Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 774 - 62_2

Chapter 774: 62_2 Chapter 774: 62_2 Peter Buniel leveled his boar spear and, shouting haphazardly, charged towards the riverbank.

During the charge, Peter’s hands and feet were icy cold, and his mind was a blank slate. He mechanically moved his legs, planted his feet, moved his legs again, planted his feet again…

When he came back to his senses, he found himself standing in the icy river with not a single comrade by his side, while the barbarians a dozen meters away were shooting arrows at him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Peter turned and ran.

Running was almost instinctual for him; being bullied, swallowing grievances, escaping… He had been living like this for all of his twenty-three years.

But this time he couldn’t escape, as the warriors who had caught up with him from behind blocked his way.

“I’m begging you, Sergeant Bunir, please show some mercy next time when you charge, slow down a bit,” someone panted and complained. “We know you’re ‘Six Hundred Acres.’ You’re brave, you’re not afraid of death, but you’ve got to wait for us to catch up with you, right?”

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Following the commendation ceremony of the previous days, the soldiers, with a mix of awe, envy, and jealousy, had given Peter Bunir, the sergeant, a new nickname—”Six Hundred Acres.”

The new nickname spread like wildfire, not only throughout other units but also among civilians. In just a few days, “Six Hundred Acres” had become a household name in Niutigu Valley.

Everyone said, “Don’t look at Sergeant Bunir’s short stature and his usual listlessness; once he is in battle, he becomes as ferocious as a wild beast.”

“Shut up!” A centurion scolded the warrior who was speaking. “Show some respect!”

Another warrior asked Peter in a panicked manner, “We can’t cross, what do we do, Sergeant?”

Probably for the first time since he could remember, someone was asking Peter Buniel, “What do we do?”

Peter wanted to swallow his saliva, but his mouth was dry. His lips parted and closed several times, but in the end, he didn’t make a sound.

The frightened warrior asked again, “What do we do, Sergeant?”

If it were a matter of degree of panic and fear, Peter was more petrified than the warrior asking him, “What do we do?”

The Herders had a habit of using whistling arrows; these arrows would scream as they pierced the air and were utterly horrifying as they whooshed by. The sound reminded the listener: The Grim Reaper’s scythe had missed by just an inch—next time, you wouldn’t be so lucky.

Peter was running at the front and was also wearing a helmet. The Terdun saw him as a leader and concentrated their volleys of arrows on him.

Arrows whistled through the air like hailstones; Peter wanted to run. He wanted to run back to the river embankment, back to Niutigu Valley, back to his little burrow.

“Will you make a decision?” The same warrior asked for the third time.

He was so frantic he was almost in tears, and the others were all looking expectantly at Peter.

Peter’s lips quivered, and he struggled to voice the syllables, “Retreat.”

The centurion and the warriors around him immediately raised their arms and signaled to the others, “Retreat! Retreat!”

Without ranged weapons like bows, crossbows, or muskets, standing on the shore meant only taking hits, so logically, they should retreat.

However, Captain Thomas’s whereabouts were unknown, no one was there to lead in battle, and without military orders, no one dared to retreat.

At a time of such dilemma, a cry of “retreat” was as welcome as rain from heaven. The soldiers, helping the injured, quickly followed Sergeant Peter Buniel back to the river embankment.

Seeing the people on the bank retreat, the Terdun on the sheepskin rafts acted as if they had won a great victory. They beat their chests, howled and screamed wildly, making all sorts of indecent gestures.

Seeing the barbarians pull down their trousers to urinate at them, a hot-tempered centurion was unable to contain his rage and cursed endlessly.

“What do we do, Sergeant Bunir?” The centurion asked Peter with red eyes, “Are we just going to watch?”

Peter didn’t answer; his full attention was on an arrow.

It was a trembling arrow, its sharp head deeply embedded in someone’s flesh. The person trembled with pain, causing the arrow to quiver along.

Peter’s “soul” trembled, much like that arrow.

He realized there were many moments when, if he had just taken one more step or one fewer, there would have been an arrow, or perhaps many arrows, embedded in his flesh.

“What do we do, Sergeant?” The enraged centurion shouted again.

“Arrows,” Peter said vaguely. “Take… take them out.”

“You mean to prioritize treating the wounded?” another, older centurion asked.

“Yes,” Peter repeated numbly. “Prioritize treating the wounded.”

The older centurion saluted and organized the stretcher-bearers to go.

“Then what do we do?” The centurion from before asked angrily, “Are we going to just ignore the barbarians?”

No one had ever asked Peter “What do we do?” before, but today the question kept recurring.

‘What do we do? What do we do? What do we do? Why keep asking me what to do? How would I know what to do?’ Peter Buniel’s head spun; he suddenly thought, “Who do I usually ask ‘What do we do’?”

“Right… The captain!” Like grasping at a lifeline, Peter hurriedly asked those around him, “Where’s the captain?”

“The captain seems to have been hit by an arrow!” someone replied. “I saw the cavalry head north.”

“You’re the highest ranking now,” another person answered.

Upon hearing, “You’re the highest ranking now,” it was as if Peter Buniel had been struck by lightning.

The small, timid Peter was cowardly because he himself admitted he was a coward; thus, he resigned himself to his cowardice.

Peter lifted his head, and nearly a hundred pairs of eyes were looking directly at him—all eyes were on him.

Nearly fifty pairs of eyes stared intently at him—with nowhere to hide or escape, no matter where he looked, he would meet someone else’s gaze.