CH683 Suppressing Army Fortune

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The sight of their fodder unit being decimated by the Fortuna Company’s crossbow bolts did little to deter the Lost Heathen formation.

"They’re just faster arrows! Close the distance and they won’t be able to fire anymore!" the one-eyed vice-leader roared at his men. "We outnumber them four to one. Anyone who kills at least ten of them will be rewarded—women, drink, shards... you’ll have it all!"

"Charge! Kill them all!" he bellowed.

In an instant, morale within the Lost Heathen formation surged. No sooner had the words left the vice-leader’s lips than the entire group charged forward in a frenzied advance towards the Fortuna Company.

Meanwhile, the Fortuna troops were only just settling into the unfamiliar sensation brought about by the [Link] Spell.

When they saw the Lost Heathens charging at them, they did not falter. Instead, they dashed forward to meet the attack head-on.

Yet, in that very moment, a subtle but undeniable change swept through them. Each soldier felt a sudden surge of vitality coursing through their body. At the same time, they became acutely aware of the men beside them—no longer as individuals, but as integral parts of a single, unified whole.

Then, something even stranger occurred.

A flag materialised before Sergeant Lopota. He grasped it instinctively, even before his mind could process what was happening. The flag felt... natural in his hands, as though it had always belonged there—as though it was his duty to carry it.

Without conscious thought, he raised and waved the flag.

At once, the members of the main force unit—whether pump-action crossbowmen or conventional infantry—felt a powerful surge rise within them, their movements sharpening with newfound cohesion.

Similar phenomena unfolded across the Fortuna formation.

A coat manifested upon Kavakan’s body, and as he charged forward, the Strike Force unit felt a surge of fierce momentum, compelled to follow in his wake.

A hat appeared upon Silver’s head, linking her mind with those of the Marksman unit. In perfect synchrony, the crossbowmen aligned their sights and fired as one—each bolt released with terrifying precision.

Meanwhile, armbands representing the autonomous units formed around the arms of Zora, Udara, and Eleanore. Even Fen was not excluded—an armband materialised upon his forelimb, that somehow remained in place despite his rapid and agile movements along the battlefield’s flank.

High above, circling the battlefield, Senu was likewise marked. A band appeared around her neck, completing the strange transformation that had overtaken the entire force.

Surprisingly, Havel and Mogal were not affected by Kavakan’s coat. Instead, armbands manifested around their arms, signifying that the Army Fortune had categorised them under the Autonomous Unit rather than the Strike Force.

Regardless of their assigned unit, every member of Fortuna felt their rank surge upward by an entire stage. It was a tremendous enhancement for all, but especially so for the BattleBanes, given their newly stabilised internal energy.

However, the most dramatic improvement was seen amongst the Pangeans—particularly Alex’s wives and primary followers, each of whom possessed exceptional talent in their own right.

Silently, yet undeniably, the overall combat capability of the Fortuna formation rose by an entire tier.

But this augmentation was not the full extent of what the Army Fortune offered.

The Lost Heathens, who were charging headlong towards the Fortuna formation, suddenly shuddered.

In their eyes, the formation before them had changed.

It was no longer a mere group of three hundred soldiers. Instead, it appeared as a colossal, ravenous beast—its maw wide open, charging forward with the intent to devour them whole.

Thwack! Thwack!!

Whistle!

The snapping of crossbow strings rang out like a rhythmic symphony—one that heralded death in the form of bolts descending from above.

Each shot cut through the air with such synchronisation that it sounded as though a single, unified attack had been unleashed from the heavens.

As if guided by a singular will, every crossbowman—whether wielding pump-action or bolt-action crossbow—aimed beyond the Lost Heathen front line, targeting the mid and rear ranks where the Gold-rankers were concealed amidst a larger force of Bronze-majority and Silver-minority fighters.

Blocking one or two bolts might have been possible.

But against a relentless rain of Army Fortune-enhanced projectiles, even the most seasoned fighters faltered. One by one, they fell—bodies riddled with bolts, resembling pincushions as they collapsed lifelessly onto the ground.

Unsurprisingly, the Strike Force was the first to clash with the enemy.

Bam!

Kavakan’s opening axe strike was devastating.

It did not merely cleave through a shieldman and his shield at the waist—it sent the man’s upper body shooting backwards into the Lost Heathen ranks like a cannonball, blasting open a visible gap within their formation.

For a fleeting moment, Kavakan’s eyes flashed with shock.

Even he could scarcely believe the sheer power contained within his strike.

His lips slowly curled into a predatory grin—one that sent a chill down the spines of the surrounding Lost Heathens.

[Call of the Wild]!

An aura thick with the scent of slaughter erupted around his body as he lunged into the Lost Heathen formation like a tiger descending upon a flock of fattened sheep.

Close behind him came Havel.

Quickdraw into a horizontal slash. A returning, slightly diagonal sweep. A downward cleave. An impromptu thrust.

Strike after strike flowed in rapid succession—each one claiming lives with ruthless efficiency. The Lost Heathens fell like wheat before a farmer’s sickle, unable to withstand the relentless barrage.

True to his new moniker, the Headhunter, Havel’s strikes more often than not sent heads rolling across the ground, leaving headless corpses collapsing in his wake.

With his Flash Step footwork, he danced through the enemy formation, harvesting heads—and souls—with the ease of a seasoned reaper.

Havel quickly realised that the enhancement from the armband had elevated his speed by another level, and the Noble race swordsman took full advantage of it without hesitation.

Boom!

Charging through the battlefield with nothing but his body and fists was Mogal. The towering mass of dense muscle carved a path through the enemy ranks, each punch leaving broken bodies scattered in its wake.

Shield, armour, flesh—it made no difference. Mogal tore through them all with brutal, unrelenting force.

His fists struck like cannon blasts, smashing through anything in their path, while his legs lashed out like the release of a ballista, sending unfortunate victims flying like siege bolts into their own comrades.

Mangled flesh and shattered bones marked Mogal’s passage across the battlefield.

Not to be outdone by their leaders, the rest of the Strike Force were no less ferocious.

Whether Red Rock barbarians and orcs, or the local barbarians recruited from the BloodIron region, each member of the unit fought with savage intensity.

Their encounters with the Lost Heathens seemed almost fated—any notion of mercy stripped clean from their blades.

They moved like a swarm of piranhas—their weapons akin to serrated teeth—leaving nothing but torn, mangled corpses in their wake.

Honour and chivalry held no meaning for them; multiple warriors would descend upon a single opponent without hesitation, reducing them to shredded remains before moving on to their next target.

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