He Died and Receive an Overpowered Tyrant System

A Futile Fight

Having not expected Poeta's capture, the kingdom army immediately suffered catastrophic losses and was forced to flee.

As Louis had said, Brachride's decision to sound the retreat was a stellar example of Brachride's wisdom and composure. However, having a thousand-man procession escape down a narrow mountain pass was easier said than done.

Their slow progress only gave rise to greater fear and confusion among the men. To make matters worse, the United National Socialist Party was bearing down on them hard and fast.

While the kingdom forces tried to fight back, the raging blizzard made using their bow and arrows nigh impossible. The few shots managed to get off didn't come anywhere close to hitting their pursuers.

Not only were the harsh winds throwing off the trajectories of their arrows, but their enemies remained beyond firing range. Brachride's archers had an effective scope of one hundred feet. However, the two armies were over three hundred feet apart. Bows were useless at that range but the enemy…

"How are they hitting us when we can't hit th...ARGH?!"

Deathly cries rose from the throats of those unfortunates caught at the end of the march as bullets pierced them through.

Such a development was only natural, however.

The United National Socialist Party's weapons made use of technology that the world wouldn't have otherwise seen for centuries. For one, all of their guns had rifling, a spiral grooves engraved on the inside of their barrels. It gave their bullets a gyroscopic spin, decreasing their air resistance to a bare minimum. That in turn, increased the projectiles' ballistic stability and helped prevent them from stalling. The bullets themselves were also of a wholly different shape.

"Milord, the enemy attacks are unrelenting, and we have no way of meeting their strength! We're taking heavy losses from behind! At this rate…"

Although the panicked messenger trailed off, the implication was clear; the tail of his company was going to be wiped out.

"...So they do mean to pursue us," Brachride mumbled to himself.

Atop of his horse, his face was the image of composure. He had already gotten over the shock at having been caught up in a surprise attack. Without so much as hesitating, he issued his new orders to the runner.

"Tell those bringing up the rear that Brachride has suffered a sneak attack and died from his wounds."

"Wh…?!" The courier stiffened, unable to comprehend his instructions.

"That's an order. Now, go!" Brachride barked at him.

"Y-Yes, sir!"

Urged on, the messenger took off for the rear guard.

His knight aide, Leinzo was visibly alarmed, rode up and took the runner's place at Marquis Brachride's side.

"Milord, I must protest! If you tell them that, the chain of command will descend into chaos!" Leinzo couldn't conceive a reason to feed false information and sow such disorder among their own ranks. He had no idea what Brachride was thinking.

The knight trusted that Brachride wasn't the type of commanding officer to sacrifice his troops idly, which only deepened his confusion.

"Good," Brachride simply replied.

"Huh?"

"With any luck, they'll throw down their armies and run for it. And that will serve to encourage the pursuers."

"What do you mean?"

"We want the enemy to get overconfident, Leinzo. They'll see our formations breaking and try to hunt down as many of us as they can. Superb as their weapons are, they number only a few hundred most. Charging after us will sacrifice the positional advantage Poeta offers them. Once they've abandoned that high ground, we'll have a chance to counterattack."

Having now sufficiently explained himself, Brachride issued another command.

"Leinzo, I need you to go on ahead and rendezvous with our troops in the foothills. Tell them to prepare a charge with our armored cavalry at its head. We will whip up something too enticing for the opposition to refuse and lure them into the open plains. From there, we'll launch our charge and grind them into dust. Can I count on you?"

By feeding bad info to his troops and intentionally sending the rear guard into disarray, Brachride hoped his foes would get greedy and overextend themselves. If he succeeded in drawing them into a more open area, his troops would have the advantage and could launch a counterattack that utilized the marquis' prized cavalry.

The truly wise were all aware of the fact that the others were unable to keep up with their wits. Brachride knew that next to none of his men would stay calm in the present situation. In a display of real prowess, he had built a plan around the fact. Brachride had taken the panic of his soldiers and turned it into a key component of his strategy.

Leinzo trembled at his own good fortune, being able to serve a man so levelheaded and sagacious.

"Of course, milord! Leave it to me!" With a confident response, Leinzo rode off alone.

What followed played out exactly the way Brachride had expected. Thanks to his misinformation and deception, the chain of command at the rear guard collapsed.

Some of his people threw down their weapons and fled. Others surrendered to the United National Socialist Party's Protection Squadron. More still gave in to despair and mounted a futile charge. Everyone was acting independently, turning the kingdom army into an unruly mob. Such a frantic crowd was no match for the forces of the UNSP.

Skirmishes broke out all over the mountain pass. In each one, the United National Socialist Party emerged victorious without a single casualty.

Dazzled by their overwhelming results, Louis and his soldiers found themselves in the foothill plains before they knew it.

That's when…

"All cavalry, chaaaaaaaaarge!!!"

"HRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!!"

The mounted brigade that Leinzo had assembled surged across the snowy grassland like a tsunami. Altogether, there were three hundred riders. If the United National Socialist Party took such an attack head-on, they were sure to meet their end.

They had no intention of letting that happen, of course, and all fired their advanced rifles. With such mighty weapons in hand, the advancing rides must have looked like sitting ducks.

