R.L Alencar
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Chapter 134 (From engineer to conqueror)
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 20:07:53 +0000 UTCRicardo was inside his tent, a shelter made of thick fabric that still felt thin against the distant, constant noise of war. The battlefield outside… ah, it was a brutal place. Even after more than twenty years serving in the ranks of the Kingdom of Ardia, even after seeing all kinds of terrible things, he had never managed to get used to that raw violence, to the pain that marked the land and the people.
The new weapons Miguel had invented—the ones that spat fire and thundered like a storm—had helped give them a fighting chance, had balanced things a bit in the beginning. But it was so hard, nearly impossible, to guess what the enemy would do next.
With each passing day, with each week that turned, the line where his men fought was forced to retreat just a little more. The soldiers of Aurélio—Miguel’s brother—along with the main force of the Kingdom of Ardia, were pushing forward with tremendous strength, like a tide that would not stop advancing. And now, to make things worse, they were using a clever new tactic with light cavalry. Horses fast as the wind, ridden by agile warriors, would find the spots with fewer soldiers and slice through like knives through butter, trampling everything in their path. The positions they had fought so hard to hold were being lost, one after the other, at a pace that sent a chill down the spine.
He held the letter Miguel had sent him, the paper slightly crumpled from being read so many times. He felt a small sigh of relief reading that everything was fine in Drakmoor, that Miguel and the others were safe there. That small bit of peace amid the chaos was a comfort. But everything that was happening... if Duke Valmir really sent the men he promised, maybe they could have a moment to breathe, to reorganize before being crushed.
But that, Ricardo thought, wouldn’t solve the bigger problem. They still needed a way to show the enemy—clearly and forcefully—that they hadn’t been broken, that they were still in the fight and could bite back. He had spent the last few days thinking about that, and a tactic, an idea on how to use his men and Miguel’s weapons in a new way, had taken shape in his mind. It came after seeing Miguel’s rifles in action on the field. Each one took about ten seconds to reload and fire again—a time that felt long in the heat of battle—but when they did fire, they were incredibly effective, accurate, and rarely failed.
He imagined the formation in his head, as if drawing it in the air. At the front, a strong line of men with long, pointed spears—a wall of spikes to hold off the first charge. Right behind that line would be another, made of soldiers carrying large square shields—those wooden and metal shields still in storage. These shields would form a solid wall, protecting those behind. And right behind this shield wall would be the third row, full of men armed with Miguel’s fire rifles. They’d be safer behind the shields and could shoot at enemies trying to break through the front line.
If this formation worked—if the men could move together and fight like that—it would be something new, something that could make the enemy think twice. It could show them that the advantage wouldn’t always be on their side, that old tactics could be met by something new and well thought out.
To put the idea into practice and see if it worked, the plan was to train a group a bit away from the main front line, in a place where they could practice without enemy eyes watching or discovering their secret. He would gather five hundred men who had recently arrived at the front. This group was a mix: there were ordinary-looking men with human faces, and there were beast-men—warriors with animal traits, strong and different. Ricardo noticed, with a touch of sadness and restrained anger, that some of the human men didn’t look kindly at the beast-men. There was a quiet prejudice in the air. But Ricardo made it very, very clear—with harsh words and a gaze that tolerated no reply—that in war, facing an enemy who wanted to take all their lives, there was no room for thinking in terms of differences. Here, they were either one, fighting together like brothers, or they would all fall—divided and weak.
Ricardo knew very well that this was the time to put his riskiest plan into action. The hope of help from Duke Valmir was a spark—but they needed something now, something that showed strength. He gave the order: a planned retreat. His men began to fall back slowly, in order, toward a set of trenches dug farther behind, away from the main front line. It was meant to look like a flight, a sign of weakness. Ricardo knew that Aurélio’s men would take the bait. They’d see the rear, always the most vulnerable-looking part of a moving army, as easy prey—and they wouldn’t resist attacking.
