As the musketeers retreated, the front of the formations of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions was cleared.
Immediately, the deafening sound of war drums echoed in Fan Shang's ears.
The long spearmen of the Eighth Battalion raised their super long spears, and marched down the hillside with vigorous strides, following the beat of the drums.
Once the Eighth Battalion's formation had stepped thirty paces forward, the Seventh Battalion's formation also commenced its advance amidst the drumbeats.
The two formations, one behind the other, boldly pressed towards the rebels' line.
On the inside of the high ground, the main formation where the Commander resided—the Fifth Battalion's formation—also began to slowly advance, seemingly to fill the positions of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
Fan Shang turned his gaze towards the rebels clad in blue-gray attire.
He couldn't clearly see the faces of the rebels, but considering their response, he sensed that they weren't panicked.
The rebels' musketeers didn't flee immediately but took turns shooting all the ammunition from their gun barrels at the Eighth Battalion's formation before calmly retreating.
At the same time, the rebels' two wings also advanced.
The rebels' initial formation was triangular, with the center at the front and wings at the rear.
Now, the rebels' wings truly resembled spread wings, moving to envelop the formations of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions. The serrated gun stocks resembled feathers on the wings.
Volley firing, rotation, advancement of formations, transformation of battle lines, thousands of individuals moving in unison under the command of one or two minds—all of this fascinated Fan Shang.
Suddenly, the sound of hooves like rolling stones echoed.
The rebels' cavalry at the hillside moved, adorned in resplendent garments tailored from repeatedly dyed cashmere, the rebels' cavalry charged up the hill, brandishing their gleaming sabers, straight towards the formations of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
The advancing Seventh and Eighth Battalions immediately halted, forming defensive formations in place.
But the rebels' cavalry only feinted their attack, skirting the spearheads as they sped past the Seventh and Eighth Battalions' formations, galloping uncontrollably towards the top of the hillside.
Fan Shang awoke from his stupor—the rebels' cavalry were coming for him.
He hurriedly helped his injured comrade, and amidst the increasingly close and terrifying sound of hooves, he managed to scramble into the Fifth Battalion's formation.
"Free fire!"
"Free fire!"
"Free fire!"
The roar of the soldiers even temporarily drowned out the sound of hooves.
The musketeers of the Fifth Battalion set up firearms between the shafts of the super long spears, firing bullets at the rebels' cavalry.
Among the flow of resplendent garments, steeds, and smoke, several rebels' cavalry fell from their mounts.
As for the musketeers of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions who failed to get inside formation, they all met their demise.
The rebels' cavalry swept through like a midnight storm, roaring in and out, leaving behind only a field of corpses and broken limbs.
On the other side, the rebels' musketeers seized the opportunity when the rebels' cavalry obstructed the Seventh and Eighth Battalions' formations, emerged from the gaps in the rebels' long spear units, and at extremely dangerous distances, delivered a swift and accurate volley at the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
The long spearmen of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions—especially those in the front row clad in heavy armor and earning double pay—fell like wheat under the scythe.
The formations of the Seventh and Eighth Battalions were thus stripped of a layer.
Meanwhile, the rebels' long spear units on both wings had almost surrounded the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
At the same time, Major Jean van Breda, rifling through the corpses of the rebels' musketeers, finally understood how the rebels managed to fire multiple shots without slowing their reload speed.
The answer was exceedingly simple: the rebels' ammunition didn't use wooden bottles but was wrapped in paper; each lead ball, each portion of gunpowder, pre-packaged with oil paper and stored in pouches; every rebel had a full pouch, enough to kill everyone in the Twelfth Legion.
But it was already too late.
Even someone like Fan Shang, who had never received military education from an institution, could discern it—the Seventh and Eighth Battalions were in trouble.
They were like two large beasts, mighty yet far too unwieldy, while the blue-gray rebels resembled a net, sparse but seamless, steadily throttling the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
If Fan Shang could see this, naturally, so could his superiors.
The piercing sound of whistles spread across the high ground, the soldiers of the Fifth Battalion responded by picking up their weapons, flags waved, commands were given, and drums sounded.
The sole reserve unit for the Twelfth Legion in this battle—the Infantry Fifth Battalion—officially joined the fray.
Fan Shang, within the formation, found himself swept along, dazedly leaving the high ground, heading towards the Seventh and Eighth Battalions.
Then, the sound of cannon fire rang out.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Amid the chaotic sounds of gunfire, commands, and drums, these three penetrating and explosive booms were remarkably abrupt, strikingly distinct, and incredibly sobering.
"Where is the cannon fire coming from?" Fan Shang looked around.
"Where is the cannon fire coming from?" The soldiers searched everywhere.
"Where is the cannon fire coming from?" The officers were even more anxious.
Following the cannon fire was the thunderous sound of battle cries.
It wasn't the sound that musket volleys could produce from afar, nor was it the sound that confrontations between firearm formations could generate.
That was the roar and howl that only the cruelest, bloodiest, and fiercest hand-to-hand combat could elicit from humans.
Then the cannon roared again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
This time, everyone heard it clearly:
The cannon fire was coming from the north, from the direction of Bend Gate.
In an instant, many officers of the Twelfth Legion were exhilarated.
"Cannon fire from the north?" Bodana craned his neck to look, but unfortunately, the terrain blocked his view, and he saw nothing. "Has Ribek come with our cannon?"
Meanwhile, on the high ground, although Vansco Aldame could not see the situation in the direction of Bend Gate either, his expression was ashen, and his hands gripping the reins were turning white at the knuckles.