Carter Lannis had never seen a battle like this before.

A massive formation of over three hundred knights had crumbled into disarray before even touching the defensive line.

In the end, they couldn't even get within fifty meters—that was the firing line set by His Highness for the musketeers; only when someone crossed the fifty-meter line were they allowed to fire.

Four cannons had completely stopped the opponents near the hundred-meter line. In the area between one hundred fifty and one hundred meters, twenty or so bodies lay scattered, and these people, like himself, were skilled knights; otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to control their horses and advance at high speed amid the booming cannons.

Carter was glad he wasn't one of them. He vaguely sensed that future wars would be very different, and that Roland Wimbledon, who possessed such power, would ascend to the throne sooner or later.

A few members of the First Army experienced dizziness and vomiting after seeing the gruesome battlefield, but since it wasn't close-quarters combat, the shock of the cannons killing enemies was less than killing them with a blade, so the reactions weren't severe. Carter selected a group of hunters who were used to seeing dismembered bodies and blood to collect the dead and search for survivors.

As the sun gradually sank into the mountains, Carter looked at the blood-red sky and the crowing in the distant woods, and he suddenly felt a sense of desolation.

The age of knights was over.

...

Duke Ryan hadn't recovered from the shock yet.

He didn't understand how he had lost. The defensive line was as thin as a cicada's wing; it should have been easily pierced, but the knights had scattered as if they had seen a demon. He couldn't even blame anyone else, because the ones in the front were his elite knights.

The personal guards had to cut down several men to keep the onrushing mercenaries away from the Duke, but that was all they could do. No matter how he roared, he couldn't rally his routed troops. Helpless, Duke Osmond Ryan had to retreat with the renliu for nearly ten miles.

When night fell, the Duke chose a place near the riverbank to set up camp, and the scattered knights and mercenaries gathered around the torches, but most were still missing. To make matters worse, the ziyoumin had unhesitatingly abandoned their carts and supplies during the retreat, so tonight they had to slaughter a few horses for rations.

In the largest tent in the camp, the five great noble families huddled together, looking pale at Duke Ryan, whose face wasn't much better.

"Can anyone tell me what new weapons they were using? The range is farther than gongnu, and you can't see stones being thrown like with catapults," he glanced at Ryan Mede, "You were at the front; did you see anything?"

"My Lord, I... I'm not sure," Ryan said, holding his head. "I only heard booming sounds continuously, and they fell in batches. Especially that last bang, the knight at the front seemed to suddenly hit an invisible wall. I saw his body shake, and his head and arms were torn apart, just like..." He thought for a moment, "an egg dropped from the top of the castle."

"Could it be witches?" Earl Elk murmured.

"Impossible," the Duke frowned. "The knights under my command all wear God's Stone of Retribution; witches can't hurt them at all. You've played with witches before; what difference is there between them and ordinary women in front of God's Stone?"

"That's right, My Lord," Ryan suddenly said, as if he remembered something. "Before I heard the loud noise, I saw several things like pushcarts in their formation, with huge iron pipes on them, and red light and smoke coming out of them."

"Iron pipes? Red light and smoke? Isn't that just a celebratory barrel?" Earl Elk asked doubtfully.

The Duke certainly knew what celebratory barrels were. In the past, only nobles in the royal capital used them during major celebrations, but now lords everywhere basically had one or two prepared. He had a pair of bronze celebratory barrels in his castle that could be detonated with snow powder. But the sound was nothing compared to the soul-stirring thunder of today.

"Celebratory barrels don't tear knights apart," Earl Honeysuckle said. "No matter what weapon the Prince is using, we have already lost. What should we do next?"

Duke Ryan glared at him unhappily. The word "lost" sounded particularly jarring to him. "We haven't lost yet," he emphasized. "An unfavorable battle can't change the final outcome. As long as we return to the fortress, I can raise another army and cut off trade on the Redwater River. Without food supplies, Border Town won't last a month. As long as he dares to bring those villagers out, my knights can defeat him from the side and rear."

Victory would ultimately belong to him, he thought, but the losses incurred were not something a small town could compensate for... Retaking the Northern Region was almost impossible. Damn it! If he could capture Roland Wimbledon, he would tear him to pieces.

"But My Lord, the ships on the Redwater River don't only come from Longsong Stronghold, but also from Willow Town, Dragonfall Ridge, and Redwater City. If we intercept them all, wouldn't that..." Earl Honeysuckle hesitated.

"I'll buy them all. As long as I pay, it's the same to them who they sell to," the Duke said coldly. "Everyone, go back to your tents and sleep. We'll set off at dawn tomorrow. The knights with horses will move with us, and those without horses will stay behind to lead the mercenaries."

It was impossible to march at night. Even if the Fourth Prince planned to pursue, if he set off at dawn, the first thing he would encounter would be the mercenaries left behind. He thought that even if that group of trash collapsed at the first touch, they could buy him some time.

The next day, the Duke didn't receive any news of the Prince catching up. To confirm this, he sent his confidants to expand the reconnaissance range, and the report was the same. This relieved him slightly. Perhaps that new weapon was as difficult to move as a catapult and could only be used in defensive battles. Relying on a group of miners with wooden sticks, the Prince wouldn't dare to act rashly.

At three in the afternoon, the Duke ordered the knights to stop and wait for the people on foot to catch up. Near dusk, the mercenaries and ziyoumin gradually caught up with the cavalry. Everyone was busy again, hastily setting up tents in a cleared area.

As long as he got through tonight, he could reach Longsong Stronghold tomorrow—the thirty-foot-high bluestone walls were like an impassable chasm to a few hundred troops. Even if the enemy had a new type of weapon with an extremely long range, he could use the catapults behind the walls to counterattack. He would definitely settle this score with the Prince.

However, what made Duke Ryan feel somewhat uncomfortable was that he felt like he was being watched all day.

It was probably an illusion, he thought, he was too tense.

The next morning, the Duke was awakened by the sound of cannons.

When he rushed out of the tent, he found everyone scrambling around in panic. From time to time, mud and blood splattered up. Looking west, the "militia" wearing standardized leather armor stood in a straight line, quietly outside the camp. Amidst the deafening roar, only one thought remained in the Duke's mind—how did they catch up?

Why didn't the knights who were in charge of reconnaissance yesterday discover the pursuers?!

"My Lord, run!" a guard shouted, leading a horse.

Osmond Ryan finally woke up from his daze. He jumped on the horse and fled east with the guard. However, not long after leaving the camp, they saw another identical troop.

The same standardized leather armor, holding strange short sticks in their hands, arranged in an orderly row, and even their expressions seemed the same.

Then, the Duke heard rhythmic music playing from the opposite side. The Prince's troops were marching towards him in neat steps.