Cataphracts, surviving in a world full of mods

If they were still adrift at sea, he would do everything in his power to escape, even if it meant hijacking a ship with his men. After all, in the vast ocean, losing a ship is sometimes quite normal... But now, he has to think of another way.

"Commander, Commander..."

Just as he was pondering, one of his captains suddenly squinted at him, pointed to a dark figure by the campfire behind them, and made a throat-slitting gesture:

"Should we...?"

"There's no need. This kid won't get in our way. There's no need to be so ruthless. Besides, he's quite useful, isn't he? This kid moves as quietly as a mouse. I almost didn't notice him. Give him a bite to eat, and he'll be of great use."

Diyul shook his head, thoughtfully stroked his chin, rejected the other person's suggestion, and then turned around to say something...

Then he was surprised to find that—in the short time it took to turn around, the kid was already lying on the ground, struggling and convulsing violently, his face turned ashen, twitching and writhing like a fish, and desperately pounding his chest with his hands.

"Damn it! This kid choked on his own, pick him up!"

With just one glance, he made an accurate judgment. Without hesitation, he had the other two grab the kid's legs and lift him upside down. Then, he clenched his fists and aimed at the kid's chest and abdomen, striking him with moderate force.

One gulp, no response; two gulps, no response... It wasn't until the fifth gulp that the boy, who was almost suffocating, finally opened his throat and vomited out a large clump of sticky noodles—as big as a cat's head.

It's unimaginable how much bread he just greedily ate in one bite to squeeze such a large lump out of his throat... If the others had noticed a little later, this kid might have choked to death while he was eating his fill.

"...You're so greedy, like a starving ghost reincarnated...How about you come work for me from now on? I'll make sure you're well-fed every day."

The boy, who had just caught his breath, raised his head, sniffed, and then nodded without hesitation.

Does it have a name?

He shook his head without hesitation once again.

“Then I’ll give you a name… From now on, you’ll be called Black Rat. Be as clever as a rat, and as greedy as a rat. You’ll definitely be of use to us.”

The boy blinked in confusion, then reached out to grab the clump of batter he had just spat out, only to be kicked hard in the butt by the exasperated Diyul.

"I'm not saying you should actually be like a rat!"

..............................

Ding! !

An arrow bounced off the hard brass scales, leaving only a tiny dent at the tip, greatly mitigating the impact. It thus failed to achieve its goal and quickly fell into the blood-stained mud.

But its owner was far from unharmed—another treacherous arrow pierced the junction of his arm and armpit, tearing through the thin armor ring and embedding itself deep into the cotton and flesh.

Suffering such a severe blow, the soldier immediately screamed and fell to the ground. However, in a reckless roll, the arrow shaft touched the ground and pierced two inches deeper, bringing out more blood and screams.

Their lines are being destroyed, their lines are being trampled, their lines are being harassed by wolves and torn apart by lions... Thousands have already fallen, and countless others have fled. Everyone is struggling and desperately trying to hold on.

"Lord of Light, protect me..."

After his helmet was struck by a third arrow, and he watched helplessly as five or six more of his comrades fell to the ground, this officer from a southern tribe of Assele uttered such a lament and prayer.

Not far from them, the large swarm of dark figures roaming like a pack of wolves and the rolling, cold glint of steel foreshadowed an impending, terrifying attack…

Chapter 348 Breakthrough and Retreat (3)

People are often reluctant to go out when it rains, which often means dampness and hypothermia... Neither of these is a pleasant experience, and it makes the body more susceptible to weakness and illness, especially when fuel is scarce. It is not uncommon for people to die from a cold rain.

Prusedo had never seen rain before—he was a warrior from a nomadic tribe in the southern desert of Assele, where water was precious and scarce, and could only be squandered in the rich northern oases. He could never imagine the good thing of water falling from the sky.

But now, he almost thought he had witnessed the rain he had heard from others in snippets of conversation... except that this rain was both deadly and unbearable.

