Chapter 128: Repelling the Second Assault

The two swords clashed, sending sparks flying in all directions. Once combat devolved into close-quarters fighting, the traps set for the bandits behind them lost their immediate threat, allowing the attackers to navigate them with slow, deliberate steps. Kevin and his companions had modified the cave entrance by wedging a catapult frame firmly into the opening, its wheels jammed into the earth to prevent it from budging. Only small gaps remained along the sides and beneath the chassis.

The space beneath the frame had been packed tight with dirt, leaving only narrow slits for archers; no person could crawl through without first excavating the soil. The side gaps were also heavily obstructed, allowing only one person to pass at a time. This specific terrain meant that even if the enemy numbered in the thousands, they could only face Kevin and his two companions two at a time.

Kevin held the left flank, Start held the right, and Gray provided covering fire from the rear. They had practiced this formation thoroughly days ago, so even now, facing hundreds of reckless bandits, they remained composed.

Block! Strike! Block! Strike! Block again! Strike again!

Kevin’s technique was simple to the point of being mindless, yet it was incredibly effective. Both sides were similarly equipped; the bandits at the front wore the same armor and carried the same swords as the Thunder Knights they had defeated. Their battle qi was the same shade of red. All that remained was a test of skill.

Kevin had once taught himself a mess of fancy techniques, consulting veterans, officers, and even assassins for advice. Yet, with all that knowledge, the most suitable technique at this moment was the most basic one taught to raw recruits: Slash, retract, slash, retract.

There were no flashy maneuvers, no overwhelming power. The posture was unremarkable, indistinguishable from that of a nameless grunt. Back in the recruit barracks, almost everyone had questioned the necessity of such drills. Some, even if they didn't say it aloud, dismissed it as merely performative, believing that uniform, synchronized slashing looked more impressive.

Few realized, however, that this was a training method passed down from the era of infantry phalanxes. The force, height, stance, and movement of these slashes were the distilled essence of countless predecessors. Too low, and it wouldn't threaten the enemy; too high, and it would leave one vulnerable. It was simple, practical, and minimized openings. In the old infantry formations, with comrades on either side and behind, one only needed to focus on the person directly in front.

The old battlefield rules held that defense was more important than offense. If you charged blindly to kill one enemy, you might exhaust yourself, or your sword might get stuck in their corpse, among a myriad of other lethal possibilities. This simple swordsmanship was designed to remind soldiers to preserve their strength; on the battlefield, the one who lives the longest wins.

While such infantry formations were phased out after the large-scale development of magic, the basic training remained as a foundation for new recruits. Instructors rarely explained why they trained this way—some didn't know themselves, while others couldn't be bothered, as recruits were often dispersed to various units, and only a few specialized infantry units continued such training.

Now, with a wall to his left, the catapult to his right, and his companions behind him, Kevin was perfectly positioned for such a formation. His basic swordsmanship, while lacking in flair, was a perfect tool for grinding down the clock.

You strike, I block; I strike, you block; you strike again, I block again; I strike again, you block again...

The two men exchanged blows, and the battle turned into a turn-based affair. The bandit, unable to bear it, tried to slash twice in rapid succession. Consequently, he took a blow himself.

To strike twice, one must retract the blade, which is the same movement as raising a shield to block. The bandit tried to speed up his right-hand strikes, but Kevin’s rhythm—block-retract, then strike—was a beat faster.

In battle, half a beat is enough to be fatal. In an instant, the bandit took a hit to his left shoulder. Kevin, keeping his rhythm, retracted to block, easily catching the bandit's second strike.

Though wounded, the bandit didn't die easily. This basic swordsmanship sought no glory, only perfection. Especially against suicidal bandits, stabbing a hole through them might only result in them grabbing you in their death throes. The beauty of this style was that it allowed for steady, bleeding-out attrition.

Kevin was in no rush. If one fell, another would immediately take his place. Having a half-dead man blocking the path actually gave Kevin and his group precious time to catch their breath. This was a war of attrition; stamina had to be conserved.

"F*ck!" the bandit cursed, his face turning red, veins bulging as the pain drove him into a frenzy. He put more force into his right hand, but his left-hand defense became even weaker.

