The remaining grey uniforms converged into a resolute torrent, pouring down from the high ground.
The grey tide and the black tide crashed together violently.
On the other side, motley colors and a handful of field grey also mixed with a massive khaki tide.
A brutal, bloody hand-to-hand battle thus began.
The commander of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Regiment, Eastern Europa Brigade of the International Brigades had clearly noticed the charge of Mo Lin and his small group.
So they quickly maneuvered over and linked up with them, preventing Mo Lin's group from being instantly overwhelmed.
Before this, Mo Lin had never understood what use units clad in heavy armor and wielding cold weapons could be on a battlefield where bullets flew everywhere.
But now, he knew.
He watched as one Britannian tin can after another ignored the gunfire and brutally smashed into the International Brigades' formation, sending the front-line soldiers tumbling.
And the greatswords they wielded clearly far outmatched rifle-mounted bayonets in close-quarters combat.
Blades flashed, and heads and severed limbs flew continuously, as if no one could stop these tin cans.
And Mo Lin, having charged into the enemy formation, felt his blood burning. The splattering blood and shrill screams around him seemed to act as his most effective stimulant, making him fight ever harder.
He didn't understand why this body felt excited by such bloody hand-to-hand combat, but at this moment, that very excitement had become the key to surviving this melee.
The bayonet drill from the Saxon military academy and the bayonet-fighting techniques he had learned before his transmigration strangely fused together in his mind.
A Kingdom soldier charged at him with a strange cry, rifle leveled, its bayonet pointed straight at his chest.
Mo Lin advanced instead of retreating. His body swayed slightly to the side as his rifle swept upward, deflecting the opponent's bayonet with a precise "rising slash" motion.
That soldier had put too much force into his lunge, leaving his center wide open.
Mo Lin didn't waste the opportunity. With a flick of his wrist, the sharp bayonet sank deep into the other's chest.
Without pausing for a moment, he kicked aside the corpse, pulled out his bayonet, then aimed and fired at an enemy not far away.
"Bang!"
The enemy fell at the sound.
Mo Lin, having cut down two men in such a short time, quickly drew the enemy's attention.
Two more enemies charged at him, apparently intending to attack together to deny Mo Lin any chance to defend.
Mo Lin snorted coldly at the sight and directly drew the P08 pistol at his waist.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Unchivalrous gunfire rang out, and the two enemies fell.
The times have changed, sir.
Relying on this "combined ranged-and-melee assault" routine, plus mixing in shots during bayonet fighting, and having taken out several men in succession, Mo Lin was soon targeted by a more troublesome foe.
It was a heavy armored soldier wielding a two-handed greatsword. Roaring, his heavy footsteps caused the ground to tremble slightly as he charged straight at Mo Lin.
Mo Lin raised his hand and fired several shots until he emptied the pistol's magazine.
But the bullets struck the other's chest plate, leaving only shallow dents before bouncing away harmlessly.
As expected, he couldn't break through the defense!
This heavy armor, which seemed to be enchanted, could completely nullify pistol rounds at close range.
Mo Lin didn't dare fight head-on. Relying on his more agile movements, he began to circle this tin can.
He first raised his rifle slightly to aim, firing a shot from his Gew.98 that struck the opponent's head. Though it failed to penetrate the enemy's armor, the impact of the full-power round still left the other's head ringing.
The heavy armored greatswordsman forced his way closer and began to attack. His slashes were wide and powerful, each blade accompanied by a whistling wind and tremendous force, but the heavy equipment also seriously weighed down his speed.
A bayonet obviously couldn't parry a two-handed greatsword's slash, so Mo Lin could only grit his teeth and dodge continuously, searching for an opening.
Finally, after the opponent's fierce, heavy horizontal sweep missed, Mo Lin seized that fleeting opportunity.
He lunged forward violently. The bayonet in his hand was like a viper, precisely slipping into the gap beneath the armpit of the enemy's armor.
"Squelch!"
The sound of the bayonet entering flesh was clearly audible.
The heavy armored soldier let out a pained grunt, his movements faltering.
Without hesitation, Mo Lin stepped forward again, pressing the muzzle of his Gew 98 against that wound and pulling the trigger.
"Bang!"
The point-blank rifle shot was dull and deadly.
The 7.92mm bullet followed the rent torn by the bayonet, drilling into the heavy armored soldier's body without obstruction.
The tin can's massive body trembled violently, then collapsed with a thunderous crash as the heavy armor struck the earth.