Deadly iron feathers, made of steel shafts, wood, and feathers, were whistling through the air, each one so faint that it would be barely noticeable before the terrible thing pierced the chest... But now, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of arrows were flying through the sky, and the sound was amplified into a dangerous and dense chorus like the wings of wasps.

They were struggling to hold on amidst this terrible rain of iron, with one after another falling from the arrows. The fine steel arrowheads fired from the powerful bows were enough to tear through and pierce through chainmail, making a dense and sharp piercing sound as they struck shields, killing or wounding people every now and then. Screams, howls, and curses filled the entire formation.

They had lost the tribal cavalry covering their flanks, and those weak-willed cowards had scattered and fled, completely exposing their flanks and rear to the Imperial light cavalry... That's why they were in such a terrible situation.

The Imperial heavy infantry's frontal assault was becoming increasingly difficult to withstand, with one square after another being rapidly torn apart. Meanwhile, the arrows overhead never ceased, and catapult-launched slingshots and crossbow bolts continued to wreak havoc within their ranks, tearing apart shredded armor and blood.

Any general with common sense could have realized the desperate truth—they were about to lose the war, they were about to suffer a complete rout, and be trampled by the Empire, like watching helplessly as rocks and soil poured down from a mountain, with no way to resist.

The Imperials, however, continued their orderly offensive. They rotated, moved, charged, and retreated... everything was well-organized, and their morale was rising higher and higher, just like warriors who saw their opponents weaken and retreat.

The cavalrymen in red cloaks were recklessly raining arrows down on them, causing their once solid and orderly formation to waver time and again. They were making full use of their superior mobility and never engaged in prolonged battles, only harassing and guerrilla tactics, as if their arrows were free and grew out of the ground.

The losses are now beyond description... To be precise, the army has not collapsed yet only because it has not reached that point, the point where the soldiers' spirits are destroyed by the bloodshed, cruelty, and despair.

Once that time and that opportunity arrive, the collapse will be unstoppable, everything will crumble, and they will be reduced to cattle and sheep to be slaughtered at will.

..............................

A head adorned with a jewel-encrusted, ornate helmet and wrapped in silk fell before him. The cut surface had a rough, torn appearance, not as if it had been severed by a sharp blade, but rather as if it had been forcibly ripped from the neck by some creature with terrifying strength.

But Prusedo knew it wasn't true. He had witnessed firsthand how this horrific scene had unfolded, and he had seen with his own eyes how the long axe, its blade riddled with nicks, had torn through the neck...

Now, it's his turn to face it.

This was another fierce assault launched by the Imperial heavy infantry. He watched helplessly as a hundred-man squad in front of him collapsed. The centurion's head and one shoulder were ripped off his chest, and his deputy was smashed into a bloody pulp by the hammer and his armor... After this unit collapsed, it was his own formation that was left.

He also saw the tall figure whose armor was soaked through with blood and whose golden laurel wreath on his helmet was broken in half. He also saw the energetic and fierce army behind him—they had rested and were now more composed than when they first entered the war.

This horrific scene would be enough to make even a self-proclaimed warrior tremble and turn to flee for his life—after all, in this bloody slaughterhouse where corpses piled up like mountains and blood flowed like rivers, and limbs, organs, and bodily fluids were scattered everywhere, a person's cowardice could be universally acknowledged... unless he had an inescapable duty on his shoulders.

They were the last elite force of the Abatheris family still holding out here, and he knew very well that he no longer had the right to retreat. Whether for honor, for his family, or for his tribe, he had to stand here today.

So he led his troops to meet them without hesitation, and in the blink of an eye, they were plunged into the most bloody and cruel carnage. Their once shiny armor was quickly covered with a layer of blood.

No one knows what this somewhat famous warrior was thinking until the very end, but when his head was impaled on the spear, the patriarch of House Abathris knew that there was no way to save him.

"Do you know what you're saying? I can't back down! If I back down, it's all over. Everyone, get back!"

But the old man still wanted to stick to his last line of defense. His blade was stained with a layer of bright red blood—the mark left by the head of a retreating centurion he had personally cut off. Even though he knew that inevitable defeat was coming, he was still unwilling to accept that terrible humiliation.

