Drawing Cards in the Middle Ages to Rise in Ranks

Chapter 849 - 73: Despair

Enrique felt as if he were in Hell, smoke, ashes, earthquakes, explosions...

It seemed like a century had passed before the cannon fire ceased. He didn’t dare to get up because his crotch was already soaked. He reached out to push his fellow soldier from the same village: "It’s over, don’t lie down..."

But there was no response.

When he realized something was wrong and called for the military doctor to come over, he found his friend’s holes were flowing with black blood, already gone.

He squatted blankly on the ground until the military doctor stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco mixed with honey and licorice into his mouth. Only then did he feel he was still alive.

After regaining consciousness, he discovered the passage leading to the gun turret above was completely destroyed. If it weren’t for the specially thickened walls and protective doors under the gun turret, preventing the ammunition storage room from exploding, they would have already reported to the Underworld.

"This isn’t the war I imagined."

Enrique murmured softly. In his vision, this battle was where he would showcase his proud marksmanship, shooting down invaders one by one from a high vantage point, and become the sheriff of the village or even the town afterward.

"Nor was it what I imagined."

Derum stuffed a cigarette into his mouth, and let out a long breath.

He felt a deep sense of powerlessness. He once thought that being promoted to a Knight and mastering the powerful combat skills granted by gods would make him no longer weak in worldly conflicts like before.

But the enemies he once faced, whether fierce Kuman mercenaries, Turkic cavalry, Mamluks of Saracen, Coptic Cavalry, even if their bows were fully drawn and arrows shot, would mostly be less than a hundred paces away.

He could see their full bows, chilling blades, and fierce faces.

But now, he couldn’t even see the enemy’s face before already being shaken to death by their cannon fire.

What despaired him even more was that the enemy wasn’t even a Wizard. They endured intense bombardment here, yet couldn’t even consume the precious magic power of the opposing Caster, providing not a bit of help to the adults’ battle.

Moreover, it was said that their enemy was the richest country across the Seven Seas, unlike the Saracen army in the Middle Ages, with worries of lacking arrows and stones.

"Make good use of the time to rest, because who knows when the enemy will press up."

The gun turret’s commander, the Corner with bushy mustache and deeply set eyebrows, irritably fished his hat out from the dirt: "All those still alive, make some sound, these British bastards use shells like they’re free."

...

The British Army’s artillery didn’t continue the intense bombardment on turret number one. Their shells, of course, cost money, and needed coordination from the distant homeland, as a price of curbing colonial resistance.

But compared to Texas, as the world’s first and currently only industrial nation, they only needed one ten-thousand-ton freighter to deliver ammunition unimaginable to Texas.

In the evening, a group of British cavalry trotted up the mountain path. They stood proudly under the walls of New Basilicata, appreciating the barren hills battered by the shelling.

"Under such firepower coverage, even if Texans were underground rats or graves’ demons, it’s impossible to survive."

"I don’t even know what the locals are afraid of, no matter what dirty thing, demon, or ghost, nothing would be left after a round of shelling."

They laughed and bantered for a while, then returned.

Behind the observation hole, which could almost be called ruins, of turret number one, Enrique gritted his teeth: "Finally, some living folk!"

Just taking hits without being able to fight back, this feeling is terrible.

He instinctively took out his sidearm and aimed it out through the shooting hole.

In his hand was a Martini-Henry Rifle, and it was the third improved version, a new piece of British military equipment originally stored in Shreveport for supplying the Expedition Army’s use.

But just as he wanted to pull the trigger, the team Corner’s massive hand grasped the muzzle and pressed it down: "They definitely won’t expect any living soul under such fierce fire. Wait for their main forces to come close before shooting."

As he spoke, he raised his voice: "Everyone back inside the fortifications, leave only me by the observation hole."

Listening to his words, Enrique suddenly realized a new understanding of this commander, who usually looked fierce and always spewed Sicily countryside slang.

...

This waiting lasted till the next morning.

Enrique didn’t know what time he fell asleep last night, only remembered the military doctor pulling him to play several rounds of dice, winning all his rationed paper cigarettes clean.

He trembled as he wrapped the blanket and crawled up, feeling his body almost frozen stiff.

