Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 471: Chapter 76 The Eldest Son Comes into His Own

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[Note: The orders received by the field officers contained the word “retreat,” whereas the Centurion only received orders for breaking camp, and the soldiers knew nothing at all. The “retreat” mentioned by Andre was informed by Jeska.]

The wounded hadn’t been treated, nor the spoils cleared, when the sudden order to march came, catching everyone off guard.

“Where’s the Lieutenant Colonel?” Winters hurried back to Bianli, only to find that Lieutenant Colonel Jeska wasn’t there.

“Winters, you’re finally back.” Mason’s tense nerves finally relaxed, he quickly explained, “The Lieutenant Colonel and Andre have gone to the Bridgehead Fortress at North Bridge. He wants you to gather the soldiers in the city and bring them back to the main camp.”

It clicked for Winters, many soldiers and wounded were still at the Bridgehead Fortress at North Bridge, and the Lieutenant Colonel was there to bring them back.

“Where are our people?” Winters asked again.

Mason pointed westward in all directions: “They’re everywhere.”

“This…”

There was no choice but to search the hard way.

Bianli City was filled with soldiers, militias from Jeska’s detachment in groups of twos and threes, mingled among them.

Winters, Bard, and Mason split up to search, going through one house, one street at a time, but even after scouring Bianli, they only managed to find half the men.

“Let the others find their way back to the camp themselves.” Mason consulted with Winters, his voice hoarse from shouting: “I don’t have time to look a second time.”

After a moment of thought, Bard proposed a compromise: “Someone needs to take charge over at the main camp. You two go back, and I’ll stay in the city with a few men to continue the search.”

Winters nodded: “Be careful.”

Having barely managed to gather half the troops, Winters discovered an even bigger problem—there was no way out.

Two infantry battalions were escorting Herders out of the city, while the baggage troops were hurrying dozens of carts into the city. All three gates of the inner city were jammed solid.

Winters ordered a move towards the breach in the city wall, only to find it even more congested.

Many soldiers who had lost their formations had not received the order to break camp and were desperately cramming into the city, trying to grab something to take with them.

There was no choice but for Winters to lead his men towards the city gates again.

They ran into General Sekler, who was rushing over with the military police.

Sekler’s solution to the problem was simple and violent. He had the military police repeatedly read out the order outside the city gates: “The south gate is for entry only! The north gate is for exit only! The central gate is for vehicles and horses! Those who disobey will be executed!”

Just relying on spoken orders had limited effect. There were still soldiers hoping to sneak through on a wing and a prayer.

It wasn’t long before their headless corpses were displayed on the city walls.

Like sediment cleared from a river channel, the city gate immediately became unobstructed, and Winters was able to lead his men out of the city.

Back at the main camp surrounding the city, there were people running about and horses neighing.

Scout cavalry were dispatched one team after another, the swift and efficient soldiers were busy dismantling tents and loading carts.

Only now was Winters certain that the higher-ups were serious. They were not just retreating, but doing so immediately.

He had very little information, which deeply unsettled him.

As far as he knew, in the land around Bianli split into three by rivers, there were eighteen infantry battalions, forty-six cavalry squadrons, over six thousand auxiliary troops, and an unknown number of menials – over twenty thousand people in total.

How were the dispersed troops going to regroup? Just this alone was enough to give Sekler and Alpad a headache.

Not to mention the possibility that the light cavalry, chasing the Red River Tribe, might have already run dozens of kilometers away.

There was only one thing that offered him some comfort: the command chain of the Paratu army hadn’t collapsed, and the soldiers were still following orders. As long as they clenched into a fist, the Paratu People would still be an invincible force.

Pushing through the noisy and chaotic main camp, Winters finally returned to Jeska’s detachment’s camp area.

To his surprise, compared to the main camp that seemed like a boiling cauldron, Jeska’s camp area was as tranquil as a silent valley deep pool.

Not just Winters, but Mason and all the militia were dumbfounded by the scene before them:

Two lines of wagons stood neatly on the open ground, laden with all the supplies of Jeska’s detachment.

Each sack, each box, was securely tied down with two ropes.

There were no horses harnessed to the wagons, because the draft animals were in the stables, calmly enjoying their feed.

The other soldiers of the camp were frantic, wishing they could pack up all their belongings in an instant.

Yet the wounded soldiers remaining in the camp were still at work—some were cleaning the hooves of the draft horses, others were kneading dough.

Many were busy around more than a dozen rudimentary ovens, seemingly baking something.

If Winters’s memory served correctly, these ovens weren’t there when he accompanied the army to the Bridgehead Fortress at North Bridge—three days ago.

When they saw their comrades return, the wounded soldiers staying behind quickly served dry food and water.

The militia just back from Bianli were both tired and hungry, eagerly grabbing the food and gulping it down.

The remarkable morale of the wounded puzzled Winters. He asked the wounded who stayed in the camp, “Who built these ovens?”

The wounded in charge of the ovens hastily replied, “It was the old Saint who told us to build them, the day you went to the northern campsite.”

Winters nearly choked on blood, what old Saint? Clearly, it was an old shaman! Three days had passed, and it appeared the fanaticism of these old shaman followers had deepened.

“What are you baking?” Winters asked again.

“Dry food. The old Saint told us to make flatbread first, then bake it into dry food and pack it into bags.”

Winters’s eyebrow rose: “When did you start making the dry food?”

“The day before yesterday, the day you left on the campaign.”

“The wagons? Were they also prepared as Brother Reed instructed?”

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