When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist

The wooden bridge suspended by thick iron chains on the long bridge creaked under the footsteps of the refugees, and the bridge deck even started to tremble slightly.

Unlike the previous charge across the wooden bridge towards City Hall, the morale of the refugees now was not what it used to be.

They had nearly three thousand people in the Salvation Army that crossed the long bridge, they almost pushed the thousand mercenaries all the way into the alleys before.

Once in the alleys, the knights' charging power would greatly diminish, yet now, a mere fifty knights had beaten them into disarray.

Counting the people on the bridge, about a thousand remained on the other side, some were previously killed or wounded in battle, while others were left behind.

Even though the source of the fog wall was unknown, Horn was still grateful that most people on the other side had indeed retreated.

As for the morale issue, there was no time to address it for now; they had more important matters to handle.

In the night wind, the dense fog gradually dispersed, and the thick iron chains of the long bridge began to sway, horse hooves rhythmically pounding against the bridge planks.

Black shadows became clearer in the white fog, and a longsword was the first to break through the fog, charging straight ahead.

Thirty Extraordinary Knights formed into three columns, galloping out from the fog, the mist trailing like ribbons through their armor gaps, floating far behind.

The end of their charge had only one target — the refugees on the opposite side of the bridge.

"Long Spearmen, Holy Gunmen, step forward!"

Commanding the crowd to retreat and clear a space, Horn shouted to the Holy Gunmen behind the crowd.

Pushing aside the refugees blocking the way, the old Salvation Army finally made their entrance.

The Black Hat Army's Long Spearmen held their long spears and stepped to the first row, positioning the rear ends on the ground and pointing the front ends toward the Extraordinary Knights.

Three rows of seven columns of Holy Gunmen stepped forward, interspersed with the Long Spearmen, as the accuracy of the spring-loaded guns was so poor, they could only be compensated with numbers and coverage.

Still, the first row half-kneeled, the second row lunged forward, and the third row stood upright.

But this time it was different, they had lost three spring-loaded guns, and they were facing not just six simple knights, but a full thirty.

Leading them was Friscia, thoroughly exhilarated under the high-speed charge and slaughter.

Charging and slaughtering, this was what knights were born to do, riding on horses at full gallop, taking heads one by one.

It sounds a bit crude, but just thinking about these things, Friscia stood up directly.

Infantry was weak, they even advised not to cross the bridge, but if not crossing the bridge, could they still be called knights?

His vision turned red all around, only able to see the clear small dot in front of him, everything on the sides blurred.

He could only see the cowardly enemy in front, those lowly unclean ones, they deserved death.

"Run, unclean ones!" Friscia grinned viciously, shouting to the Holy Gunmen in front of him, "The envoy of Miseria comes to claim your heads!"

Laughter carried to Horn's ears, he took a deep breath, picked up the 40mm caliber spring-loaded hand cannon, and stood in the middle of the Holy Gunmen.

Amidst the continuous sound of gears turning, Horn leveled his cannon at the first knight in front.

Seeing Friscia pass through the red ribbon, Horn shouted, "Fifty yards."

As horse hooves trampled over an elderly man's corpse, Horn continued to shout, "Forty yards!"

In the increasingly urgent sound of hooves, Horn gradually saw the knights' ferocious faces clearly.

"Thirty yards... ready!"

Steadying the gun rack in front of him, Horn took a deep breath through his nose, pulled out the spring key of the spring-loaded hand cannon, and roared, "Praise the Holy Spirit!"

A solid round the size of a pigeon egg flew out from the dark barrel of the hand cannon, the screech of the pressure balance hole piercing the eardrum painfully.

The round tore through the air with a terrifying screech, smashing directly into the faceplate of the leading knight.

The sturdy faceplate caved inward, and a mixture of bone fragments and blood gushed from the helmet's visor gaps.

The knight's head snapped back, pulling his entire body over backwards to the ground.

"Neigh—"

The toppled horse screeched, collapsing onto the bridge, tripping another warhorse directly, and a knight behind tumbled off the long bridge, into the water.

Before the knights could be surprised, the sound of gears turning and thunder, which would become countless knights' nightmares, rang out again.

A storm of hundreds of iron pellets once again covered the bridgehead, the continuous clanging of pellets against armor sparking countless flares.

The warhorses whinnied in distress, even Extraordinary Knights were not all fully armored.

With nowhere to hide on the bridge, seven or eight knights were knocked off their horses by the iron pellets, some even directly flipping into the river.

"Ah, save me, save me!"

"Devil, it's the devil's wind!"

Three to five knights successively fell from the bridge, the river surface once again splashing higher white water.

For the first time, the refugees gradually retreating heard the wails of the knights.

The remaining knights continued their unconscious charge, but the shouts in their mouths ceased.

They were somewhat perplexed, what was that just now, witchcraft? Were these people witches or wizards?

"Don't be afraid!" Friscia shouted painfully, "Don't be afraid, after firing once, they need a long time to reload, just like crossbows, charge, charge."