Chapter Ten: I Will Become a Musketeer!

At this moment, the noble's long spear phalanx had completely lost its meaning. The soldiers, burdened by their cumbersome spears, discarded their weapons and drew short swords to engage in close combat. Although at a length disadvantage compared to the pikes, the peasants’ fighting prowess was formidable...

In fact, it turned out that these noble guards could still easily overpower the farmers...

Bobby noticed that after switching to a short sword, his opponent actually gained the upper hand and was pressing him hard! “I’m the top dog in the village—am I really going to be cut down like this?”

Well, pressed down and slashed at, Bobby couldn’t even muster a bit of spirit; his life was hanging by a thread!

Porter, having reloaded his matchlock musket, spotted his hometown leader amidst the mêlée. These tribal soldiers were brave; many charged into the chaos wielding muskets!

Porter, holding his musket, was dizzy and unsure whom to shoot—everyone was so close together. Though he fancied himself a marksman, he feared accidentally hitting an ally...

In truth, he knew that aside from his stylish stance, he had little confidence in where his bullets would land...

But their leader was in grave danger—how could he not come to his aid? Even if his eye socket still throbbed in pain...

After all, Bobby the rogue usually looked out for his fellow villagers.

“Boss Bobby, I’m here to help! Get down! I’m going to shoot!” Porter shouted.

His cry startled nearby comrades who had yet to find an opponent. “What are you shooting at?”

Soon, they got their answer. Bobby reacted faster than Porter—he rolled like a mule to evade a lethal strike from an enemy soldier.

While rolling, Bobby prayed silently, “Porter, you must shoot true. With that soldier’s reflexes, if I don’t get up fast, that short sword will be stabbing me!”

Bang! At less than ten paces, Porter, after some real combat musket training, managed to hit his target. At this close range, even a smoothbore musket wouldn’t let the bullet stray wildly.

The noble guard, wielding a short sword and poised to finish off the rolling Bobby, suddenly froze and collapsed, breath shallow and labored.

“Well done, Porter! When I get back, not only will I not hold it against you for poking me where the sun doesn’t shine, I’ll even buy you a drink!” Bobby blurted out in high spirits—then immediately regretted it. With so many around, talking about such things—even if it was just the musket barrel poking—was bound to be misunderstood...

Bobby saw the strange looks from his comrades and wished he could slap himself. Why couldn’t he think before speaking?

Now, on the battlefield, there was no time for silly concerns about personal pride. People of this era were numb to death. Common folk who often saw starving corpses didn’t faint at the sight.

Bobby grabbed his spear and thrust it into the still-breathing guard’s chest, ending his suffering.

After finishing off the guard, Bobby glanced back at Porter’s smug expression and felt conflicted. This timid, slow-reacting kid was wielding a musket and killing with flair, while Bobby—the village boss—had nearly been killed by an ordinary foot soldier. This was unfair!

“No way. This battle, I’m getting myself a musket. I want to become a sharpshooter who kills with ease!”

Clearly fired up, Bobby led Porter around, killing enemies in tandem—Bobby covering, Porter firing. This partnership was a nightmare for the noble guards.

The tide of the chaotic battle shifted as more musketeers joined the fray. At first, the skilled guards had been slaughtering the peasants easily.

The nobles looked on as their infantry faltered—the conscripts, the most numerous, had long since fled the melee. Most conscript casualties came from panic-induced stampedes rather than enemy blows...

Forced to play their last card, the nobles unleashed their elite cavalry: about a thousand knights in full armor, riding out with lances held high.

The thunder of hooves shook the ground as these knights charged fiercely—true soldiers of war.

These cavalrymen were the nobles’ greatest reliance, the reason they dared provoke the 250,000-strong Germanic host.

The Germanic commander, seeing the enemy cavalry’s fierce charge, quickly summoned his core regulars—the 10,000-strong Germanic Guards, newly recruited from the Madrid Empire—to reinforce the battle.

Though the noble cavalry lacked tight shield-wall formations, they sliced through the tribal forces like a razor through silk.

Ordinary spears simply bounced off the armored knights, who would turn and cleave the attackers’ heads off. Their lances were spent after the first charge.

During the cavalry charge, lances were used sparingly—one or two times before being broken or discarded. Holding onto a lance during a charge risked arm fractures, a near death sentence on the battlefield.

Seeing his comrades powerless against these armored knights, Bobby quickly discarded his wooden spear and grabbed a matchlock musket. He borrowed powder and bullets from Porter and began reloading.

“Damn, this matchlock is so long, and I have to wrap the cord around my neck? What a hassle! I’ve seen Madrid Empire musketeers who don’t need such a complicated fuse,” Bobby grumbled as he loaded.

Porter, even less experienced, couldn’t explain. He just gave Bobby a blank look. “A musket without a fuse?”

Bobby saw the clueless expression and realized he was talking to a brick wall. This slow-witted guy had better combat records than him. Clearly, the musket was a weapon that could make cowards into heroes!

Imitating Porter’s moves, Bobby carefully loaded the musket. Watching Porter’s smug face, who seemed to say, “You better learn from me,” Bobby wanted to kick him. If this weren’t a battlefield, he’d teach Porter what it meant to talk big and get beaten up!

After much effort, Bobby finally finished loading. By then, Porter had already fired a shot—of course, hitting nothing.

Bobby raised his musket with grand enthusiasm, aimed, and tried to ignite the fuse. One flick, two flicks, three flicks... nothing.

“By the Light God above, my luck can’t be this bad! Did I get a defective musket?”