"Thump thump thump—"

Amid the twanging of bowstrings, Zelaken couldn't help but blink, momentarily dazed by the dazzling reflection of the arrows.

But the next second, the other guards around him shouted loudly, "My Lord Count, watch out!"

Zelaken hadn't even had time to react before he felt a tremendous force hit his side, sending him flying sideways.

Two guards raised their shields, and the arrows flew off the edges of the iron-plated oak shields.

"Zing—" Zelaken heard a crisp metallic scraping sound, then felt a painful warmth in his right ear.

Instinctively, he touched his ear, opening his palm to find it covered in blood.

Realizing he had been targeted by the Salvation Army's longbowmen, Zelaken immediately crouched down, using the advancing phalanx next to him as cover.

The blazing sun scorched the air, twisting it.

In the blinding chill light, over two hundred arrows broke through the distortion, pouring down like a summer storm.

Where the arrows landed, spurting blood bounced like raindrops.

Rippling circles of blood expanded outward, accompanied by the continuous cries of the soldiers.

The rain of arrows came so suddenly that the soldiers in the infantry phalanx had no time to react.

Especially at Zelaken's position, where the revenge-driven Wild Boar Knights excelled, eight arrows landed around him at an extraordinary distance.

Had it not been for the family guards raising shields and using their bodies as cover, Zelaken might have been shot through and bleeding profusely by now.

How did they discover his position?

Zelaken, pinned beneath the guards, was still pondering this, wondering if they really could see him from such a distance?

But at this moment, Zelaken couldn't think too much. He emerged from the shielded group and, raising his fist, yelled towards the infantry under the battle flag:

"Raise shields! Raise shields! Raise shields!"

In a flurry, the Night Guards unbuckled their shields from their backs, raised their arms, and lowered their heads, holding their round shields upright in front and above them.

These thick wooden shields might not stop the arrows entirely but could greatly reduce the chances of being hit in vital areas.

Arrows whizzed through the air, thudding into the wooden shields, stopping the previously advancing troop in its tracks under this barrage of six volleys, over a thousand arrows in total.

If they were like Horn's smaller horizontal formations, they might have already collapsed by now.

But the advantage of their large phalanx was its immense size; even changing formation was difficult, let alone running away.

This pause was the monks' opportunity.

The infantry phalanx settled for a few minutes, and several spheres of light representing blessings of Divine Art arose from the phalanx.

Then, the phalanx of 2500 people resumed their march under the cries of the lower-ranking monks and Foot Combat Attendant Knights.

Victor watched the slowly moving formation and looked at Mira, seemingly wanting them to shoot another volley.

Putting down the telescope in his hands, Mira shook his head, "Victor, my friend, our heavy arrows are limited, and we must use them at critical moments."

For the archers on the Ibe Knights' side, making arrows was simple, with branches or reeds easily fitted with bone or iron tips.

But in the hands of Mira's longbowmen, war bow arrows were far more complex to make than hunting arrows, especially the shafts, requiring special wood and alignment devices.

These shafts had to withstand nearly double the draw weight of hunting arrows, which ordinary shafts couldn't bear, making them significantly more challenging to produce.

One war bow arrow costs as much as 1.6 Dinars, enough to buy two pounds of lead bullets, each pound containing about 20-30 bullets.

Mira's latest volley cost roughly 20 gold pounds.

Victor reckoned that by the end of this battle, the lead bullets fired might not even reach 2 gold pounds in cost.

If not for the monks' blessings on the opposing phalanx, that volley might have broken them.

Victor couldn't help but sigh, remarking that the only downside of expensive things was indeed their cost.

"My orders from His Majesty were to fire one volley before the formation to deplete the enemy's Divine Arts." Mounting his horse again, Mira controlled the restless steed beside him, speaking earnestly, "Next, it's your turn with the Holy Wind and counter-charges. We'll support from the side with ordinary wooden arrows."

With the longbow half-drawn, ordinary wooden arrows could still effectively harass this infantry phalanx.

Turning his focus back to the battlefield, Victor felt the scorching sun heat his helm painfully.

The clogs or straw sandals of the infantry trod over lush grass, and after watching their pace for two minutes, Victor had a rough estimate of their marching speed.

To maintain the phalanx's formation, they had to advance at about 30 to 35 meters per minute.

As Jeska mentioned, in the old army, this pace was considered swift, at least they weren't halting every ten steps to re-organize.

According to the "Holy Scriptures," the Salvation Army's normal pace was 40 meters per minute, and brisk pace 50 meters per minute.

These speeds seemed very slow, even slower than normal walking, but among the generally cumbersome Imperial old army, they were unmatched.

What's more, the Salvation Army had two practical steps summarized from real battles: the charge step at 80 meters per minute and the running step at 130 meters per minute.

The Ibe Army's phalanx was now 60-80 meters away from them, meaning they had at least two minutes.

Assessing their formation change speed, Victor made up his mind.

"Kolman, get ready, we'll fire a volley and charge."

This was a rather risky decision, but if successful, the Night Guards and Armored Soldiers in the central army would be incapacitated for the rest of the day.

A sudden footfall rang out, and Zelaken looked up sharply; the oblique sunlight made him squint, but soon, he widened his eyes despite the sun.

"Changing formation, at this moment?"

They were only seventy or eighty yards (sixty or seventy meters) apart, what were they trying to do by changing formation now?

In the eyes of the front-line soldiers of the Ibe Army, they saw an unprecedented strange scene.

The opposing commander, overheated, suddenly began a form of chaos they couldn't comprehend.

Rows of soldiers turned left and right, marching at varying paces across the grass.

Several captains of fifty-man teams held their plumed lances, one horizontally against the chests of the first-row soldiers, the other against the backs of the last-row soldiers.

The sound of rebukes and commands was incessant, some even resorting to slapping faces.

"Quick, they're in chaos, let's rush up."

The guards rejoiced, increasing their pace once more.

"Move faster, we must do so before they end their chaos!" Kicking the loitering guards, an Armored Soldier captain urged on the laggards, who yelped as they moved.

As their pace lightened and formation grew chaotic, the rebels ahead became clearer.

They hadn't noticed when the transformation and footfall had ceased.

Those wielding long iron tubes, unknown to them, had moved to the front of the Long Spear Soldiers.

They braced the heavy tubes on the gun racks; the dark muzzles inexplicably sent a shiver down the guards' spines.

"Charge, keep charging." With his back to the Salvation Army, a tall Armored Soldier still shouted, "Don't fear, keep moving, Master Bishop has set the price, a pound for each Confederate head..."

"Bang!"

But before he could finish, he suddenly trembled.

Clutching the back of his neck, blood poured like a waterfall, pooling in his grayish-green hood.

Immediately, these soldiers heard the prayer, neat as if from one person, echoing endlessly in their nightmares— "Praise the Holy Wind."

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