"Heh, they're more brave than I thought." John said in amusement, as his eyes looked through the lens of the tripoded spotting scope which was placed alongside him.
Behind him was a group of twenty-five 7.5 cm howitzers which were fully loaded and ready to fire their second salvo.
"Range set! Shell loaded! Ready to fire!" the artillery section commander barked, and John plainly shouted in return.
"Fire!"
It's a simple word, yet holds so much power, for it is attached to twenty-five high explosive shells being lobbed in an arch over the skies like raindrops of fire raining down upon the enemy's head like a meteor shower.
The shells then landed, sending out shockwaves that shook the earth in a faraway field.
"Damn, that hurt them real good! Someone send a message to HQ for me that I request the usage of all artillery at once! We could win this fight before the firefight even begins!" John said, his eyes twinkling with excitement.
For him, by his own logic, there's nothing more honorable than to win the battle flawlessly without a single loss of his own men, and absolutely humiliate the enemy with his superiority.
The signaler replied immediately that authorization had been granted for him to use both light howitzers and field guns to bombard the enemy as he pleased, but he would be held accountable if any friendly fire incident involving artillery shells blowing up their own people occurred. A small price to pay for superior firepower.
Then, hundreds of shells flew in both direct and indirect arcs and landed straight and somewhat accurately on the enemy's position due to both star shells and ranging poles that were spread out on the field, creating a death zone of charred corpses and burnt grass.
But surprisingly enough, the enemy morale didn't break as they continually marched forward, approaching the trench line, ever closer, and now close enough to be in rifle and MG range.
John sighed in frustration as he wondered in confusion of why they wouldn't just give up. Then he commanded all the artillery to pause their fire, as the risk of friendly fire increased because the enemy was now at close range by their standards.
Now the flow of this battle had been handed to the defensive line of infantry which acted like a shield, and Elena's cavalry which was starting to ready themselves, forming into a spearhead.
-----
Under the radiant light of star shells shining across the night skies, Stahl, the leader of the entire 'First Rifle Battalion', was scanning the field ahead of him with binoculars which he held tightly in his hands.
The scene ahead of him was one of dread and confusion, enemy corpses strewn across the field, yet they refused to give up and continued to march forward foolishly and recklessly across the field filled with artillery blast holes.
He knew well that they didn't stand a chance against modern weaponry, yet he couldn't warn them about it, since they didn't have a concept of firearms in their minds. And since their morale didn't break when artillery shells landed at their feet, the only way to win seemed to be a classic case of,
"Just use more gun."
He wrung his neck in grim determination, as he gestured with his hand and barked his command. It's a simple phrase that sounded like a reaper's declaration before reaping souls,
"Fire at will!"
Suddenly, a storm of lead flew across the battlefield as the maddening blasts of rifles and machine guns scoured the bodies of those unfortunate enough to be illuminated by the artificial starlight shining across the desolated land of shouts and screams below.
It didn't surprise him at all that the enemy troops fell effortlessly to the ground below, blood splattering across the earth, bones breaking into pieces, flesh ground and minced.
There was no difference between noble knights and conscripted levies at all, they all fell the same, for bullets do not discriminate between social status.
Just like what Matthew Quigley once said,
"God created men, but Sam Colt made them equal", for before the barrel of a gun, everyone is equal.
Their morale shattered in an instant, as the routing state of mind spread like wildfire throughout the enemy force, which chaotically ran in panic.
In that moment, a series of blue-colored fireworks burst throughout the night sky, signaling the order for the riflemen and machine gunners to hold their fire.
Then they professionally parted ways like a line of tower shields lifting up, making a path for the torrent of cavalry which rushed out like a spear made of galloping steel-clad steeds.
A group of Winged Hussars in wedge formation acted as the spearhead that charged forward, their absurd six meter long lances pointed straight ahead, as the wing racks on their backs clamored with terrifying noise, scaring the already routing enemy to the point that they wet themselves.
Behind them were groups of steel-clad knights in shining armor armed with shields and blunt melee weaponries, their gazes sharp, their hands tightened with aggressive intent, forming the shaft of the spear which hurriedly followed its head.
Then came the horde of light cavalry and the Cossacks, brandishing their slightly curved swords and composite bows, forming the skin and heel of the spear.
And now the spear was penetrating deep into the retreating force's flesh, crushing down any potential for them to regroup and launch a counterattack.
Under the radiant light of the blazing star shells, they ran and ran, lances clashing against flesh and steel, maces crushing through iron and bone, arrows piercing through tender flesh as bodies dropped down left and right.
"Ahhh, this feeling is the best..." Elena mumbled with satisfaction, her mace still crushing enemies as she charged atop her mighty steed, 'Red Hare the Fifth', leading her cohort of calvary to archive it's victory.
With a single word form Victor, that bitch Arina had finally given the entire Euraskan cavalry force to her. That, when combined with her mercenary and freelancer cavalry, became a terrifying presence on the battlefield without a doubt. Yet they were not the decisive centerpiece of the 'Grand Army'. That title belonged to all the guns. So they ended up becoming just a cleaning crew.
A spear that came out after the shield had already bashed the enemy into pieces.
-----
"How could we end up like this..." the marquis who led the army asked himself, his eyes filled to the brim with absolute despair. He was retreating southward with all the power his steed could muster.
His once massive army of men was now reduced to the wreckage of broken survivors. His once proud knights had now become just a bunch of cowards who retreated without any bravery left in their hearts. Even his right hand man couldn't escape fate and was now just another charred corpse strewn across the battlefield.
Tears ran down his cheeks. In his mind, there was only despair.
But in that moment, an arrow pierced through his armet helm's visor, deep into his eyeball, reaching his brain matter.
His body flew effortlessly from his steed, which continued to run for its life and left its now lifeless rider behind amidst the fiery battlefield.
He was now dead, just like that, not in some kind of glorious battle, but in a complete slaughter.
It seemed like the 'Grand Army' had won another glorious victory. But it had not.....
For somehow, the Marquis slowly rose up from the dead and began shambling northward with it's now lifeless body, which moan in eternal damnation of a body without a soul.