Chapter 9: A Race to the Bottom in Marksmanship

"Well, finally finished." Five minutes later, Potter had at last fumbled his way through reloading his matchlock musket. By this time, the opposing side had already fired their third ragged volley.

Whether it was due to Potter’s good luck or the fact that the enemy conscripts were on the same level as he was, not a single person around him had fallen despite all his tinkering.

Potter picked up the match cord, now burnt down to a short stub. He remembered the drill: hold the musket level. He squinted with his bruised eye, but—ouch—that hurt. He switched to the other. That fellow Bobby really had a heavy hand!

Potter held the musket steady, peering at the enemy through his self-invented, supposedly highly accurate aiming stance. Well, with so many people over there, he should be able to hit at least one...

Having struck his pose, Potter took the match and ignited the powder in the flash pan.

*Bang.* Potter was quite satisfied with this shot; the form was perfect, even if it had taken a bit too long.

However, as he stared at the enemy, Potter was astonished to find that—damn it—not a single person had gone down! He had spent forever aiming; they were showing him absolutely no respect! Fine, he would fire a few more rounds at them; he refused to believe the God of Light favored their lot that much!

Indignant, Potter began his methodical reloading process once more. As he practiced, his errors diminished significantly. Perhaps by the time this battle was over, Potter would have finally completed his musket marksmanship training.

The national army and the noble conscripts were locked in a competition to see whose marksmanship was worse. The scattered corpses of a few unlucky souls lying on the ground proved that this exchange was not merely a blank-firing exercise.

The agitators under Amasiga watched the two armies slowly exchanging fire and finally lost their patience. Of course, the noble officers were also at their wit's end, but they knew the nature of their conscripts well. Force them to charge? It was safer to keep up this inaccurate firing. As for the pike phalanxes, those rare elite troops were reserved for emergencies; the noble officers weren't arrogant enough to throw less than 2,000 elites against the enemy’s ten-thousand-strong formation.

The Germanic national army held a numerical advantage, and their front ranks were nothing but peasant cannon fodder. The agitators had been kind to them, and now it was time for them to pay their dues.

"Musketeers, cease fire! Reload and prepare to charge!" Following the agitators' orders, officers across the line issued the command to prepare for the assault.

Upon hearing they were to charge, the soldiers of the national army became ecstatic. Finally, it was time for them to loot! With morale soaring, the entire national army let out a roar and surged toward the noble lines.

Seeing the wolf-like ferocity of the approaching enemy, the noble conscripts, who had been firing at their own leisurely pace, panicked and grew clumsy. At a normal rate of fire, they might have managed two volleys against a charge from several dozen paces away. But seeing the enemy almost upon them, the conscripts hastily stuffed their barrels and fired off whatever they had, just to be done with it.

The result was a sharp spike in the number of bursting barrels in the noble ranks—a consequence of over-loading. For those who used too little powder, their projectiles barely rolled out of the barrels. Many of those who used the correct amount of powder ended up firing their ramrods along with their lead balls. As the national army charged, they saw the enemy musketeers first blow themselves up and then fire a volley of iron rods. Was this meant to skewer them? The range was a bit too close for that, though.

"Musketeers, fall back! Pike phalanxes, form a defensive square!" The noble officers had to scream themselves hoarse to remind the conscripts what they were supposed to do.

"Don't charge into your own lines, you brainless peasants!" an officer roared in frustration as he watched the conscripts retreat like headless chickens, slamming into their own formations.

The pikemen were having none of it; they struck down any conscript who tried to push through. Faced with the sight of their own comrades falling, the other conscripts finally showed a spark of intelligence and veered off to the sides.

"Musketeers, halt! Wait for the volley, then let the pikemen charge!" The shouts of officers echoed through the Germanic national army. Trying to restrain these untrained peasant troops was a back-breaking task.

By the time they were within 30 paces, the officers had ordered the national army to halt and fire a volley. Many disorganized soldiers overshot their mark, only braking their momentum a dozen paces away. They didn't seem to fear being run through by pikes—oh, right, most of them had never even seen a pike before!

Potter, with his slightly sluggish reactions, naturally ended up in the front ranks, leaving his boss, Bobby, far behind.

Stand straight, aim—well, hold the musket level—and fire.

After that series of actions, the national army finally pulled off a true volley—and at extremely close range. If the enemy conscripts hadn't been so cowardly and fired their own volley prematurely, the national army would have been lucky not to have broken right then and there.

However, the agitators were confident that the army they had indoctrinated with national spirit would not break within at least two volleys. For peasant soldiers who had never seen a battlefield, this was already something for the agitators to be proud of.

*Bang.* This time, Potter finally reaped his first reward. A pikeman in leather armor, standing a dozen paces away, clutched his stomach and collapsed.

Overjoyed, Potter frantically reloaded. Stimulated by the excitement of killing, his efficiency increased significantly; he was ready to fire again in just over a minute. By then, his boss, Bobby, had already charged into the fray.

The pike phalanx soldiers, being somewhat elite, did not collapse after enduring a volley at point-blank range. However, their once-orderly formation was riddled with gaps, as that volley had claimed many lives. Then, the pike phalanx clashed with the peasant army, which outnumbered them more than two-to-one.

The noble troops, having been baptized by the volley, were unable to maintain a tight formation. The playing field suddenly leveled out—neither side had any formation left, so it was time for a brawl.

In the chaos, Bobby unleashed his unique "thug-style" fighting, moving like a fish in water. He actually managed to drive the professional guard in front of him into a steady retreat—though that was all it was, just a retreat; he hadn't even scratched the man.

Having killed many a noble servant in his time, Bobby was frustrated. These real soldiers were hard to kill! He was so skilled, yet after fighting for so long, he hadn't even wounded his opponent.

Bobby happened to see his idiot countryman, Potter, take a casual shot, and a man on the other side dropped. For the first time, he felt that musketeers were far more impressive than pikemen—it saved time, saved effort, and was damn convenient for killing!