Within the narrow battle formation, every time a long spear thrusts out, one person falls, and every gunshot causes a few mercenaries to scream while clutching their arms.
But the Holy Gunmen, after all, are few in number. Despite their relentless pressure on the mercenaries, they still haven't broken their defense.
"Bang!" A stray bullet pierced through the neck of Dane's warhorse.
The Duke atop let out a miserable howl, then fell from the saddle as if struck by invisible giant fists.
Visibly, bright red blood had already covered his luxurious woolen trousers.
Clutching his right leg, the Duke knew he couldn't ride anymore. He gritted his teeth, leaned on the attendant's arm, and shouted toward the knights.
"Cover the retreat!"
Faster, faster!
Cold sweat poured down the Duke's forehead, and with every step, he felt a knife carving into his thigh.
"The Duke is there! Kill!"
