Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

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After playing a long-distance game for so long, this was Sekler's first time facing his opponent directly.

"Is that the White Lion? Why is he wearing red armor?" Winters on the hillside was baffled, "Why is he charging into the river again??"

What did the White Lion want to do? Winters soon understood.

Although the river water did not freeze in winter, it was still bitterly cold.

Yet the knight in red armor rode his horse into the Confluence River, intending to swim across while embracing the horse's neck—and wearing armor.

Due to the angle of view, most people on the battlefield could not see what was happening in the river.

Standing on the western slope, Winters could see everything clearly:

The river was only a dozen meters wide, but the red-armored knight was washed away by the torrent for at least fifty meters, several times his head was submerged and then he surfaced again, barely making it to the dry bank, a hair's breadth from death.

Other Herders on the battlefield only saw the red-armored knight with his green horse disappear on the opposite bank of the river, then suddenly reappear on this side of the bank.

"Yasin! Yasin! Yasin!" The cheering grew even more heated, piercing the sky.

The elite Herder cavalry following the White Lion also waded into the river, with some being swept away by the undercurrent and others reaching the opposite bank.

As the White Lion led the elite cavalry towards the battlefield, inside the central tent in Bianli City, the ritual had entered its most crucial part.

The leading Shaman priest beat the lion-skin drum, dancing a dance that was frenzied, trance-like, yet carried a special kind of beauty.

The other Shaman priests joined the dance one after another.

Winters only felt a cold breeze sweeping over his body, making him involuntarily want to wrap his clothes tighter.

Just as he was about to ask others if they felt the same, a severe phantom pain suddenly appeared for no reason.
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He hadn't entered a spellcasting state, yet the phantom pain couldn't be fake.

Winters clenched his teeth tightly, let out an inhuman scream, and involuntarily curled into a tight ball.

Lieutenant Colonel Jeska beside him was shocked and pale, not knowing what to do.

Within Major Robert's formation, Lieutenant Roy also grabbed his head, screaming as he fell off his saddle.

Not only Winters and Roy, but all the Alliance Spellcasters within a two-kilometer radius were tormented by intense phantom pains to the point of being incapacitated, and some of the weaker Spellcasters even fainted on the spot.

Inside the central tent in Bianli City, there were also Shaman priests collapsing during the dance.

Blood constantly trickled from the corners of the leading Shaman priest's eyes and nose, yet his dance became even more intense and fervent.

"No! No!" Winters had only one thought left: "No! No!"

He concentrated all his spirit, focusing his consciousness on one point: "No! Refuse! Stop!"

It was like a guitar string snapping, and it almost seemed he could actually hear a "snap"—Winters suddenly broke free from the phantom pain, his whole body soaked in sweat.

The first thing he saw were the concerned and worried faces of others.

"Are you alright?" Jeska's brow was furrowed, "What happened?"

Winters felt a chill on his cheek, he touched his left face, water?

Was it sweat?

Winters extended his hand to the sky, sharply feeling more cold droplets falling onto his palm.

High in the sky, within the dense dark clouds, at a place no one could see, countless almost invisible tiny droplets were rapidly forming in the air.

The more water vapor they absorbed, the bigger the droplets became. Until they were too large to float in the air, they all plunged toward the ground.

"Rain covers!" Winters struggled to get up, he shouted hoarsely, "Rain covers! Get the rain covers!"

The others sensed the anomaly too; Lieutenant Mason sprinted towards the cannons and powder kegs, stripping off his clothes as he ran.

But for most on the battlefield, it was already too late.

The transformation from a few droplets to a downpour seemed to happen in an instant.

The deluge came so swiftly and ferociously that there was no time to react.

Matchlocks were extinguished, gunpowder was soaked, the blazing fires of Bianli turned to wisps of smoke, and all the gunpowder weapons were rendered useless.

The six assault squads attacking the city withdrew in disarray under the onslaught of the heavy rain.

Meanwhile, on the north bank of the Confluence River, thousands of Herder cavalry were launching an unstoppable charge towards the Paratu formation.

The White Lion in red-armored green horse led the way.

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