But when those fast cavalrymen and the infantry behind them did so—when they thought victory was in their hands—they would be caught by surprise. They would be ambushed by the new formation Ricardo had trained in secret.
“Sir, the retreat is going as planned,” said one of his officers, arriving breathless, his face marked with dust and the exhaustion of movement.
“Very good,” Ricardo replied, feeling the tension building in the air, but also a spark of hope. “Now we wait. They’ll take the bait. They absolutely will.”
They waited. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes stretched into a wait that seemed to bend time itself. From their hidden positions, Ricardo and his men watched as the retreating column of soldiers shrank on the horizon, growing smaller and smaller. Until only a small group of soldiers remained, appearing few and unprotected, escorting a few wagons filled with supplies. It looked like the remnants of a force, easy to catch.
Then the bait worked. In the distance, they saw a cloud of dust rising from the ground, and the distant sound of many horse hooves began to grow, becoming a thunder rolling across the plain. The enemy was coming, fast—a wave of cavalry gleaming in the afternoon sun, followed by infantry. They launched their charge against what looked like a weak column. The few soldiers escorting the wagons ran, as if fleeing to save their lives, leaving the wagons behind.
At that very moment, at Ricardo’s signal, his five hundred men—a mix of humans and beastmen—rose from their hiding places in the earth, as if the land itself had come alive. They moved quickly, taking their positions and forming the formation they had trained for. In front, a line of men with long, pointed spears; just behind them, a strong wall of square shields, raised side by side; and behind that wall of wood and leather, the men with rifles.
Aurélio’s men saw it—the strange new formation appearing out of nowhere—but the momentum of their charge was too great. They didn’t stop. They came rushing in, horses at full gallop. The first wave of enemy cavalry crashed into the front line of the formation. From behind the shields of the second row, the spearmen in the front row thrust their weapons forward, the metal tips gleaming as they struck at horses and riders alike. Horses screamed and fell, their riders thrown to the ground, the force of the charge breaking against that spiked wall.
The formation held. The front line of spearmen absorbed the first impact, turning the enemy's momentum into chaos and pain. The second line, the wall of shields, protected the men behind. And then the third line, Miguel’s riflemen, fired over or between the shields, releasing bursts of smoke and fire at the enemy riders who made it past the spears or tried to flank the formation.
At first, Ricardo’s line wavered. Some men fell, the shock of real battle made the formation tremble. There were losses, on their side as well. But Ricardo was there, in the middle of the second line, holding his own heavy shield, shouting orders, pushing his men forward—a steady point in the chaos. He managed to regain control, and the formation held firm again, like a wall refusing to fall.
Seeing their cavalry lines shatter against the unexpected defense, the enemy began to panic. The speed and power that had been their strength became a weakness against the impenetrable wall. The enemy infantry, coming up behind, didn’t know what to do and halted in confusion. That hesitation, that moment of uncertainty, gave Ricardo the opening he needed.
“Now! Advance!” he shouted, raising his shield. He fought alongside his men, a warrior among them. An enemy soldier came at him, sword in hand—Ricardo blocked with his shield and struck back swiftly. Another came, then a third. He faced all three in sequence, one after another, his movements fluid and precise even with the weight of his shield, taking them down with clean strikes from his short weapon. Meanwhile, the riflemen kept firing, and the spearmen held the remaining enemy cavalry in place, giving them no room to maneuver.
With no way to break the formation and suffering heavy losses, the enemy finally broke. They retreated in disorder, leaving many of their men and horses fallen on the ground, marking the land with the cost of their failed attack. A hoarse, tired cheer rose from Ricardo’s men. They had done it! They had shown the enemy they weren’t easy to break. They celebrated for a brief moment, relief mixed with exhaustion. But the war wasn’t over. Quickly, under Ricardo’s watchful eye, they began to fall back in an orderly fashion to the new trench positions farther behind.
