his right, preparing to adjust the left-to-right distance, and that's when he knew things were bad.

Little Mark Locke on his right stood frozen, his face pale, staring straight at the torch-bearing cavalry in the distance, trembling all over.

Laurent quickly lowered his voice and said, "Little Mark Locke, no moving around in front of the formation."

It would have been better if he hadn't spoken, because this only made Little Mark Locke unable to bear it, his face ashen: "I, I, I... I'm not fighting anymore, I want to go home."

As he shouted, his body instinctively turned backward, and Laurent was both angry and anxious, reaching out to grab his collar.

But before Laurent could move, the veteran soldier behind Little Mark Locke struck like lightning.

"Smack!"

The thick palm swung around and landed on Little Mark Locke's left cheek like a meteor, a bright red palm print swelling up at a visible rate.

Laurent could even see the ripples of muscle on his cheek.

The force of this blow was so great that it not only stunned Little Mark Locke out of his fear, but also physically forced his face back to its original direction.

Little Mark Locke stood there blankly with his mouth open, saliva and blood flowing together from the swollen palm print.

That wasn't the end of it, the veteran grinned and shouted towards the first row, "Locke, your brother is trying to run away."

The veteran in front of Little Mark Locke abruptly turned his head and slapped Little Mark Locke's right cheek with his backhand.

"Do you want to kill me? Stand still!" Locke snarled, turning his head.

"What are you doing? No moving, no talking!"

Holding his feathered spear, the company commander smelled something amiss and came over, successfully stopping the restless war monks before returning to his position.

Teary-eyed, with cheeks as red as a monkey's butt, Little Mark Locke stood there dumbfounded.

Laurent glanced at him contemptuously, inwardly thanking the arrangement of this recruit training.

Within the Black Hats army, the odd-numbered rows are veterans, and the even-numbered rows are recruits, with three rows of veterans paired with two rows of recruits.

Elite veterans flanked the recruits, keeping them under close surveillance. Hmph, trying to escape unless the veterans are all dead.

After all, these recruits had never been on the battlefield, nor had they undergone warhorse charge training.

Back when Locke and the others were fighting giant spiders in Daze Township, their performance wasn't much better than his brother's.

"Third Spear Company, prepare to attack! Spears at the ready!"

"Holy Father be with us!"

The war monks of the Third Spear Company roared in unison, gripping their spears tightly, pointing the tips diagonally forward.

The left leg bent forward, the right leg firmly planted behind, and they lowered their heads to look at the ground, facing their helmets diagonally upward.

Sure enough, a wave of crude arrows rained down from the sky, hitting the war monks' helmet brims and shoulder armor, clattering to the ground at their feet.

"Fifty paces!"

A few sporadic musket shots rang out in the night sky, Laurent kept his eyes on the ground, but he knew that the Holy Gunners hadn't had time to assemble.

Because the bandits were attacking the rear center, which was the spearman's garrison, the spearmen were at the forefront.

As for the Holy Gunners, they were further away, and the event was sudden and in the dark, so they hadn't had time to form a line.

Simply put, because they weren't in the encampment, the terrain was narrow, and they could only camp in a straight line like a long snake, so the head and tail couldn't support each other.

Laurent looked down at the pebbles shaking on the ground, the embodiment of horseshoes striking the ground.

But he expected that these bandits wouldn't dare to directly charge the spear formation, that was something only the strongest knights would dare to do.

Sure enough, at a distance of ten paces, the bandits who surged like a tide shouted loudly and swirled away to the right.

These black-clad soldiers were like stone sculptures on the beach, standing still as the waves came and went, without the slightest movement.

Grush frowned, while DeFord beside him, his eyes bloodshot, roared, "Again!"

The hooves thundered, and two hundred cavalry swirled again, still narrowly passing in front of the infantry formation, but the black-clad soldiers remained unmoved.

The arrows only shot down a few people, but many of them had their necks pierced by spears because their horses lost control.

Grush frowned, he saw long lines of burning torches surging on both sides of the road.

"What to do? Should we retreat?"

"Retreat from what? This is a good opportunity." DeFord gritted his teeth, "I'll take the sword and armor soldiers, you hold back their reinforcements."

"Okay." Grush agreed and charged towards the other approaching troops with dozens of bandits.

This time, more than a hundred bandits didn't swirl again, but dismounted.