Mo Lin didn't dare be careless. After reloading his rifle, he fired another shot at the exposed neck of the fallen enemy before he could relax.
Having resolved this serious threat, Mo Lin didn't even have time to catch his breath before immediately turning and throwing himself into the fighting on the other side.
On the other side, the situation on the high ground had also undergone a decisive change.
The Kingdom soldiers whose morale had been shattered earlier by Mo Lin and the others' machine gun fire were already at the end of their rope.
Now facing the high-spirited soldiers of the 1st Battalion charging down in a counterattack from the high ground, they nearly collapsed at the first touch.
In hand-to-hand combat, they were no match for these well-trained Saxon soldiers and were soon put to rout, shedding helmets and armor as they fled again.
Major Thomas, after routing the enemy before him, keenly noticed that Mo Lin's group had become bogged down in a hard fight.
"All of the 1st Battalion, follow me! Support the left flank!"
He acted decisively, gathering his troops and immediately driving toward the flank of the Northumberland Fusiliers.
With the arrival of the 1st Battalion's main force, the pressure on Mo Lin and the others—who had been at an absolute disadvantage in numbers—was greatly reduced.
The gap in numbers between the two sides was rapidly closed.
However, the combat resilience of the Northumberland Fusiliers' soldiers far exceeded everyone's expectations.
Even while surrounded on three sides, these elite soldiers from Britannia still hadn't collapsed.
They quickly contracted their formation. Using those heavy armored soldiers as the core, they formed small circular defensive formations, stubbornly resisting attacks from all directions.
Bayonets clashed with longswords, rifle butts struck shields, and the sound of rifle fire occasionally mixed in.
The battlefield had become a massive, bloody meat grinder, madly devouring the lives of soldiers on both sides.
Every second, someone fell.
Mo Lin had also fought until his eyes were red. Gripping his rifle with both hands, he put his full strength behind every thrust, aiming straight at the enemy's vitals.
Platoon Sergeant Kraus and Corporal Jonah beside him likewise fought desperately, using the simplest and most direct bayonet movements to send their blades into enemy bodies again and again.
The battle fell into a strange stalemate.
Although the Saxon and International Brigade soldiers gradually held the advantage in numbers, they still couldn't completely crush this stubborn Britannian force.
Time passed minute by minute. Mo Lin felt his stamina draining away rapidly, and his arms grew incredibly sore from repeated parrying and thrusting.
He didn't understand—the brigade headquarters had clearly dispatched two "Armored Knights" to follow behind the 1st Battalion, but these "elite units" hadn't come up to provide support at this critical moment.
What were they waiting for?
Just then, a rapid, dense drumming of hooves rolled across the other side of the high ground like thunder.
Mo Lin instinctively looked toward the sound.
On the other side of the high ground, a Saxon black eagle banner was fluttering in the wind.
Beneath the banner was a dense black mass of cavalry.
They wore field grey cavalry uniforms and metal-pointed cavalry helmets, raising three-meter-long lances high in their hands.
The 52nd Cavalry Regiment of the Saxon Imperial Army!
The regiment's commander rode at the forefront. He lowered his lance, its tip tracing a dazzling arc through the air.
"Charge—!"
The order was given, and hundreds of cavalrymen launched their charge simultaneously.
The earth trembled beneath their iron hooves; their landslide-like momentum left everyone breathless.
The 4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, currently entangled with the Saxon infantry and International Brigades, had their rear completely exposed and defenseless before this torrent.
The stubbornness and resolve on these Britannian soldiers' faces were finally replaced by panic and despair.
They wanted to turn, wanted to reorganize their defenses, but it was already too late.
The tidal wave of cavalry arrived in an instant.
The cavalrymen at the very front had already levelled their lances.
The sharp spear tips flashed with deadly cold light in the morning sun, effortlessly piercing through the Britannian soldiers' bodies.
The tremendous impact lifted them high into the air before slamming them heavily onto the ground.
The following cavalry swung their sabers, looking down from above and taking lives in the instant they crossed paths with the enemy.
Even though many heavy armored soldiers swung their greatswords to cut down both Saxon cavalrymen and their horses together, they could only act like reefs in a tide, smashing apart the portion before them but unable to stop the entire flood from surging past.
After the cavalry completed their charge along an arc-shaped tangent, the 4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers looked as if it had been bitten by a suddenly passing shark—a massive gap instantly carved out of its ranks.
The final straw that broke the camel's back had finally arrived.
The line of the Northumberland Fusiliers' 4th Battalion collapsed instantly under the cavalry's impact.