As the orc heavy cavalry drew ever closer, the earth trembled slightly.
When the cavalry vanguard was less than two hundred paces from the front of the Northwest Legion, Paul decisively gave the order: "All troops, change formation!"
In an instant, the entire Northwest Legion formation began to operate like a precise machine. The well-trained infantry moved swiftly, with the front ranks of soldiers splitting to the sides and the rear ranks quickly filling the gaps.
In just fifteen seconds, the original linear array was transformed into eight regular hollow square arrays.
Each square was lined with three rows of soldiers on each side, all firearms pointing outwards, the steel jungle of bayonets gleaming deadly in the sunlight. Inside the square, officers and standard-bearers commanded from the center, ready to respond to any threat from any direction.
Meanwhile, the artillerymen seized the last opportunity to unleash a furious barrage, with gunners shouting at the top of their lungs: "Load the shot! Fire rapidly!"
Dozens of cannons spewed fire in succession, and thousands of lead pellets rained down on the nearby Orc Cavalry. The cavalry at the forefront were riddled with bullets, and the cavalry behind them were also swept down by the flying shrapnel.
"Fire!" The artillerymen displayed astonishing reloading speed, and before the Orc Cavalry could recover from the first volley, another round of deadly grapeshot whistled through the air. This time the firing range was closer, and the destructive effect was even more terrifying, instantly tearing several gaps in the Orc Cavalry's charging line.
After completing these two deadly volleys, the gunners immediately sprang into action. They left their heavy Cannons in place and quickly retreated into the nearest infantry phalanx, dragging only their lighter Grasshoppers.
The infantrymen made way in perfect unison, and immediately closed up their formation after the artillerymen had safely entered. Thanks to the Northwest Legion's rigorous training, the whole process was as smooth as flowing water.
Orc Cavalry's charge was completely rendered ineffective in front of the Northwest Legion's tight phalanx. When the horses were a dozen paces in front of the phalanx, these well-trained steppe steeds suddenly braked and refused to charge into the dense thicket of bayonets, no matter how much their riders whipped and neighed.
"Damn beast! Charge!" Centurion, an orc, kicked his horse's belly in a rage, but his mount reared up in terror and instinctively turned, circling the edge of the square formation.
This scene repeated itself again and again in front of each square formation. The Orc Cavalry circled in vain around the steel hedgehog-like square formations, completely unable to take advantage of the cavalry's charge.
The orcs had little experience in dealing with this situation, because in previous battles, the enemy infantry would often collapse before they even reached the front lines, but the humans before them had actually held on.
Northwest Legion within the square The soldiers, however, remained calm and composed. The officers calmly ordered, "Aim at the horses and fire! Shoot down their mounts first!"
"Bang! Bang!" The sound of flintlock guns rang out one after another. The soldiers in the inner layer were doing their jobs. Some were dedicated to shooting, while others were dedicated to loading ammunition.
The archers aimed at the tall steppe warhorses and fired. Lead bullets pierced the horses' necks and bellies, and one after another, the mighty warhorses neighed and knelt on the ground, throwing their orc riders heavily off their backs. Some orcs with broken legs did not even have time to get up before being killed by follow-up bullets.
Many orc warriors, their eyes bloodshot, dismounted and charged forward to engage the human soldiers in hand- to-hand combat.
Private John, who had just fired, gripped the slippery barrel of his rifle tightly, the tip of his bayonet still trembling slightly. He had just watched as the tall Orc Cavalry in front of him crawled up from beside the warhorse he had shot down—the beast was at least seven feet tall, with blood still clinging to its fangs.
"For Zarg!" the orc roared as he charged, his heavy sword slashing down. John and Tom beside him simultaneously raised their guns to parry, the three weapons clashing with a piercing metallic clang.
"Damn it. This guy is too strong!" Tom's face turned red.
The orc grinned and pressed down with his full weight, his sword slowly approaching their throats. John could smell the heavy stench of blood and sweat on them and see the madness flashing in their bloodshot yellow eyes.
Just as the blade was inches from John's neck, a gunshot suddenly rang out. The orc's head exploded like a ripe pumpkin, splattering red and white brain matter all over John's face. The headless corpse swayed and then collapsed to the ground.
"Two rookies, is that all you've got?" came the hoarse mockery of veteran Wilson from behind.
John turned his head and saw the bearded old soldier deftly loading new ammunition into his flintlock rifle. "Next time, remember to thrust the bayonet diagonally upwards. Holding it horizontally like that, you can't even kill a chicken."
John then realized that his legs were shaking like a leaf. He wiped the blood off his face and found that there were already seven or eight orc corpses lying on the ground around him. In the corner of the nearest formation, a medic was bandaging a comrade whose abdomen had been slashed open, and the bandage was soaked with blood.
"Stop spacing out! Load your bullets when you have time!" The squad leader kicked him in the butt. "The orcs won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
The battlefield was filled with the sounds of battle. The orcs' melee weapons were far less efficient at killing than human bullets, and the Northwest Legion always held the advantage in the battle.
Abar witnessed all this from afar, his hand gripping the reins turning white from the strain. His prized heavy cavalry was utterly useless against these bizarre human formations, which appeared so thin and fragile.
The scales of victory have tipped in humanity's favor!
Abar watched as his elite Royal Tent cavalry crashed into the human phalanx, bleeding profusely, and finally gritted his teeth and sounded the retreat horn.
The mournful bugle call echoed across the smoke-filled battlefield, and the surviving Orc Cavalry, as if granted a pardon, turned their horses around and fled.
But the Northwest Legion would not let such a golden opportunity slip by.
"Artillery in position!"
As soon as the order was given, the artillery crews that had been hiding in the formation immediately sprang into action, with the gunners returning to their respective cannons.
They skillfully set up the gun mount, adjusted the angle, and loaded ammunition, the whole process flowing smoothly.
"Four hundred yards away!"
"Load high-explosive shells!"
The gunners' shouts rose and fell in a cacophony of desperate cries.
Just as the retreating Orc Cavalry had regrouped and were attempting to reorganize their ranks, death arrived.
"put!"
Dozens of Cannons roared simultaneously, and a storm of metal swept towards the Orc Cavalry swarm.
The cavalry that was gathering was suddenly thrown into chaos, with men and horses falling and blood and flesh flying everywhere.
"Scatter! Scatter now!"
The orcs shouted at the top of their lungs.
Shells exploded among the orc army, shattering their hard-won battle formation once again.
"No!"
Abar and his generals were furious; most of them had never experienced such a repressive battle.