The air split with a piercing explosion as lead bullets whizzed past them like locusts.

The scorching Holy Wind descended densely upon the soldiers' chests and bellies.

Bright red blood mist rose continuously from the front ranks, mixed with even more heart-wrenching cries from the battle formation.

"Mom, I'm dead!"

"Don't block, don't block..."

"It's the Devil's Wind, Monks, start praying!"

A lead bullet flew past, and Zelaken's heart nearly leapt out of his throat. His voice, sharp amid the gunfire, sounded like a eunuch: "Ah! Monks, hurry, use your invincible Divine Art to think of something!"

The leader of the Monks did not respond. Zelaken turned to look.

Only to see the lead Monk with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, lying on the ground, face serene and smiling, unmistakably dead with sweet repose.

The remaining Monks, sweating profusely, were rummaging through the Gospel: "It shouldn't be, everything's right, the timing, the place is all correct, why isn't it working?"

"You ask me?" Zelaken saw the soldiers in the front rows fall and grabbed a Monk by the collar without thinking, "Quick, suppress their Spell!"

"But it's useless, we've tried everything?" The Monk was so anxious he was about to cry, "It's not working!"

"Why isn't it working?"

"Either the Holy Father manifests, or it's simply not a Spell."

"Not a Spell, how is that possible?" Zelaken let go, and the Monk fell to the ground, "That's clearly crafted using alchemical materials!"

An absurd thought flashed in Zelaken's mind, if it's not a Spell, could the Holy Wind really be Divine Art?

A Divine Art system independent of the Church? No, no, impossible, absolutely impossible.

Zelaken pushed the unrealistic thought aside: "Quick, use Divine Art, don't let the Guards retreat."

"But their hearts can't withstand such a short interval of using Divine Art again, it will cause large-scale sudden death."

"Sudden death, then sudden death; that is their glory. Use it quickly!"

...

"Holy Gun First Division Third Brigade, turn left, quick march!"

After firing, the soldiers in the front row turned left or right neatly, transitioning from a horizontal line to a vertical, moving to the side of the Long Spearman, then forming a horizontal line again.

One round followed another, one after another the soldiers in the front of the large formation fell, blood flowing on the ground.

If not for the blessings supporting them, they would have fled long ago unable to maintain formation.

Until three rounds were fired, the continuous explosions and whizzing lead bullets ceased, leaving the battlefield eerily silent.

Those Guards who crouched on the ground holding their heads or simply lay down, got up and looked in the direction the Holy Wind had blown.

When the three rows of Holy Gunmen retreated from both sides, like reefs after the tide receded, the horizontal line of Long Spearmen was exposed to everyone.

The long spears, heated by the sun, with their red pine shafts resting on elbows, pointed distantly towards the large infantry formation ahead.

Only thirty meters of distance remained between them.

"Toot toot toot——"

In the oppressive silence, the horn signaling charge rang out.

Six hundred Long Spearmen stomped their right legs heavily, forming into a 50X12 horizontal formation, and marched in charge towards the large formation ahead.

"One! One! One!"

This was the command for advancing Long Spearmen. Due to the fast pace, officers would skip "two", pausing only briefly after "one".

The rhythmic chant of marching mixed with the rustling sound of armor and cloth rubbing together, creating an unusual rhythm.

The orderly yet urgent rustling sound grew closer, as these soldiers adjusted their distance carefully within their ranks amid blood mist and fallen comrades' fear.

In their subconscious perception, at least a minute remained before both sides clashed.

But as the double line of spears closed in, the armored soldiers commanding each squad suddenly changed color.

This speed was unprecedented for him—the rebel spears were blurred at a distance one moment, and the next moment, they were gleaming and reaching forward.

Behind this double line of spears stood what seemed like a dense forest of steel.

"Why so fast? Reorganize the formation, quickly reorganize!" shouted an armored soldier leading from the front row, in a deafening voice.

Many Guards went pale, desperately trying to block gaps or escape, shoving and pushing each other, causing the originally somewhat orderly large formation to sway erratically.

Under continuous assault, these infantry were doing well not to flee, let alone filling in the missing spots.

Closer, closer.

"For victory." Victor, in the front line, gritted his teeth as he ordered, "Charge in double time!"

The Long Spearmen, still running at a steady pace, suddenly accelerated once more, now only less than ten meters remained between both sides.

"Peasant!" An armored soldier shouted a loud and vicious insult, then like always, raised his large axe high.

Yet unlike usual, the farmers of the rebel army did not cower before the battle axe.

The spear tips of a hundred long spears spun, and a hundred Long Spearmen stomped their right feet hard together, thrusting their spears forward stalwartly.

The scorching gunpoints pierced the chain mail, stabbed into the soft breast, and the armored soldier felt as if his body was pierced by a burning iron rod.

Then the spears from the second rank shot forward like venomous snakes, stabbing fiercely into his throat.

The armored soldier staggered back two steps, eye bulging in disbelief as if they would pop from their sockets.

He held one hand over his chest, the other over his throat, attempting to speak, but could not utter a single word.

His robust body fell heavily, splashing a pool of blood.

The Guards of the first rank, freshly struck by volleys, with some still sprawled on the ground, others attempting to replace those fallen were unable to take any defensive stance promptly.

"Ah——"

"I surrender, I surrender."

"Cough, cough, cough——"

"No killing those who kneel, no killing those who kneel!"

"Who are you?" Little Malok snapped, frowning as he kicked down the Guard kneeling and shouting to spare him, "Who's yelling no killing those who kneel?"

The spears surged like waves, stabbing back and forth. Like dominoes, the front row of soldiers fell one after another.

Blood flowed from mouths, noses, and bullet holes, rolling on the ground with wailing sounds.

The light representations of blessings flew up continuously in the formation, Monks disregarding the Guards' heart capacity, forcibly tossing blessings onto them.

Even so, it could not stem the infantry's decline.

"Can we still hold? I'll call Lord Nidesar over right away." Zelaken shouted at the armored soldiers.

But those armored soldiers had no mind to respond, fully engaged in organizing their formation to resist.

"Retreat, order a retreat, if we don't, we'll die here."

"Lord Zelaken, let's retreat quickly."

"At least take three heads, at the very least one head." Zelaken called out to the armored soldiers.

"We have no time to take heads, hurry up and go."

"Or you hold for a bit, take a head..."

"How about you take my head, then use it up there... Erf—" Before finishing his sentence, an armored soldier was pierced through by an arrow barrage raining from the sky.

Standing at the side and rear of the formation, surrounded by Guards, looking at the two-thousand strong infantry formation being pushed back by six hundred Long Spearmen, Zelaken sighed deeply.

Finally accepting reality, he waved listlessly: "Archers, shoot arrows to cover, retreat."

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