The front row of thirty or so armored bandits, carrying battle axes and greatswords, grinned and charged towards the spear formation.

"Third Spear Company..."

"Fourth Spear Company..."

"Charge forward!"

The two company commanders roared at the same time.

"Holy Father be with us!" A hundred spearmen burst out with a uniform roar, striding forward and charging towards the bandits.

This confused the grinning bandits, what kind of formation is this?

Before the bandits could figure it out, the middle twenty or so paces were quickly exhausted in the two-way rush.

The sound of weapons colliding with armor rang out one after another, and a huge wave of sound spread out from the point of impact.

The spears carried a strong wind, piercing into bodies, cunningly sliding along the edges of the armor into the throat and armpits.

Severed limbs and broken blades flew together, blood and firelight were the same color, throats, chests, abdomens, and limbs, from time to time a cloud of blood mist spurted out.

Streams of blood flowed under the leather boots, floating with blood clots and internal organs.

The bandits watched in horror as their companions fell one by one, the two rows of spears stabbing back and forth like machines, yet each time accurately killing an enemy.

"Something's wrong, there are so many armored soldiers!" DeFord's confidant, holding his helmet, squeezed through the surging crowd, "We're taking heavy casualties, should we run?"

DeFord's face was ashen, he never expected these spearmen to dare to counter-charge, instantly wiping out the bandits' momentum.

Bandits value momentum in battle, mainly reflected in attacking when the momentum is good and retreating when the momentum is bad.

This wave of spear charges directly collapsed the momentum of DeFord and his men.

Entering the collapse-retreat-sell-slip stage, DeFord, as an old player, immediately realized that the most important thing was not to be the one being sold.

"Run from what? If we run, they charge, where can we escape to." DeFord gritted his teeth, "Fire a signal arrow, let Grush come to save us."

"Bang, bang, bang!"

In the bean-bursting sound of gunfire, the large-scale air movement stirred up a gust of wind in the hundred-man formation.

The torches were shaken by the wind, and dozens of lead bullets, larger than fingernails, hit the flanks of Grush's bandits.

Unlike iron sand and stone bullets, the soft and tough lead bullets moved and deformed like worms in their flesh, cutting out bloody holes.

The intense pain caused the bandits to cry out in shame, and some even leaked urine on their saddles.

After the wind passed, facing the Holy Gunners, were only the backs of the bandits.

The bandits who came with the wind were swept back by the lead bullet storm and happened to arrive at DeFord's side.

"My brother Grush is reliable." DeFord slapped his thigh in surprise, "He came as soon as the signal arrow was fired."

"Boss, I haven't fired the signal arrow yet..."

Once he arrived at DeFord's side, seeing the bandits retreating on the slope, Grush, still in fear, immediately understood.

He gritted his teeth, pulled out his saber, and personally led the team directly towards the spear formation.

At this time, the spear formation was already somewhat chaotic in the melee, and Grush really seized the opportunity.

He suddenly raised his horse's hooves, kicked away two black-clad soldiers and bandits who were blocking his way, and charged into the melee.

"Stand at attention, dress ranks!"

Unable to see the company commander in his field of vision, Laurent, as the platoon leader, had no choice but to shout loudly.

Fearing that the bandits would directly attack their flanks, the war monks immediately formed a formation again under the scolding and kicking of the veterans.

"Spears, thrust left!"

Grush was not deceived by the black-clad soldiers' retreat, he did not engage in a protracted battle, and directly found DeFord in the crowd.

He forcibly grabbed DeFord's arm and pulled him onto the horse.

The remaining bandits also each pulled a person onto a horse, turned their horses around, and ran quickly towards the place where they had tied up their horses.

The Holy Gunners and other spearmen had finally arrived, on the side of the slope.

"Fire!" Zhurdan's roar rang out.

In the sweeping wind and lead bullets, another twenty or thirty bandits fell directly from their horses, curling up and howling in pain.

Grush immediately turned his horse around again, abandoning the remaining companions and horses, and fled quickly into the forest with only a few dozen people and horses.

"Chase!"

Müller, riding a donkey, glanced enviously at the horses abandoned by the bandits, and chased after Grush.

In that battle just now, they hadn't contributed at all, and these horses weren't eligible to be distributed.

But if they chased now, even if they didn't catch up, they could at least get some credit when distributing the spoils of war later.