Cataphracts, surviving in a world full of mods

He too had lost all hope of victory, but as commander, he had to do everything in his power to save his soldiers' lives if victory was not possible... at least not to suffer heavy losses that could cripple them, otherwise they would truly have nowhere to go in this desperate situation.

He was now hesitating, wondering whether he should send in reserve forces... If he did, he could at least ensure that the front lines wouldn't collapse easily, and that the stalemate would continue until nightfall, at which point the Imperials would most likely have no choice but to withdraw, giving them room to continue planning and maneuvering.

But as soon as this thought arose, he extinguished it without hesitation. A certain judgment surged into his mind, making him gaze with a gloomy expression at the fully armed armored cavalry ready to go on the distant plain.

The Empire's most powerful and terrifying military force has not yet been deployed to the battlefield. These heavily armored cavalry, capable of tearing formations to shreds, remain silently waiting, like a sharp sword hanging over his head, preventing him from making the slightest move. He dares not gamble on the consequences of sending out his reserves first; perhaps that formidable opponent is waiting for this opportunity.

The sun had begun to set in the west, and a faint red glow was beginning to appear at the point where the sky met the mountains in the distance. Even birds did not fly by on the battlefield filled with fighting and bloodshed, and the war was about to continue until sunset.

Although the battlefield was fiercely contested, a decisive victory was not expected in the short term. The elite troops at the front could hold out for a considerable time; their offensive was not progressing smoothly, but the Imperials had also made no significant breakthroughs. While they appeared to be at a disadvantage, it wasn't an overwhelming one…

For this reason, under the influence of various factors, Samir ultimately abandoned his plan to commit himself to the reserve forces, and prepared to use this force at a more appropriate time, while making more deployments to ensure that their archers could reliably throw more arrows at the enemy.

A strong, pungent smell of blood, carried by the north wind, rushed towards him, eagerly filling his nose and mouth, stimulating every sensory organ. For a moment, it felt as if he had suddenly swallowed a mouthful of blood…

I was busy until midnight again today.

The reason is still similar to before: I've been exceptionally busy these past two days (ー_ー)!! After all, I'm an adult now, and there are a lot of things to handle, often keeping me busy until the middle of the night... In another two or three days, once I get through this period, things should get much better, and then updates will be able to return to normal (||?_?). That's about it, sorry.

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Chapter 341 Grinding Mill (6)

The chilled wine, with its refreshing temperature, goes down your throat like oil, disappearing in the blink of an eye – a pleasant sensation from being constantly rinsed in the cool stream. If paired with strongly flavored foods like grilled meat, the taste can be brought to its fullest.

But such conditions are impossible now. It's not that being able to drink ice-cold wine is luxurious enough... It's so luxurious that it makes one wonder why the commander of the Imperial Legion would have someone do this on the battlefield, as if he had already anticipated that it would be useful.

Carila thought about it for a moment, then keenly realized that it might be true... and what followed was a feeling of surprise—surprise at how well this person knew about her, as if he had known all along that she would ask him for a drink...

But anyway, the wine tasted good and was strong enough! Although it had a rich, mellow fruity aroma, it still burned your throat like fire, and one sip made you feel like your blood was boiling.

Drinking this wine is perfect for going into battle. If this were in one's hometown, a warrior who drinks such wine should go and fight the enemy in the bone-chilling cold.

The only downside is that I can only have one drink...

The beautiful blonde woman frowned, her striking eyebrows furrowing slightly. She glanced at the cup in her hand with a hint of regret, then clicked her tongue and casually tossed it to the servant beside her.

"Alright, put the armor on me, it's time to get to work."

Unlike the usual armor, this so-called armor is a third layer—large plates forged from fine steel are fixed together with hinges and leather straps, providing an extra layer of protection for hard-to-protect areas such as the throat, armpits, and sides. It is inlaid with gold patterns of lions and golden flowers, spreading a unique splendor amidst the coldness of steel.

Two servants swiftly and carefully secured the sturdy iron armor to her second outer armor, ensuring no mistakes were made, while her subordinates stood in formation around her, their weapons already polished and their armor gleaming.

A new helmet was placed on a nearby chest, and a craftsman was carefully adjusting its hinges and pivots to ensure that the helmet, adorned with a golden laurel wreath, would not cause any problems in the upcoming battle.