Kevin didn't get greedy. He maintained his rhythm while instructing Gray behind him: "When I get tired, you take my place. Follow my style, understand? The same swordsmanship we spent three months practicing in the recruit squad."

Gray, extremely nervous and glancing around, asked, "But why is Start’s style different from yours?"

"His gear is overpowered; don't worry about him," Kevin said, not even looking away from the bandit.

Start, who had already hacked down three men on the right, shouted, "What do you mean don't worry about me? I..."

As he spoke, Start took a heavy blow to his helmet. Sparks flew, but his head remained unharmed. He backhanded his sword, slicing a chunk of meat off the bandit's thigh.

Gray couldn't help but exclaim, "Your equipment really is contraband!"

"Start, I advise you to take it easy," Kevin said. "No matter how good the gear, it can break."

Gray remained optimistic: "It's fine, the main force should be here to rescue us soon, right?"

Kevin stayed silent. After a moment, he could only offer a forced, optimistic reply: "Yes, the main force is coming soon! Everyone, hold the line!" Only Kevin knew there was no main force. Gray thought the swordsmanship was meant to hold out until help arrived, but in reality, Kevin was holding out until the bandits grew tired of fighting.

No one felt the psychological pressure more than Kevin, but he had to bear it, wearing an optimistic expression for the others.

The bandits roared, howled, and cursed the heavens. The narrow entrance left the mass of bandits behind with nothing to do. They waved their weapons, cheering on the front line and mocking those who retreated wounded or died.

"So weak?" "Hurry up!" "Another one went through." "Are you useless? Let me have a go!"

The wounded bandit facing Kevin was pulled back, and a replacement took his place. Yet, it remained a turn-based game of slash and block. The cramped space precluded big moves, and the bandits clearly lacked formal training, relying only on brute force and desperation.

In this situation, Kevin, the weaker side, couldn't match their brute strength. He could only defend and wear down their will. Once the initial surge of adrenaline faded, openings would inevitably appear.

"Ah!" Sure enough, after only a moment, the new bandit took a hit. He gritted his teeth and cursed, but it was futile.

*Swish!* Gray finally fired an arrow from the back. Their skill levels weren't high, and their coordination was lacking; firing in close quarters risked friendly fire, which was why Gray had hesitated so long. But gradually, he saw the pattern. Since Kevin had turned it into a turn-based fight, the rhythm became obvious.

The arrow caught the bandit the moment he struck. Kevin was blocking, and the bandit never expected a threat at that moment. The arrow flew over Kevin's head, pierced the bandit's eye, and drove into his brain. He died instantly.

"Nice!" Kevin called out, though he had to remind him of the details at this critical moment: "In close-quarters, you don't need to pull the bow to its full draw. Just firing it is enough. Save your stamina, understand?"

"Understood!" Gray was already reaching for his second arrow.

The bandits at the back, seeing they couldn't break through, grew furious. Someone shouted, "Just charge in, squeeze through! Why are we even fighting?"

The most reckless tactics were usually the domain of the bravest warriors or the most fanatical believers, but to these bandits, it seemed as easy as a game. If they forced their way in, those at the front were guaranteed to die. If someone was still willing to be in the front line under these conditions, they must have had extremely firm convictions.

A suicidal army was undoubtedly terrifying, but Kevin had studied such things. He wasn't a military scholar, but he read a lot of books. Where there was a prediction, there was a countermeasure.

Hearing their plan, Kevin stepped back. He patted the side of the catapult and pulled a crossbar across the gap. Start did the same on the other side. These bars were axles from the catapult—it had five pairs of wheels, meaning five axles. Now, instead of moving, Kevin had dismantled them into a barricade.

The cave entrance wasn't wide; two axles blocked it right at waist height. The lead bandit tried to charge, but his waist was caught by the bar. The bandits behind him kept pushing, leaving no room to retreat. The first bandit was pushed so hard he nearly vomited, and he yelled, "Wait—"

Before he could finish, Kevin lunged forward and slashed his throat, leaving the corpse draped over the crossbar. The people behind couldn't see what was happening; they only felt they couldn't push forward and assumed the defenders were resisting with all their might. With the slope of the hill, they were pushing from below, which was extremely awkward.

