Our Family Has Fallen

Lance felt they should be called that, because medics were professional soldiers who moonlighted as doctors.

These medical staff, however, were not being trained as medics; their profession was doctor and nurse, and they didn’t need to carry guns.

Lance had long intended to cultivate such people, using the textbooks Paracelsus had brought himself as a basis for selection, but in the end… he hadn’t picked out anything.

Uh… there were definitely some merits in there, but you could only say they weren’t suitable for Hamlet.

So in the end he simply used autopsy reports as teaching material, telling them about the body’s structure and basic principles.

Then he figured out a way to let them practice a bit, and as for practice material, of course it was those prisoners.

These ”medical staff” crammed like ”college students” in a crash course—don’t expect them to do any research on diseases.

Their abilities were limited to debriding external wounds, suturing, changing dressings, bandaging and similar minor procedures, plus looking after patients.

The interesting part was that among them, some were women.

Lance was willing to train people who had talent and were willing to endure hardship, regardless of gender; he wasn’t about to waste time on gender issues at a moment like this—better to trust later generations’ wisdom with that giant pit.

”Move! Get the wounded on the stretcher, careful…”

There was originally a whole set of procedures for this: the wounded would naturally be received, treated, and nursed; that wasn’t something Lance needed to worry about.

Because Paracelsus was over at the outpost personally presiding over surgeries, which was also why Grendel in town insisted on stalling those Association of Healers people—both key figures for leprosy treatment were absent.

As long as the injuries weren’t so severe as to threaten life, Lance wouldn’t intervene too much, at most going to the Field Hospital to look in on them.

Lance didn’t want them developing a habit of relying on him; Supernatural Power was a fuzzy ledger, and in the end you always had to pay the price.

”In engaging the massed heretics, Squad 123 joined up with those who rushed over from behind…”

This number 123 indicated that the squad belonged to First Battalion, Second Company, Third Squad; it was a simple organization set up purely for convenience of management.

This kind of rough structure would definitely become unsuitable once the army expanded its recruitment, but for now it was enough.

It wasn’t just that one battle had broken out; the entire wilderness had turned into a boiling pot all at once.

After Lance finished listening to the relayed briefing, the logistics on the other side unloaded the heretics’ corpses outside, and the last of those bits of scrap iron with obvious evil cult styling were put into storage—most likely to be melted back down.

As for those corpses that had already been searched, naturally Lance Sacrificed them.

Previously he had to personally do the work of stripping out Spiritual Essence; now with one word he could sit safely in the rear and wait for people to bring it to him.

That was the power of authority—no one could resist that kind of temptation.

Lance raised his hand to Sacrifice those corpses, his gaze turning toward the wilderness as a faint smile unconsciously appeared.

The situation was steadily improving!

Only that brief joy was quickly diluted by the pressure reality brought.

Lance knew very well that Hamlet’s Army held the advantage only because they’d pulled off a sneak attack and caught the Sect of Ascension flat-footed.

Given what he knew of the Ancestor, there was no way he’d hand the wilderness back so easily; in truth, the fighting in the wilderness had only just begun.

At the moment, all the information he could receive came from frontline units with stable logistics.

But in reality, there were still several isolated forces out in the wilderness.

It was still unclear whether the Honor Guard that had penetrated deep inside, besides that initial signal fire at the start, had managed to seize Objective No. 3.

Likewise, whether that Second Squad led by Balistan had managed to secure Objective No. 2 and create favorable conditions for the Artilleryman’s operation.

Whether Barton’s Artillerymen could overcome difficulties and reach the artillery camp as quickly as possible…

Balistan was carrying out the Lord’s order, leading Second Squad—bearing the title ”Iron Wall”—on a forced march through the wilderness.

They had no clear logistics support; before setting out they all brought three days’ worth of supplies, averaging at least thirty pounds of load on each man.

And yet under these conditions they maintained a silent march; hardly anyone spoke, they just buried their heads and pushed forward, their steps steady and firm, the entire unit exuding an unshakable, weighty presence.

Last time, when they’d held the outpost to the death under the Saintess of the evil cult, they’d ultimately held it—but it had also left Second Squad almost completely crippled.

They’d spent quite some time recuperating and replenishing with new recruits before this ”Iron Wall” was set back up again.

Now, after these blood-tempered soldiers had recovered and returned, there was probably nothing left that could shake their will.

Those new recruits had already heard about those exaggerated battle records back in the training camp, and felt their hearts pounding with excitement at being able to join.

You could only say that environment really did affect a person; after a period of getting used to one another, you could feel that even the new recruits carried a tenacious, unyielding aura.

At this moment, the scouts who’d gone ahead to recon reported on the situation at Objective No. 2, and it wasn’t exactly optimistic.

The aggressive operations in the wilderness had already alarmed the heretics; quite a few of them were slipping underground via Objective No. 2.

Balistan realized how precious time was—if he let them slip away like this, then the title of Iron Wall for Second Squad would be a joke.

”You, come with me and push ahead; the rest keep moving forward.” Balistan picked out a team of veterans.

The squad left their extra loads to be shared by their comrades; they only took their weapons and followed Balistan in a light-gear rush.

By age, Balistan definitely counted as an ”old man” among these soldiers who were mostly under twenty.

But this old man, armored up and carrying a medium zheng-shield and Morningstar Hammer, set off at a trot without the slightest disruption in his breathing.

In contrast, some of the youngsters were already a bit winded as they ran; it wasn’t serious, but you could see the difference.

And Balistan really did feel younger as he lived; after being gravely wounded last time and saved by the Lord, the hidden injuries in his body had been wiped out, and his body, which had been nearing exhaustion, had actually been strengthened.

It was a gift he’d received from the Lord after joining the Grand Plan, because until he’d completed it, he wasn’t allowed to die.

”Contact!”

A roar with no warning burst from Balistan’s mouth; that One-eyed head of his had spotted a group of heretics also moving toward Objective No. 2.

There was nothing to be said between the two sides—basically enemies meeting, only life and death.

The soldiers raised their guns and fired on sight; after one volley there was no time to reload, and they fixed bayonets and charged.

Balistan surged forward with heavy steps, raised his shield and slammed it, pinning a heretic in place; the next second, the Morningstar Hammer swung up and crashed into the man’s face.

With that ridiculous strength behind it, the hammer’s spikes punched straight into the visor of the helmet, caving in the entire metal plate of the face; even with a heretic’s helmet it couldn’t be stopped.

Still, there was some protective effect, and their regeneration also let them endure more damage; even so, that heretic didn’t die, struggling to get back up.

Two more follow-up swings, almost hammering the helmet into a flat iron cake, and brain matter splattered the ground before the enemy finally died.

On the other side, the others had skewered two more heretics.

But they were already close to Objective No. 2, and the commotion just now had alerted the heretics there.

Faced with an attacking enemy, not everyone chose a strategic withdrawal—especially when Balistan’s charge was specifically to pin the enemy and buy time for the main force to arrive.

”Close on me, hold the line!” Balistan banged his blood-and-gore-smeared Morningstar Hammer against his shield as he called out to them. ”They can’t break our formation!”

”Hold!”

They answered in unison, loading their weapons as they stared coldly at the onrushing heretics, their calm demeanor making it seem like they didn’t care how many enemies there were.

After only two or three brief seconds, more heretics surged in, and this handful of a dozen soldiers met the enemy’s charge like an Iron Wall.

The two sides crashed together in an instant.

”Kill!”