Urged by the "military doctor," he pulled out, from beneath the camp bed, the individual ration distributed last night, a canvas-wrapped long loaf, a small paper packet of jam, and similarly a small paper packet of meat paste.

As a result, he couldn’t help but curse aloud—the damned rats had already tasted his breakfast while he was asleep last night.

"Mr. Derum, you’re more knowledgeable than me, please tell me, is it the same in every corner of the world, where these damned little things exist?"

He broke off the edges of the bread that had been gnawed by rats, dipping it in jam and chewing it without much taste.

Derum replied with a smile, "I used to live constantly in the desert and oasis, later only wandering around the coastal areas of Egypt. The places I’ve been may not exceed yours by much, but as far as I know, rats—like mosquitoes and flies—can make themselves home in both palaces of nobles and the dilapidated shacks of commoners alike."

Just then, a shout echoed from the tunnel: "The enemy is upon us, prepare for battle!"

Enrique quickly stuffed the dry, hard bread into his mouth, twisted open the canteen to gulp it down, grabbed his gun, and charged into the tunnel, where many comrades were already crouching, quickly heading towards the observation posts. They pushed aside obstacles at the exit and filed into the trenches.

Through the morning mist, they could clearly see a group of soldiers wearing khaki uniforms, bearing the Star Stripes Alliance Banner, advancing slowly in a skirmish line.

"No one fires without my order!"

The corner yelled a loud warning, wearing an officer’s cap askew, as he lifted the back covers of each wooden-handled grenade to reveal the long pull cords inside, all filled with White Crystal Powder. They boasted incredible destructive power, recently introduced by the Texans, often harnessed by the robust physique of the Wolf Race members to achieve effects akin to small-caliber grenade launchers.

"Military Doctor" also had three grenades lined up before him, earned by demonstrating his stone-throwing skills to the artillery commander.

The enemy was nearing firing range, and the hundred or so defenders at the first fortress were also standing ready.

But just then, a sharp, piercing whistle sounded.

Enrique was too familiar with that sound—it was enemy artillery fire!

No time to run to the underground shelter, he dropped his weapon and dove to the bottom of the trench, immediately met with a violent roar—more intense than what he had felt yesterday!

A shell nearly exploded nearby.

The blast wave flung him over a meter away.

Enrique’s mind went blank until someone shook him, prompting him to shakily rise from the ground.

"Military Doctor" shouted into his ear, "The enemy hasn’t spotted us, it’s just routine shelling; it’s time for us to counterattack!"

Bang—

Sporadic gunfire erupted.

Enrique sat on the ground, unable to recover for a long time. Nearby lay a severed arm, a gold ring on its finger, which seemed to belong to William from Sorres Town.

He saw Derum swing his arm wide, hurling a grenade, followed by a violent explosion echoing through the gorge.

Enrique forced himself to stand, staggering back to the trench, raising his gun to shoot—he missed, afraid to expose himself to aim; the original anger and hatred had been overshadowed by the fear of walking through the Ghost Gate.

Bam—

The Military Doctor’s arm got hit, and he fell beside Enrique, roaring: "Enrique, on the battlefield, the more you fear death, the more likely you’ll die!"

Enrique swore, peering out from the trench to aim at the enemy, pulling the trigger again.

He watched a blood flower explode on an enemy’s chest with the gunshot, yet the enemy surged like a tide, unaffected by the death of one.

One comrade after another fell.

He saw the Military Doctor laughing, clutching a grenade, bounding like a nimble leopard out of the trench towards the enemy, soon followed by fierce explosions.

"We’re done for."

This was Enrique’s last thought.

He was not a hero, nor the protagonist in a novel, blessed with luck amid a rain of bullets. He lacked the solitary might to turn the tide, and he wasn’t as courageous as the Military Doctor, willing to embrace a grenade for a mutual destruction with the enemy.

"Die, you bastards!"

He saw his own corner transform into a Werewolf, covered in gray fur, cradling grenades as he leapt from the trench, bullets piercing his body, branding him with blood flowers, yet he seemed unfazed, forging forth against the enemy.

Boom!

Enrique’s world fell into chaotic clamor.