Volovitz, the new recruit Holy Gunman of the Third Imperial Guard Army, stood on the slightly damp grass, sweat sticking the lightweight blended fabric to his skin, revealing the outline of his muscles.

During training at Joan of Arc Castle, he often deliberately displayed his muscle lines this way to provoke the feigned angry curses of the blushing nun girls.

But at this moment, Volovitz no longer had the mood for that.

His breathing was rapid, chest heaving irregularly, and through the shoulders of the Holy Gunman in the front row, he could vaguely see the approaching hired knights in the distance.

Dark clouds hung in the sky, only faint glimmers fell, shining on those knights' shiny armor, reflecting a grayish light.

The sound of hooves pounding the earth echoed from afar, causing the ground to tremble slightly.

Beneath bucket-shaped helmets, diverse armed attire and crest robes draped over these knights without lineage, the more they lacked something, the more they flaunted it.

Yet even figures like these were the ones Volovitz used to look up to in the past.

His elder cousin was violated and killed by such a hired cavalry in a barn.

But in the lord's rural court, amidst the Priest's eloquent arguments, the lord penalized the knight with a fine of one lamb.

Volovitz could still remember his uncles' ecstatic expressions—they had eight children, losing one was nothing.

But a lamb, ah, a lamb is a great thing!

Its wool can be sheared, its milk can be drunk, it can be hugged to sleep for warmth, it can be sold in the hardest times...

The only drawback is, it can't squeeze barefoot beside the fire pit before Volovitz goes to bed, telling stories of Saint Shelley and the rabbit, nor can it wipe his tears with its hem when he cries.

A strand of hair fell, caught between Volovitz's long eyelashes, yet he dared not reach to pluck it.

As if the moment he reached, those knights would teleport right in front of him.

"Don't move, prepare!" The Brigade Commander's hoarse voice emerged.

The knights' charge roared like thunder, Volovitz's hand tightly gripping the clockwork gun became slick with sweat, fingertips anxiously rubbing the rough wooden stock.

As new recruits to the Imperial Guard, Volovitz and the others were entering the battlefield for the first time; three months ago, they had been farmers tilling the fields.

And now, their two brigades were mobilized separately, guarding the flanks of the fireball crossbow position, with Ibe Knight and Holy Gun Cavalry forming the cavalry corps behind them.

Volovitz always believed the Saintess was absolutely stronger than those damn hired knights.

But when these monstrous figures charged near, the feeling of his heart pounding still overwhelmed him.

Just like when he tried to stop that Wandering Knight back then but was so frightened by the blade that he wet his pants.

These heavy-armored, lance-wielding knights were so formidable; in front of them, he still felt as small as he did back then.

Could these galloping knights truly be repelled by the clockwork gun in hand?

Some recruits began to involuntarily raise their clockwork guns, attempting to level them, aiming at the approaching knights.

"Damn it, who told you to raise your guns?" The Brigade Commander's voice exploded in the recruits' ears, causing their eardrums to ache and their legs, often whipped, to throb faintly.

Terrified by this roar, the recruits trembled, hurriedly lowering their raised clockwork guns, standing tall under the Brigade Commander's sharp gaze and their own Brigade Leader's exasperated look.

Volovitz didn't instinctively raise his Holy Gun, which made him feel a slight sense of pride—at least he had more guts than them.

But as the silhouettes of the hired knights gradually grew clearer in his sight, this pride dissipated with the white mist sprayed from the war horses' nostrils.

"Charge at a run!"

The hired knight leader's battle cry spanned over a hundred meters, penetrating Volovitz's eardrums; he smelled the rancid odor of horse dung and the metallic scent of blood in the wind.

This smell became more pungent with the increasingly frantic sound of hooves.

His ears were filled with the neighing of war horses and the clashing of armor,

"First row, raise your guns, aim."

"Second row, prepare."

"Third row, wind up!"

Amidst the three orders, Volovitz saw the Holy Gunmen in front all raise their Holy Guns in unison, a row of dark gun muzzles aimed at the charging hired knights.

"Hold steady, don't move, anyone who dares to move, I'll beat to death."

Many trembling War Monks immediately snapped to attention, looking at the soldiers before them, Volovitz inexplicably began to smile.

Volovitz didn't know why he wanted to smile, nor did he understand why he was smiling.

Do people laugh when fear reaches its peak?

One hundred twenty meters, one hundred ten meters, one hundred meters... The knights' distance drew closer, the hooves like a hammer, relentlessly pounding upon the recruits' hearts.

"Bang!"

"Who?! Everyone, do not move!"