This is a new helmet. Unlike the old helmet, it completely covers the face, with only diamond-shaped breathing holes on both sides. Brass-carved feathers spread out from the ears to the sides, and the smooth and hard helmet body extends downwards to form a neck guard made of small pieces of hard armor.

Finally, he put the helmet on his head and tightened the straps to prevent the heavy steel contraption from falling off. A dull, metallic breathing sound began to emanate from under the helmet, like the whistling of wind blowing through rocks.

A two-handed axe with a gleaming, heavy blade stood on a nearby tree stump. The mahogany handle was bound with brass bands, and the reverse side had a short awl for picking off broken helmets and armor plates. It looked as if it could easily cut a person in half at the waist.

"Come with me."

With a single hand, she pulled the heavy blade from the wooden stake, sending wood chips flying and the metallic clang of metal clashing. Karila said nothing, simply moving forward to the front, while the elite soldiers clad in multiple layers of heavy armor followed silently behind her, as if the armor contained not warriors, but corpses.

The sounds of battle raging ahead remained loud and awe-inspiring, enveloping everything in the world and allowing no other noise to escape.

On the side slope, the flags of the Kolin Division waved in this direction, signaling that they were ready, and thousands of elite troops who had been resting and preparing for battle would launch an attack until the enemy's defenses were completely breached.

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Trust is a luxury, difficult to obtain through simple and crude methods. Sometimes it comes very easily, but most of the time it is still precious.

The deployment of heavily armored cavalry is a crucial decision. These elite troops, selected from thousands, can only play a decisive role when deployed to the battlefield at the most opportune and appropriate time. Rashly deploying them will only lead to foolish consequences.

At least for now, the Assele's formation is not faltering enough; they are not yet vulnerable to being killed in one blow... But Tersolius believes that this weakness, this faltering, will soon appear before him, and what he needs to do is arrive at the attacking position in advance to ensure that he can seize this opportunity accurately.

The thunderous sound of over 2000 Passatrian warhorses pounding the earth was like a rolling thunderclap. Interspersed among them were the dense, crisp sounds of horseshoes clashing, and the dazzling gleam of their armor made the polished steel as blinding as lightning streaking across the night sky.

No one can ignore such a force... just as no one can ignore a boulder hanging overhead. When they begin to act, any enemy will tremble with fear and worry, fearing that this fatal blow will fall upon them.

Samir also saw this scene—although he could only see a blurry patch of light leaving the rear of the Imperial army formation because of the distance, he was already convinced that it was the threat he had been worried about, even before he received a report from the scouts.

He had no confidence in the troops of any of his lords—he had no belief that they could stop the trampling of these iron cavalry. To stop their iron hooves, he would have to invest more strength, spend more lives, and use flesh and steel to block and delay them.

That's why, when he finally saw the incredibly sharp sword drawn, he actually breathed a sigh of relief... At least he no longer had to worry about it. His opponent had managed to send out his backup forces before him, and now he just had to deal with it.

Although there hadn't been any smooth moments today, he was almost convinced that, at least for the time being, Assele would still be able to control the situation.

"Get the reserve forces ready. I don't want them to be in any unnecessary delays when I give the order. Incompetence and cowardice at this time will not be forgiven."

Samir turned to give the order, but before he could turn his head back, he suddenly heard an unusual commotion, an unsettling sound surging in like a tidal wave…

The rapid sound of hooves echoed from the nearby hillside. The newcomer was stopped by the guards and stumbled as he hastily dismounted. His shoulder guards, covered in chainmail, had been removed. Thick white cloth wrapped around his wounds, but it couldn't stop the blood from seeping out. His face was covered in blood, and his body was stained crimson.

He was a messenger, and a wounded messenger at that…

When he arrived before his commander with hurried and chaotic steps, Samir had a very bad feeling... and sure enough, it was.

"Wise and glorious commander, my lord has sent me to request your support! We can no longer withstand the Imperial army's attack!"

"What on earth is Iprah doing! I don't expect him to actually break through the Imperials' flank, but if he can't even stop the Imperial cavalry's advance, what is he even good for?!"

Samir frowned and roared, displaying a rare loss of composure. In an instant, his fingers gripped the hilt of his knife, squeezing the shimmering silk threads and leather covering it so tightly that they creaked.