Kevin and his companions caught their breath, quickly finishing off the men in front and scavenging weapons and shields from the bodies. Looking down, Kevin noticed dents appearing on the cave walls.

The soil here was soft. While the axles held, the walls supporting them were starting to give way.

"Quick! Fire!" At the critical moment, Kevin didn't hesitate. He grabbed jars of fire oil and smashed them over their heads. The pottery shattered on impact, spraying oil everywhere. The bandits, lacking experience, asked each other, "What's this?"

Kevin threw a flint, and the entire front section erupted into flames. Start and Gray joined in, throwing more oil jars, and the fire spread rapidly. The bandits screamed and panicked. The front row fell into chaos, and those in the back, seeing the flames, dared not push forward. For a moment, they were at a complete loss.

"Retreat! Everyone retreat!" someone shouted in the panic.

The rear ranks woke up, but they were packed so tightly they couldn't simply turn around. The last row had to retreat first, then the next, and so on. Even if the bandits had possessed the discipline to do that, Kevin wouldn't have let them.

He picked up stone projectiles and smashed them down—crushing skulls, breaking their formation, and shattering their order. The front line was being roasted by the flames, a pain only they could feel. In an instant, the crowd began to roll downward like an avalanche. No one could stand their ground; all commands were useless. Carried by their own suicidal momentum, they tumbled down the hill.

Some of the stronger ones grabbed trees or rocks to stop themselves, but most rolled all the way to the bottom, trampling each other to death in the process.

Looking up at the hill, the shadow of the catapult seemed especially imposing. Tiny flames still hissed on the ground, leaving behind only dozens of bandit corpses.

There was silence at the foot of the hill. The bandits picked themselves up, rubbing their arms and legs, many nursing injuries. Looking up at the hill, they couldn't laugh. No matter how they talked about "respawning," this defeat was hard to explain.

"Our protagonist halo actually..." a bandit muttered.

"I get it! They must have a Boss halo!" another bandit suddenly had a realization. "Look, all protagonists struggle when they fight a Boss."

"That makes sense." This argument was accepted by most of the bandits; they were used to finding explanations for everything in the tropes of their world.

"Alright!" The bandit leader waved his hand. "Let's go back and rest, and we'll finish off the Boss this afternoon!"

"Yeah!" The mood returned in an instant. The sorrow vanished, replaced by boiling blood.

But someone questioned, "Hey, wait. Boss, where were you when we were charging? We didn't see you anywhere."

The bandit leader laughed, "I'm the intelligence-type protagonist. How could I be the same as you lot?"

"Pfft!" the crowd mocked. "You're just a mentally-disabled protagonist, hahaha."

Watching them leave, laughing and joking, Kevin and his companions finally breathed a sigh of relief. It was already noon; a full morning of intense combat had left them famished. But when they went to retrieve their dried meat, only one piece remained.

"I remember there being two pieces yesterday," Kevin asked the other two.

Start and Gray looked at each other and shrugged. "Weren't you in charge of it?" "Exactly. Are you suspecting us of stealing it?"

Kevin didn't say anything. Though he was in charge of the food, they all lived together, and they took turns on guard duty. They were so exhausted at night that they slept like the dead. Even if someone had stolen it, there was no way to verify it.

"Forget it. I won't eat. You two take half each," Kevin said, deciding not to press the issue. They couldn't afford conflict right now.

Start shook his head. "Forget it. I won't eat either; a piece that small won't fill me up anyway. Gray, you take it."

Gray looked incredibly awkward. "If neither of you is eating, how can I..."

"Just eat it," Kevin stood up and looked at the three donkeys, hesitating for a long time. "I'm going to kill one of the donkeys."

"Is that really necessary?" Start stood up to stop him. "Has it really come to this? We should be able to hold out a bit longer."

"With this level of combat intensity, we can't function without food," Kevin replied. "If we're too weak from hunger, we'll get hacked to death. It's not a matter of 'bearing it for a while.' We only have live donkeys or dead human meat. Choose one."

Start: "..." (To be continued.)