Steampunk Era: Mad Abield

Although the Church troops, like them, were walking atop the hillock, these thickheaded soldiers insisted on sticking to the road.

Walking along the road was not a problem, but to the east of them, covered in vast expanses of pristine forest, no one knew if the Black Orcs would head south—if they did come south, perhaps an encounter would occur here or somewhere else.

The veteran didn’t know if he would die, but he feared this defense force wouldn’t withstand even one charge.

This stupid commander, whom no one knew from which Noble family he came, had been chosen by the Guards Army among the soldiers and military academies. Despite this, Nobles still based their choices on bloodlines, naively believing that lineage was the foundation.

Indeed, the higher Sequences and innate professions needed the support of noble bloodlines, but on the battlefield, a great lineage didn’t mean one was adept at commanding legions.

Malin had said that what the battlefield needed was a professional commander, not a fool whose incompetence killed thousands.

That kid from the East had run down the slope, approaching the defense force’s ranks once again, but this time, he didn’t even get to see their commander before being blasted away from the formation.

"He is a courageous and decisive lad, though unexpectedly merciful. At least he didn’t abandon others to their fate," said the approaching Elf in his hoarse voice.

The Elf was a standard Sharpshooter, rumored to have adventured with Malin before and was a survivor of an encounter with a Chaos squadron.

In any case, he was a marksman capable of hitting the center of targets half a mile away; with him present, the veteran dared to peek out of the trench to look around—knowing even if he was killed by the enemy, the Elf would avenge him.

"Are you suggesting I abandon others to die, you damned long-ear," the veteran glared at him.