He still wanted to persevere, even though he knew deep down that continuing was pointless... but he persisted like a man dying of thirst, clutching a dried-up water bladder, as if expecting something, yet also as if rejecting something...

But the others were far less stubborn than him. A middle-aged man in magnificent armor and silk robes stepped forward and, in a tone that could be described as rude and offensive, bluntly pointed out a cruel truth.

But just that one sentence silenced the furious old man instantly.

“Father, the Imperial armored cavalry are about to charge. This is our last chance to escape the battlefield... There is no hope left here.”

The old man didn't look up. He already had a rough plan in mind, so he knew very well that what his son said was an undeniable fact. It was this terrible fact that made him, as if all his strength had been drained, loosen his grip on the sharp blade, letting the ornate curved knife tip pierce the sand at an angle.

"I swore an oath to him..."

The old man lifted his hair and let out a long sigh. The blood-red gemstone, the size of a pigeon's egg, on his helmet shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight.

The middle-aged man nodded slightly, then stepped forward without hesitation and hugged the old man tightly in his surprised and relieved gaze. He then ordered the soldiers to forcibly take him away, while the surrounding nobles and generals remained silent throughout the process.

………………

At this moment, the heavily armored cavalry, under the black double-headed eagle banner, reorganized their formation for the last time, and then, to the sound of long horns, rolled in with the thunderous sound of hooves like an avalanche...

At this moment, Samir finally made his long-prepared arrangements, ready to meet his opponent's most powerful blow.

P.S.: The author is busy with spring planting again these days. Although not many people are planting wheat here now, potatoes still need to be planted. It's been quite busy these past few days... After all, there's no escaping these things. It'll be fine once it's over ('-ι_-｀).

Chapter 349 Breakthrough and Retreat (4)

Human physical strength has its limits, and so does human willpower. Only a very few people can endure bloody and brutal fighting for extended periods with relish. Most soldiers need to rest for a period of time after a long battle to allow their mental and physical strength to recover.

As the officers sounded their whistles and bugles, various commands were issued with specific rhythms and timbres. Soldiers took turns, raising their shields and moving in unison through the gaps in the ranks, replacing their tired and sluggish comrades with energetic replacements, continuing the bloody and brutal carnage with the enemy.

No soldier in the world is as skilled in such brutal combat as the soldiers of the Empire. They are like a well-organized, efficient, and fast machine made of steel, slaughtering every opponent with ruthless efficiency, grinding their enemies into a bloody mess, constantly pressuring their space, restricting their movements, until they completely collapse and are left to be slaughtered at will.

Meanwhile, behind the army lines, in areas heavily protected by armored vehicles, medics had already begun treating their wounded comrades—stitching up wounds with needles and thread, amputating shattered limbs, cleaning bloodstains and dirt with medicine, and relieving pain and stopping bleeding through topical application and oral administration.

The vast majority of them survive—thanks to timely and proper treatment and a clean, dry environment. Most of the factors that would have caused the injured to die in agony are removed from them. They may lack the weakness of severe limb injuries, but they will not die in agony from being neglected.

Bloodstained gauze was washed and disinfected in boiling water. Fresh or dried herbs were used in various ways, such as boiling, grinding, and soaking. White tents blocked out the sun, and dust on the ground was suppressed by repeated splashes of water to ensure that it would not drift to other places.

But everything here has nothing to do with gentleness and tranquility... This is not a pharmacy or clinic where one can deal with things calmly, but a medical camp where every second counts in snatching lives from blood and death. Everything is for efficiency, even suturing wounds is simple and crude, but they will make sure that nothing gets on the stitches.

Once it was ensured that the wounded lying on the platform would not die and that their wounds would not bleed or worsen, they would be immediately moved to the clean barracks that had already been set up behind them, giving up their original positions to another guy who was being carried in while groaning.

Everything was so orderly, and the doctors' movements were so calm and skilled, reminiscent of the Imperial Legion's impregnable formation. One would wonder what kind of command they were under... But in fact, the commander's real focus was not on this at all; he only spared a small portion of his attention to check on them from time to time.

