Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 928 (08.927): 'Tactical Shift'

After a gunshot, the orc rider's head exploded.

With only a sliver of nerve reflex, the headless torso still gripped the motorcycle's handlebars tightly, propelling itself a further distance on the increasingly bumpy, dilapidated machine.

The teetering corpse even futilely swung its large cleaver before finally tumbling out of control, along with its smoking mount, and was swallowed by a steel torrent pieced together from scrap metal, rage, and fanatical faith.

The motorcycles following behind ignored the still-rolling pile of metal wreckage and quickly paid the price for their recklessness: the poorly made fuel canisters leaked during the collision, followed by a burst of orange-red flames that engulfed several orcs nearby, causing a brief commotion.

However, the death of this daring attacker failed to deter the savage aliens.

On the contrary, the idea of ​​beheading this battalion commander burned like wildfire in the chaotic minds of every green-skinned boy, and the cavalry battalion commander wielding the adamantite longsword instantly became the most tempting target in their eyes.

One after another, cobbled-together, crudely constructed motorcycles roared off the main battle line, brandishing rusty machetes, and charged from all directions toward the lone knight and his equally lonely warhorse.

The piercing clang of clashing swords was incessant, and the sparks flying drew brief but brilliant streaks of light in the dim dust.

The man was none other than Battalion Commander Poniatovsky, who nimbly leaned out of his horse in a dangerous, acrobatic pose.

He perfectly combined his body's center of gravity with the every leap of the genetically engineered warhorse, transforming the horse's immense kinetic energy into deadly force on the blade with every sidestep and every lunge.

The buzzing power saber in his hand clashed fiercely with the heavy cleavers wielded by the muscular, massive green-skinned orcs, resulting in a back-and-forth battle where neither gained the upper hand.

It was as if, as long as his warhorse was still galloping, he possessed endless power to confront these ferocious beasts head-on.

On the other side of the battlefield, the dragoons of the First Squadron understood perfectly and broke away from the main battle line, drawing a graceful arc to the left front, making a huge circle as if driving on a ring road.

Enraged, the green-skinned motorcycle boys split up without thinking and gave chase, only to fall headlong into this carefully laid trap.

Just as they were about to catch up, the dragoons suddenly reined in their horses and turned around, instantly forming a deadly wedge-shaped charge formation in the final sprint towards the green-skinned pursuers.

The first rank of cavalrymen raised their laser rifles in perfect unison and pulled the triggers.

A series of scarlet laser beams converged into an impenetrable net of fire, precisely covering the left flank of the green-skinned pursuers.

Dozens of green-skinned soldiers and their vehicles were riddled with fire and turned into burning beehives. Their motorcycles lost control and crashed into the bulging, damaged metal containers on the battlefield, creating dazzling sparks as they scraped against the rough sand.

The spark ignited the promethium fuel leaking from the ruptured fuel tank, triggering a larger chain of explosions and riots in the green-skinned motorcycle convoy.

The surviving green-skinned soldiers roared angrily, turned their vehicles around, and frantically pursued the cavalry unit that dared to toy with them.

The moment the green-skinned squad was successfully lured away, the second company, which had broken away from the main battlefield, perfectly replicated the tactics of the first company and immediately began to harass the exposed flank of the main green-skinned force—they fired a barrage of bullets and then immediately retreated, never lingering in battle.

All the covering forces strictly adhered to the "flexible defense" operational order, using precise harassment and unexpected flank attacks to continuously slow down the advancing tide of the green-skinned orcs.

But even though they did their best to keep their distance from the Greenskins, a brutal close-quarters battle inevitably broke out.

Battalion Commander Poniatovsky found himself surrounded, with two motorcyclists attacking from both flanks simultaneously. But he remained calm and collected, skillfully parrying the powerful attacks from both sides with his power saber while searching for an opportunity to counterattack from his swaying horseback.

He deceived the greenskins with a seemingly elegant yet deadly spin, the hem of his hussar jacket acting like a dark curtain, obscuring the true trajectory of the blade.

The dazzling speed of his slashes and the unpredictable moves left the green-skinned figures on either side unable to determine the human commander's true target for a moment.

In the brief moment that the green-skinned man on the right hesitated, he exposed the fatal weakness that Poniatovsky had been targeting—his wrist gripping the machete.

brush!
The power saber moved with lightning speed, drawn from under the flowing jacket, its blade tracing a swift arc before precisely slashing at the back of the green-skinned man's rough, large hand.

The crackling disintegrating force field instantly melted away the scrap metal gauntlets and flesh on it, leaving deep wounds that exposed the bone, and then pulled it towards the wrist.

Greenie let out a painful roar, and the machete in his hand clattered to the ground.

Before it could even clutch its torn and bleeding hand, the power saber's energy core emitted a death-signaling hum.

puff!
A huge head tumbled and flew into the air, gushing out dark red blood.

Seeing its companion killed, the green-skinned horse on the left assumed the man's attention was diverted and seized the opportunity to ram its chariot into Poniatovsky's warhorse.

Stupid!
A crisp metallic clang rang out, and Greenie turned its head curiously, seemingly drawn by the sudden noise. Its thoughts only had time to process that moment before a clean, sharp cut appeared on its short, thick neck, connecting its head to its body, before it was severed.

"Commander, Citizen!" A senior cavalry sergeant major, his uniform faded and his chin and sideburns covered in a thick beard, flicked the blood off his monomolecular saber and shouted to Poniatovsky, "The commander has reached the target location, our mission is complete!"

"Organize the brothers to retreat! I'll cover the rear! Giddy up!"

Without hesitation, the battalion commander immediately spurred his horse toward the 3rd Cavalry Company, which was about to be overwhelmed by the green-skinned soldiers on the flank.

The senior sergeant picked up the bugle and blew a short, loud signal to retreat.

Upon hearing the commotion, the dragoons scattered throughout the battlefield began to move, using their superior mobility to systematically disengage from the battle.

Retreat has always been the ultimate test of an army's organization, morale, and resilience. When facing a powerful enemy offensive, the slightest mistake can lead to a catastrophic defeat.

The dragoons' retreat was textbook-perfect: they used constantly changing battle formations to provide cover for each other.

When one squadron is being relentlessly pursued by the enemy, the other squadrons will proactively slow down and harass the pursuing enemy with precise fire from both sides, forcing the enemy to become distracted or abandon the pursuit, thus giving the pursued friendly forces a precious respite.

The level of organization of a force composed of 'untouchables' is truly astonishing.

So, where did they, who were once not allowed to serve in the Sintira army, learn their war experience?

(End of this chapter)