"You outnumber the Imperials by two! And this has only been going on for a short time?!"

The messenger lay prostrate on the ground, not daring to raise his head.

"My lord, I would never dare to utter a single falsehood! ... Our losses have been extremely heavy. The arrows fired by the Empire are denser than the sandstorms in the desert! All their cavalry are clad in fine iron armor, and we are simply unable to fight them. We have been suppressed and slaughtered from beginning to end... And even now, their arrows show no sign of stopping. More than 10 tribes have already lost most of their men!"

The messenger was also interrupted before he could finish speaking, for another sound of hooves rang out beside him, and another wounded messenger arrived, a short arrow still lodged in his back, which the doctor had not yet removed from his flesh.

"My lord, my lord, requests your assistance! We are on the verge of collapse! Many tribes have already begun to turn and flee. Lord Sadom has asked me to tell you to make plans as soon as possible!"

An eerie silence, as cold as death, crept silently into Samir's heart... He didn't even turn his head to look at the battlefield again; he simply relied on his experience to realize what had happened there.

Without a doubt, the cavalry attacking the left and right flanks had been routed... Those tribal cavalrymen had no firm will whatsoever. When they suffered heavy casualties or the situation turned bad, they were always ready to flee, but they were usually suppressed by the supervising troops.

The Imperial army's rain of arrows hadn't stopped since morning. No one knew how long this deadly barrage would last, and even he had misjudged the situation—he had never seen an army maintain such a barrage of fire for so long! Had they emptied the Emperor's arsenal?!

After a long while, he finally turned his head, his face as cold as frost, stiff and pale. As expected, the tribal cavalry sent out to harass them on both sides had begun to turn back. The left side could still barely maintain an organization, while the right side had begun to fall apart and scatter, with some even fleeing to the north in a panic.

Behind them, a fiery red flame was chasing and tearing, as merciless as the most ferocious lion pride in the desert, ruthlessly seizing every opportunity to tear off a piece of bloody flesh.

After a morning of fighting, the Imperial light cavalry led by Yuriedos finally crushed their opponents and began to pursue and divide them.

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The hot, viscous blood congealed between the fingers, creating an extremely awkward sensation that made one want to move it around.

Sweat soaked through his head, encased in a headscarf and helmet, with only a small amount managing to escape the fabric and hair and trickle down his neck. Even so, tiny beads of sweat gathered on his neck as well.

But these things were of no concern to Euryedos and were not worth mentioning.

Charge! Swift as the wind, ruthless as a hungry wolf! When it's time to devour meat, there can be no hesitation; eat until your stomach bursts.

The curved blade grazed the enemy's side, hot and viscous entrails flowing out, spurting blood staining half of his body. Drops of blood splashed into his eyes, obscuring his vision, but still could not stop him from whipping his warhorse.

Their opponents, utterly terrified, turned and fled like cowards, not daring to linger or resist, knowing that if they slowed down, they would become stepping stones for others to escape.

No one wanted to be a stepping stone; they were all hoping that others could feed the hungry wolves behind them with their blood and lubricate their blades with their entrails so that they could escape.

The sound of bowstrings vibrating intermittently rang out, like the gentle patter of spring rain, and most of the attacks were easily successful. The fleeing Aselans were pierced through the back by arrows, causing them to tumble from their horses and roll on the ground, their flesh mangled and bloody.

Shooting a target from behind is incredibly easy—you don't even need to adjust the angle of the arrow much; just shoot it in a straight line like you're shooting at a target. After all, most targets will be running forward blindly in a state of extreme panic.

They suffered heavy losses, but their results were astonishing. The number of enemies whose heads were chopped off by sharp blades and who were pierced by arrows was too many to count, and they even hindered their pursuit. People would trip over corpses from time to time, but no one paid them any attention.

Everyone was blinded by the bloodshed, recklessly driving their horses to chase their prey, thrusting blades and arrows into their bodies, reaping the carnage amidst cries and screams, leaving behind footprints on the plains stained with blood and mud, entrails and hair.

Many people were covered in blood, their bodies a glaring crimson mess. Even the warhorses' hair was matted together with blood, and with each step they took, broken scabs and thick blood fell off. Their throats were dry and they coughed as if they were on fire, their voices hoarse from the fighting and roaring.