Just like how riflemen had rendered horseback riders obsolete back on Earth, the mounts collapsed helplessly under the waves of bullets, quickly becoming roadblocks for their own allies. Wave after wave of horses toppled over one another. In mere moments, the imperial charge had fallen to pieces.

That's how things should've played out, anyways. Reality unfolded somewhat differently. Those leading the attack were not ordinary men. They were what they referred to as armored cavalry. Both rider and steed sported heavy metal armor. The plating on a single horse weighed over eleven 500 kilograms.

Given that they were also carrying a rider equipped with fifty kilograms of armor and a greatshield, the horse's total load clocked at nearly 680 kilograms.

No average animal could've run while bearing such great weight, but the kingdom had selectively bred unicorns so that men could ride them. Ultimately, this created a variety of magical warhorses that were stronger monoceros that was stronger than elephants and could run as fast as normal steeds even while sporting such weighty pieces of plate.

Such incredible creatures were not without drawbacks, however. They were incredibly expensive to maintain, to the point where only Brachride and Gustave families kept any at all. Brachride had twenty to his name, the unparalleled power they provided made such a paltry number sufficient, though.

Once the armored cavalry began their charge, nothing short of cannons or magic could stop them.

The United National Socialist Party may have sported powerful weapons, but they were still just small arms at the end of the day. Their bullets bounced off the heavy plates, leaving little more than dents and scratches.

The armored cavalry was unstoppable.

Brachride was now certain of his victory, and the United National Socialist Party soldiers went pale. It wasn't because they were afraid of the overwhelming force hurtling toward them, however.

What they were afraid of.

"H-How? How is he making them dance in the palm of his hand like that?"

-was the volksfuhrer who, three days before the battle, predicted the conflict's progression down to the letter.

Ernest Gonzales was the one who frightened them. Louis and his people all thought that back to the briefing they'd attended a few days before.

"Listen up. When we take the enemy by surprise in Poeta, they'll immediately flee, right? But they won't just be making a run for it. From what I hear, the guy calling the shots is pretty crafty. Instead, they're going to try and lure us into the plains in the foothills. Then they'll use their armored cavalry to lead a big charge against us."

"Ah, so we need to make sure we don't chase them too far?"

"To the contrary. We're going to follow them on purpose."

"Huh?"

"That armored cavalry is the only thing that poses a real danger. Foot soldiers won't be a challenge, and even mages will fall to our rifles. Those shielded mounts won't, though, making them an important source of emotional support for the enemy forces. If we leave them alive, it could cause us problems in future battles. That's why we're going to wait until the enemy is sure they've won, then crush their trump card as ostentatiously as possible. And to do that, we're going to use these."

Just as Ernest had instructed them, the Protection Squadron forces pulled the pins of their secret weapons and tossed them at the oncoming stampede.

"Our enemy doesn't know about these yet. They'll laugh at us, thinking that we've grown desperate enough to resort to throwing stones at them."

"Hahahaha! Your weapons didn't do s**t; what makes you think pebbles will work? Dumbasses!"

"You rebels had your fun, but it's too late to beg for your lives now!"

"Crush them all! Don't leave a single one alive!"

Such jeers erupted from the confident armored cavalry, yet only a moment later…

"Thus, our victory will be assured."

A burst of light blew the fortified horses and their riders to smithereens.

The light was followed by the noise and flame of a series of explosions. So great were the blasts that they caught unarmored members of the cavalry as well.

It hadn't been rocks that the Protection Squadron had tossed. They had been throwing M67 hand grenades.

Without magic, the infantry of that era wasn't supposed to be able to command such earth-shattering destruction.

The explosions eviscerated the army front line, and the noise sent the second line's horses into a panic, completely ruining the charge. As they were no longer in a defensive formation and weren't advancing, riders quickly became easy targets.

Waves of bullets crashed through them, shredding the mounted troops in the blink of an eye.

"..."

Partaking of the gruesome sight, Brachride finally realized something: he couldn't win. He didn't know how the enemy's weapons worked. As best he couldn't tell, the enemy infantry was equipped with firepower far with mages or cannons.

Three thousand soldiers were nothing in the face of such might.

"...Fall back. Retreat to Wexland…"

His only option was to flee once more.

Short on both men and horses, the waning subjugating army stumbled its way back to Brachride's capital, Fortress City Wexland, as fast as it could go. Numerous stragglers were abandoned along the way. Once they got to the garrison, they enacted wartime conscription, raised ten thousand new troops, and prepared to fight back a siege.

Not only did they fill every conceivable opening in the walls with sandbags, they even placed pots of water every fifty feet so they could check the ground's vibrations and make sure the enemy wasn't tunneling underneath them. The new plan was to wait inside the impregnable fortress for a few days until Gustave's army arrived.

Even with bizarre armaments, the rebels still only numbered three hundred. Storming a walled settlement was impossible with so few. Winning may not have been an option for Brachride, but he figured they'd at least be able to keep themselves alive.

Such a desperate cling to hope was quickly shattered by yet another...unknown weapon.

…

Screaming across Wexland's airspace, an MQ-9 reaper drone, equipped with 4 AGM Hellfire missiles and 2 Paveway II Laser-Guided bombs, and 3 PDU-5B Dispenser. Behind the controls, Ernest sneered.

"You can't hide from me…" Ernest said in a singsong voice.