Steampunk Era: Mad Abield

As the last Plague Messenger was pierced through the head by a Quicksilver Bullet and ignited, Sudel pulled the bolt, ejected the cartridge, and after re-seating the bolt, the young man jumped up and sat on the edge of the foxhole. Soldiers in this section of the trench, wearing masks to protect against the plague and gripping low Sequence Holy Water in their mouths, began to finish off all the Chaos troops that still drew breath. They would take care of the believers, while those Chaos units with intestines hanging out would be set ablaze directly by the Dwarves’ Flame Soldiers using a spray of Holy Oil as fuel.

"Not bad shooting, young man." A military Judge came over; he looked at Sudel and smiled, meanwhile taking a cigarette case out of his pocket: "I’ve been watching you for a while, nearly every shot of yours takes down an enemy. Bullets are one thing, but your comprehensive grasp of the enemy’s weaknesses is impressive. You truly are his child. Want a cigarette?"

"Thank you, sir, but my mentor Mr. Malin has said that if one hasn’t enough physical fitness, it’s best not to smoke. Smoke can blur the eyes and harm the lungs, both are essential for a Sharpshooter and cannot afford to be damaged."

"An interesting way to speak, thank you for the reminder, I will sort out smokers and non-smokers among our Sharpshooters and compare them." The young Judge nodded, extending a hand: "Link Svenson, thank you for the reminder."

"Sudel Walden, nice to meet you, Lieutenant Colonel sir." Sudel pulled himself up from the foxhole with his help.

"This time, Mr. Malin is fighting on our eastern front where a large force of Chaos has emerged. He has placed you young people here; I am somewhat acquainted with him." The Judge changed the subject: "It’s not exactly looking after you, after all, in my opinion, should the defensive line be breached, you are more likely to survive longer than I."

"Sir, please don’t say that, we won’t retreat unless absolutely necessary," Sudel awkwardly said.

Before leaving, Mr. Malin gave Sudel and the other young men the command to retreat at will and communicated with the local commander. After seeing their marksmanship, the commander confirmed their orders to freely retreat—as soldiers who could hit targets over five hundred yards away in the head were Sharpshooters among Sharpshooters, and the Northern Kingdom’s military would typically relocate such soldiers to the rear to train recruits.