What an exhilarating victory this was, enough to make even a warrior lose himself in it, but Uriedos knew what he had to do… Those who escaped were insignificant; they posed no further threat. They had a more important task to complete…

Chapter 342 The West (1)

How big is the gap between people? — It can only be described as vast, like heaven and earth.

Just as there are monsters like Passatria among horses and ordinary, inferior horses that can only get by for short periods of time, there are also people of low character, cowardly and incompetent, and brave and noble, and beyond them, there is the more average majority.

A Passatria horse is worth more than a prosperous estate, and it is priceless. Similarly, the truly outstanding warriors among men can defeat enemies many times their number. Their mere presence is enough to boost the confidence and morale of their comrades. Once their fame spreads, their mere appearance is enough to make their opponents tremble with fear and hang their heads in dejection.

Kukt had always believed himself to be such a warrior, and he also believed that he was born different from others—he could wield a sharp blade as fast as the wind, shear the wool off a sheep's skin with a single blow without causing the sheep any harm, and sever a scorpion's tail with the tip of his knife... These were skills he was proud of, enough to attract the affectionate gazes of the girls in his tribe, enough to make his younger peers lower their heads in shame and envy...

It was with this belief that he came all the way to where he is today, becoming a well-known warrior under the lord of his hometown. His confidence has never wavered, and he has never been afraid of any challenge.

But today, at this very moment, his resolve is facing an unprecedented challenge—a powerful challenge that threatens to crush his beliefs...

Basto screamed as he was thrown into the air. A gruesome gash was torn in his breastplate, and broken bones mixed with bits of armor fell to the ground. Even his screams were weak, as if they were being squeezed out of his lungs.

He stared in disbelief as his comrade was tossed into the air and then slammed down in front of him... The horrific wound had almost ripped his chest in half, and the armor plates were torn apart as if they were made of paper.

He almost thought that the monsters from before had suddenly come to life, otherwise his mind simply couldn't imagine what else could cause such terrible damage!

This scene, which was completely beyond his comprehension, also greatly shocked the soldiers around him. However, their opponents did not hesitate or show any mercy. They immediately swarmed forward, hacking and slashing them down one by one like chopping sugarcane.

And he, Kukert, was both fortunate and unfortunate to have encountered the very person who caused this terrible scene...

This was a tall, agile warrior, clad from head to toe in gold and silver armor, his helmet adorned with brass feathers and a gilded laurel wreath. He slowly approached, carrying a long axe stained with blood, his helmet slightly tilted, as if amused by his still-living existence.

Kukert silently threw away the scimitar in his hand... He bent down and picked up the iron staff from a fallen soldier beside him—the blade was useless against the opponent in front of him, and his main weapon was already unusable and had been thrown away somewhere.

His opponent continued to advance slowly, giving him a chance to flip over another shield. Then, summoning his remaining courage, he took the initiative to meet the opponent head-on.

The other party remained motionless... This doubt persisted until he rushed five steps in front of the other party—before he could react, the whistling blade had already dismembered the shield in his left hand and his entire forearm. Before the excruciating pain could even reach his head, the other party's hands had already reached out in a crisscross pattern, causing his vision to suddenly fly up.

Bang!!……

The helmeted head fell to the ground, and then the steel separated from the flesh and blood. The man's face, still bearing a look of confusion and ferocity, rolled out from inside, covered in mud and blood.

The boots with gold-plated edges didn't stop for a moment, stepping straight past his head and continuing to charge towards the next formation, followed by thousands upon thousands of iron boots...

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The three shields shattered like biscuits, causing their owners behind them to suffer violent spasms and broken bones. In the blink of an eye, they were swiftly and decisively slaughtered by blades and hammers from other places, while the armored warriors took another step forward.

The spears, thrust out, failed to penetrate the three layers of heavy armor. Instead, they were caught by a powerful arm along with two others. With a sudden burst of force, the three were pulled out of formation and disappeared into the rolling blades and axes in the blink of an eye.

The heavy brass helmet twisted and deformed, crushing the bones beneath, tearing apart muscles and blood vessels, collapsing like a flattened pot, its ornate gemstones shattering and falling into the mud. In the blink of an eye, it was indistinguishable from pebbles.

The resisting guards were torn apart and crushed; the banners belonging to a nobleman were cut down and thrown into the mud and blood; the glorious and ornate patterns and seals on them were now as worthless as weeds.