Chapter 628: Saint Corin Hospital Knights!

On Burial Peak, in smoke-choked trenches, the soil was soaked in blood, thick as a swamp; embers still smoldered, outlining the battlefield's shape.

The brutal battle was nearing its end.

As the last artillery position was blown apart by grenadiers' grenades, a dozen charred clan rats raised white flags and shivered in the trench's corners.

They dropped their rusted knives and raised their filthy paws, emitting shrill, grating cries of pleading.

"No! Don't kill us! Squeak!"

The lead rat banged its head into the muddy water, its voice sharp and desperate.

"We're innocent! We didn't harm your people!"

The other rats quickly echoed him.

"That's right! All those atrocities were done by the Schlick warlord! That damn fat bastard forced us!"

"Go find him! Don't kill us!"

"Blame the guilty, not the obedient! We were just following orders!"

These rat-people were terrified.

Campbellians had always been fierce fighters, but never like this.

They should've formed ranks, marched to drumbeats, loaded their guns, then fired—pop, pop, pop… When did these humans become so terrifying?!

The soldiers of Ryan's Company who gathered around showed no mercy—only cruel grins.

Where's your bravado now?

Why stop now?

Most of these boys were refugees from Roland City; others came from Dusk Province.

Their homes were burned, their kin sold into slavery; years of hardship had erased all tenderness from their hearts.

Once they didn't know who to hate—now, their hatred finally had a target.

A sergeant stepped forward, not even glancing at the pleading rat, his voice cold and cruel.

"We'll find him. But first, go ahead and save him a seat—and tell him hello from me."

Before he finished speaking, he waved his hand behind him.

A soldier carrying a metal barrel stepped forward, expressionless, a cruel smile on his lips, the black muzzle aimed at the lead rat.

Though he didn't know what it was, the sight of the flame igniting at the muzzle triggered instinctive terror—the rat screamed involuntarily.

"No—"

Whoosh—!

A torrent of orange flame roared out, instantly swallowing the cramped corner.

It was a flame projector from the Kingdom of Gutauf, modified for human physiology and usage habits, powered by Ming text-enhanced pressure.

Though its range was short, it was devastating in cave-clearing ops—and even more so for cleaning up trash.

The shrieks lasted only seconds before turning into the crackling of sizzling fat, like dry logs bursting in a fireplace.

The stench of charred flesh instantly overpowered the smell of gunpowder; the dozen rats who had just been blaming others were now piles of curled ash.

Sir Dickbin stood behind a nearby bunker, clutching his rifle tightly, his facial muscles twitching uncontrollably, eyes wide with dread.

Saint Cis above—

I never thought Campbellians could be this cruel! They're savage enough, but now they've turned the gentle Leins into beasts!

"This is madness…"

Dickbin cursed inwardly, but kept his mouth shut, afraid to show even a flicker of discontent.

He knew these boys despised him—he feared the next flame jet might "accidentally" spray him.

At that moment, Lieutenant Kester strode over—he was the commander of all the boys in 1st Company, First Mountain Regiment, Ryan's Company.

According to Campbell's "New Army" regulations, regardless of rank, junior soldiers must salute their superiors in combat.

So despite his revulsion, Sir Dickbin pressed his hand to his brow in salute.

Kester returned the salute briefly, then turned his gaze to the still-smoldering pile of ash in the trench corner.

He said nothing, only gave a low command.

"Enough playing. Pack up. We have a new mission."

A Ryan soldier, eyes bloodshot from killing, wiped sweat and mud from his face, eagerly asked his officer.

"What's the mission, sir?"

"Did we find that Schlick bastard?"

"Ha! I can't wait to rip his guts out!"

Watching the eager boys, Kester said nothing more—just delivered one blunt line.

"You'll find out when we get there."

The boys still looked excited, assuming they'd be clearing more rat nests.

Only Sir Dickbin, ever observant, sensed something off in the lieutenant's eyes.

It wasn't the look of a soldier heading to battle—it was the look of someone attending a funeral.

With uneasy dread, Sir Dickbin followed his comrades.

They passed through the winding trench, stepping over charred corpses, arriving at a massive cave entrance halfway up the mountain.

A far more brutal battle had just ended here.

The ground was littered with shattered rock and severed limbs; green and black blood mingled together.

Tens of thousands of rats had defended this position fiercely, including numerous powerful transcenders.

Rats had transcenders too—quite a few of them.

But under the relentless, overwhelming firepower of the Gutauf Lizardmen Legion, they were crushed.

The cave entrance had been cleared; a squad of fully armed lizardmen stood guard.

As Dickbin followed his comrades into the cave, he suddenly stopped, instinctively covering his nose and mouth.

The smell was indescribable.

Not gunpowder, not corpse stench—it was a mix of rot, excrement, alchemical fumes, and other soul-crushing odors.

By the dim torchlight on the cave walls, he finally saw what lay ahead—and understood why the lieutenant's face had been so complex.

Inside the vast cavern stood countless iron cages, stretching to the horizon.