………………

My mind has never been so active. Every thought is like a lightning bolt, colliding and flowing with each other, integrating every bit of trivial information into a comprehensive analysis, and finally converging into a major conclusion.

Tarina couldn't see much; she could only see a small corner of the massive army formation before her. All her judgments were based on the information she had gathered, like the blind men and the elephant, relying purely on her mind and thoughts to construct her understanding. Amidst the rapid hoofbeats, she gleaned one piece of information after another.

The situation on the battlefield is constantly changing. Individually, these changes are not enough to change the overall situation, but when they come together, they are enough to make a decisive change in the battle. What she has to do is to accurately see that decisive moment among these changes!

The generals had already gone into their respective legions to command, while these battle-hardened and renowned soldiers awaited her signal...

This is a heavy yet glorious duty... and it should have been the duty of Thesolius.

Such overstepping of authority can only be tolerated under one circumstance: when the legion commander personally grants her this right, allowing her to command the troops in coordination while he leads the cavalry into battle.

As always, the man liked to entrust such momentous matters to her with absolute trust, and naturally believed that she could do her best... This trust made her apprehensive, surprised, and also joyful, a heartfelt joy as exuberant as a lark.

A firm resolve had long been present in her—she had never disappointed him in the past, and she would not this time either, just as she would not allow the injured to die helplessly in front of her.

Talina had no illusions about winning by surprise. The girl simply carried out the tactics she had prepared before the battle, weaving the iron wall of the Imperial Legion into a terrifying net of blades. While trapping her prey, she was also repeatedly crushing the enemy's flesh and blood, compressing their space, and gradually encroaching, suppressing, tearing apart, and flanking them.

The scales of war have begun to tip in their favor, so there is no need to do anything superfluous at this moment. All they need to do is crush them with stronger discipline, more elite soldiers, and a stronger will and morale... Just as with the right dosage and experience, it is difficult to make a potion that is not effective enough.

Then came the rapid sound of four or five more hooves. Messengers, their bodies covered in blood and dust, relayed information through shouts and responses, delivering accurate information to the commander in the simplest and most direct way.

After a brief analysis, the girl stood up, a firm and serious expression on her face, and pursed her somewhat dry lips.

Now, Tarina is certain that the time has come.

"Issue orders to the generals of each legion to launch a general offensive! The reserve forces on the flanks must immediately encircle and suppress the enemy, and the archers must concentrate their firepower to destroy the enemy's flanks immediately, in coordination with the cavalry and assault troops!"

The messengers around her immediately obeyed the order and quickly left along the path specially left in the army formation. Talina's legs went weak and she sat back down, feeling a strange emptiness all over her body—she had temporarily unloaded a huge burden, and what happened next depended on the armored warriors...

Now, she must prepare herself—prepare for a potential large number of wounded and ensure that the majority of them survive.

....................................

As the first bugle call sounded, the cavalry left the prepared hillside and entered the battlefield from the side.

The horn sounded a second time, and amidst the furious neighing of warhorses, and from the forest of spears and banners, ranks were formed to tear apart and trample formations. The sun shone brilliantly and cruelly on their armor.

Now, everyone is waiting for their commander's orders, ready to plunge into the bloody war at any moment, to trample and ravage their opponents, to stain their flags with blood, and to tear their bodies apart.

The Assele had committed their reserve forces, making their already formidable formation even more impenetrable, stretching as far as the eye could see. They had formed a vast, imposing net of tens of thousands of lives, their flesh and blood, swords and armor ready to capture these dangerous beasts at any moment.

No one knew whether the commander of the Assele was confident of this. But the cavalrymen simply mocked their opponents' weakness, firmly believing that they would tear their formation apart as always, using their flesh and blood to pave the way for their horses' hooves.

But no one would let their warhorse take a step forward until Tersolius gave the order, restraining themselves with a kind of ruthless discipline, letting a cold fire burn in their hearts, waiting for the inevitable moment.