Perhaps due to extreme tension, one of the Holy Gunmen suddenly pulled the trigger, causing a major mishap.

The sound of Holy Guns firing echoed one after another, like a chain reaction.

"Who, who fired the gun!" the Brigade Commander roared, waving the feathered lance in his hand and snatched a Holy Gun from a War Monk, "Get out of my squad!"

"Brigade Commander, I..."

"Get out!"

With the Holy Gun on his back, the Brigade Commander whistled as he returned to his position, raised the lance in his hand, and began to clean up the mess caused by the recruits' mistake: "Change positions, second row move forward."

"First Holy Gun Brigade first row turn right, move!" the Brigade Commander's clear command rang in the ears, "Second row forward, two steps, aim!"

Standing in the second row, Volovitz brought the butt of the Holy Gun to rest on his shoulder and stepped forward two steps.

Mechanically inserting the gun mount on the ground before him, Volovitz adjusted the brim of his helmet, lifted the Holy Gun, and set it on the fragile gun rack.

He placed his index finger on the trigger, waiting for the final order.

The sound of hooves became increasingly clear, and he could even make out the emblem on their tattered banners.

The mercenary knights in the distance continued to approach, but Volovitz's thoughts inexplicably drifted away.

In Cousin Desiree's stories, those who fought against the knights and the Church were often farmers fooled by witches or wizards—perhaps he was becoming one of them?

It's just uncertain whether this story would be written by the Pope of the Holy See or the Redeemer Pope in the future.

"Praise the Holy Wind!"

In an inexplicable emotional wave, the Brigade Commander's roar rang out in tandem with the unified shouts of his comrades.

With a "click," the anti-reverse pawl sprang up, and Volovitz almost reflexively pulled the trigger.

The sound of airflow whirled out from the pressure balancing hole, the spring key spun madly, blowing the hair from his lashes.

The massive recoil of the Holy Gun transmitted abruptly into his shoulder, his entire arm felt as if struck by lightning, tingling and numb.

"Buzz——" the sound of ringing filled Volovitz's world.

Shaking his head to alleviate the dizziness caused by depleted mana, Volovitz felt like part of his brain had been scooped out with a small spoon.

Clear vision turned blurry, and a gust of wind felt as if it might disrupt his body's balance, even making him lose sensation of his own existence.

It wasn't until he instinctively brought a vial of smelling salts to his nose, the pungent scent rushing to his brain, that it cleared away this dizzy haze.

Squinting his eyes from the dizziness, Volovitz swayed as he focused his tense gaze onto the battlefield.

Like a wheat field swept by a storm, the mercenary knights shuddered, wailing as they were thrown from their mounts.

The warhorses, out of control, neighed and reared, trampling their nearby riders, breaking limbs and shattering bones.

Heavy armor clashed against the ground, the front-line knights screamed as they toppled from their horses, rolling on the ground with repeated dull "bang" sounds.

The knights behind, frightened by the sudden chaos, pulled their horses to a halt, while the knights at the rear continued charging, throwing the formation into utter chaos.

Have we repelled them?

Still unsteady and bewildered, Volovitz took a step forward.

Beside him, Jeanne, holding the battle flag, rode forth atop her horse, her hooves falling in step with Volovitz's.

Hundreds of cavalry charged like a blazing torrent from the flanks of the Holy Gunmen.

Swept by two waves of Holy Wind, the mercenary knights were forcibly slowed, their once tight charging formation unraveled into disarray.

And the timing of the Holy Gun Cavalry's breakout was so precise that these mercenary knights couldn't even adjust their stance before being cut into by the Holy Gun Cavalry.

The new recruits of the Imperial Guard couldn't help but cheer.

With the volley of the Holy Gun Cavalry, their fear was gradually replaced by an inexplicable thrill.

The once invincible knights of old were no longer unbeatable monsters, but human beings who could be vanquished.

Just like them, these farmers.

The Church's mercenary knights, panicking as they tried to regroup, found themselves retreating under the relentless assault of the Holy Gun Cavalry.

The mercenary knights utterly collapsed under this dual assault, their warhorses no longer obeying commands, turning and fleeing in all directions.

Pursuing them was not only the Saint Jeanne wielding the battle flag but also the second volley of fireballs rising from the rear positions.

Watching the battlefield where Saint Jeanne galloped, Volovitz felt something warm trickling down his cheek.

He stuck out his tongue, tasting a salty flavor.

Suddenly, Volovitz understood why he was smiling.

"Sister Desiree! Look, just look!" Volovitz murmured, his voice tinged with tears, "The Holy Wind has delivered the most just verdict for you!"

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