The Leins locked inside could no longer be called human—they were livestock awaiting slaughter.

Their eyes were hollow, numb, utterly unresponsive to the world outside their cages.

Worse still—

Outside the cages stood a group of women wrapped in ragged blankets, apparently dragged from deeper caverns by the lizardmen.

Their eyes were equally vacant, faces ashen; and horrifyingly, each of their bellies swelled unnaturally.

Conditions here were even worse than the caves beneath Burial Peak—the experimenters no longer settled for one child per woman.

"Saint Cis above…" Sir Dickbin's throat bobbed as he forced out a choked curse.

What is this…

What kind of hell.

A tall lizardman officer approached.

His green scales were splattered with blood; he carried a rifle with an absurdly large caliber, and wore a simple crystal pendant on his chest.

He looked at the stunned human soldiers and said nothing extra—only gave Kester a crisp military salute.

"Those rats planned to release poison gas and take us with them. Our scouts anticipated it and neutralized the threat."

Kester returned the salute solemnly.

"Thank you for your efforts."

"No need. You've got the hard part ahead."

The lizardman officer shrugged casually, then raised his thick thumb, pointing behind him.

"All yours… inside."

His expression was far from casual—he looked like he wanted to dump this mess off his claws immediately.

Understanding his turmoil, Kester nodded silently.

He turned to the red-eyed boys behind him and gave a brief order.

"Bring our people home."

No cheers. No slogans.

The soldiers moved forward in silence, smashing chains with pliers or rifle butts, freeing the trembling Leins.

Some began to weep; others bit their lips hard; some patted their shoulders, murmuring comfort.

"It's over now…"

The words were hollow—but they were all they could say.

Watching this, Sir Dickbin felt his legs turn to lead; his once-gleaming face burned hotter than ever.

These are the subjects the Emperor shelters in his cradle…

No wonder Edward called them sardines—they've been tortured beyond humanity, yet I still talked about the Second Era and ancient pacts.

Though most Lein nobles are shameless poodles, I still held a sliver of reverence for the Holy Light—I couldn't be so brazen as to lie without blushing.

Thinking of the disgraceful lies I'd spoken, I wanted to leap off a cliff and smash my skull against the rocks.

But I didn't.

Joining my comrades, I placed a hand on the shoulder of each Lein who limped out of the cages, speaking with a voice tinged with remorse.

"Let's… go home."

…

Near the front-line artillery positions, smoke hung thick, the air saturated with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

Sir Wesley stood on the temporary command platform, slowly lowering the single-tube telescope in his hand.

Even he, usually calm and seasoned, now bore deep shock on his face, his eyes brimming with excitement and fervor.

At the edge of his vision, the once-solid ratmen stronghold had become a sea of fire, its skies now fluttering with the banners of the Duchy.

The devastating firepower displayed by the Kingdom of Gutauf's "Hive" rocket artillery had utterly surpassed all Campbell officers' expectations.

The rockets descending from the sky resembled a celestial storm of fire, mercilessly plowing through every inch of earth; soldiers' role seemed reduced to merely charging forward and seizing ground.

This was precisely the firepower he had sought!

The only drawback was that each rocket shell was too small—if only they could make the thing larger!

The Duchy of Campbell had previously experimented with skirmisher tactics, using high morale to compensate for low organization, leveraging mobility to strike enemy flanks unprotected by cavalry.

Yet even with sufficient theoretical and practical foundation for skirmisher tactics, the line-and-file musket formation remained dominant.

But now, line-and-file tactics might truly be exiting history's stage.

A battalion of six to eight hundred men, properly organized and deployed, could perfectly hold a front that previously required two thousand!

With such terrifying firepower, he had full confidence in holding back a ten-thousand-man assault!

As for the transcendent beings?

That was another matter entirely.

And surely, before such firepower, even transcendent beings would have to retreat, seeking openings from the battlefield's flanks.

As Sir Wesley pondered this, he couldn't help but feel grateful that the lizardfolk, called Children of the Dragon God, were peaceful folk.

If they truly returned to the continent of Aus with such terrifying weapons to claim hegemony, even the vast Aus Empire would find itself dreadfully strained.

"By Saint Sis… we took Bone Burial Peak in just one day," said a Campbell officer beside Sir Wesley, gripping his fist in excitement.

They had expected it would take half a month just to chew through the first line of defense; they never imagined the little rats on Bone Burial Peak were so easily crushed.

At this rate, they might take the entire Putrid Clan within half a year!

"Ha! I bet the Putrid Clan's little rats are terrified right now!" said another officer beside him, thrilled.

"Don't underestimate them— their high transcendent beings haven't moved yet. I suspect the Chosen of Gluttony Rat is already restless."

"I'm more worried about the humans behind them—those evil spells don't look like something ratmen could conjure."

"Whoever made them will burn in hell!"

Standing nearby, the Gao Mountain Kingdom's envoy, Alex Earth, stared blankly, eyes wide as copper bells.

His braided beard trembled slightly as he muttered to himself.