Our Family Has Fallen

Once Musketeers got into a shooting rhythm, they generally found it difficult to divert their attention to command. Therefore, the leader of a squad was usually a Spearman, who also had to be the bravest and able to stand at the forefront.

From the appellation ’Musketeer’, it was clear that this soldier who saved the siblings was the captain of the Third Squad.

”How’s the situation?”

”Most of the people have already withdrawn, and the others are gathering here,” the Musketeer replied while reloading his musket.

The White Wolves had spread out to attack just moments ago, and the Third Squad had been forced to disperse, but this hadn’t affected the soldiers’ combat effectiveness in the slightest. After killing several wolves, the remaining White Wolves stopped charging and waited for the Warwolves to catch up.

”But those Barbarians probably won’t be so easy to deal with.”

As he spoke, the Musketeer couldn’t help but look worriedly toward the rushing Barbarian Tribes while firmly gripping the fully loaded musket in his hands.

”You take these two kids back; my brothers and I will cover you.”

After observing the situation, the captain made his decision: they had to buy more time. The real enemy had not yet arrived.

”Why, Captain? You take them back, I’ll hold them off...”

”That piece of junk you call a musket is useless after one shot,” the captain said with a chuckle, cutting him off mid-sentence and raising his spear. ”When it really comes to a fight, we’re going to have to rely on this one.”

”No, I want to stay.”

”This is an order,” the captain said, not bothering to explain any further, and handed over the severely wounded boy with a reminder, ”He’s a good one. You have to save him.”

”Captain~ let me stay.”

”Follow orders!” the captain barked. ”I don’t have time to talk nonsense with you right now.”

”Yes!” The Musketeer had no choice but to sling his musket over his shoulder, pick up the boy, and turn to leave.

The captain let out a slight sigh of relief as he watched the figure depart.

Though he was the captain, he was only sixteen. But he had been in quite a few battles and could likely discern the strength represented by the oversized Barbarians.

Others could leave, but they couldn’t. Protecting the farm was their duty, and they couldn’t allow their Lord to be shamed.

However, that boy had the best talent; it was necessary to preserve a future for the Third Squad.

”Assemble!”

The captain roared with his spear held high, his face looking somewhat fierce.

Rather die in battle than take a single step back!

This was the creed of all Spearmen because behind them were their comrades, their families, Hamlet!

The remaining eight soldiers quickly gathered. Their condition wasn’t as relaxed as the Musketeer had made it sound; some had been scratched, and the worst off was another Musketeer, whose left arm had been bitten so badly he might not be able to hold a musket anymore.

These were only a few Mad Men...

”I’ve decided to hold them off to buy everyone more time, but it’s dangerous.”

”Cut the crap, Captain! Are we scared of them?”

”The Lord didn’t train us just to send us to our deaths. Our mission is to hold them off, draw their attention, and buy time for the civilians, not engage in a blind melee,” the captain said calmly, eyeing the advancing Warwolves. ”Musketeers, even if you have to let them get closer before firing, you must find a way to wound that tallest enemy.”

”He’s so big I could hit him with my eyes closed,” the third Musketeer in the squad said, aiming his musket at the distant Warwolves.

The one with the injured arm felt somewhat dejected. His first shot had missed. In the effort to save someone, a wolf had bitten his arm; he even felt like the bone was about to break.

Under certain circumstances, an unloaded musket was just a piece of iron. In the end, he had to use his knife to kill the Evil Wolf.

He wasn’t afraid of getting hurt, but the idea of being forced to leave the military because of it was unacceptable.

The current Flintlock Guns, even with fixed ammunition, still required massed volleys to be effective, using numbers to compensate for their shortcomings. As long as a barrage was formed, even if eighty percent of the shots missed, the remaining twenty percent that hit could still kill the enemy.

Therefore, most of the Musketeers were positioned to the north to counter the Heretics, in roughly a three-to-seven ratio: thirty percent Spearmen to seventy percent Musketeers.

Here, however, it was the opposite. A ten-person squad was equipped with only three Musketeers, and they had to be relatively reliable. For a humanoid target at fifty yards, they needed a fifty percent hit rate. Indeed, hitting five out of ten shots was already considered good, even if you aimed for the head but hit the foot.

This was because, in massed combat, shooting started at one hundred and fifty yards, the effective range of the Flintlock Guns currently in use. Normally, soldiers could get off two to three shots before the enemy got close, depending on their individual condition.

Only those Heretics who possessed the Power of Flesh and Blood could rush through such a volume of fire and still be alive.

For precise, single-target shooting, it had to be within fifty yards; beyond that distance, it was truly a matter of luck.

”The enemy is here! Quick!”

The captain noticed the approaching Warwolves and immediately moved to intercept them.

”Put the musket on my shoulder; I’ll be your arm.”

As the injured Musketeer was lost in thought, the captain noticed his state and patted his own shoulder, offering a word of reassurance.

Upon hearing this, the Musketeer understood. With the help of a comrade, he finished reloading and then rested his musket on the captain’s shoulder.