On the third day of battle, Albion's forces gathered before the Longmen Stones and began their assault, scaling and attacking.
Corpses piled along the hillside; soldiers hacked footholds into sheer walls with blades and spears; human ladders formed from living bodies...
The Longmen Stones were mere inert barriers — too frail to halt thousands of determined troops.
Toristine's defenders, spotting the movement, rallied and prepared to hold.
With so few remaining, General Angel split his forces in two. Five hundred sappers stayed at the port, rigging a dense explosive zone across two hundred meters; the other thirteen hundred archers massed to face two thousand Albion troops.
The remaining two Albion divisions met no resistance, clambering over the stones one after another.
Before them lay stone houses and walls — the merchants' quarter. Civilians had fled by floating ship in the first two days, leaving only hundreds of port workers awaiting Toristine reinforcements.
Identifying their target, the Albion troops rushed the harbor.
Meanwhile, thirteen hundred Toristine archers faced two thousand Albion.
The first Albion soldier crested the wall — greeted by three or four arrows slamming into him.
"Ahh!" Shot through the eye, he wailed and plummeted six or seven meters, lifeless on impact. But his fall was just the prelude. More Albion topped the stone and swarmed down the face.
Twang-twang-twang-twang!
Archers loosed relentlessly, mercilessly slaughtering the exposed climbers. Arrows sank into stone; blood bloomed. Albion lost two or three hundred before mounting a push. But an equal number gained footing. Those atop the Longmen hurled shields downward with resounding thuds.
Landing troops dashed to the shields, raising them in groups of four or five against the arrow storm. Only the unlucky few pierced through; most endured.
With shields established, follow-on troops snatched spears and swords from above, advancing under cover toward the archer line.
Clang-clang-clang-clang!
Arrows battered shields, slowing but not stopping them. Soon two hundred swordsmen and shield-bearers crashed into the phalanx.
Bows now useless at close range, the front rank of thirteen hundred archers dropped weapons, drew waist daggers, and met the charging foe.
"For Albion!" "For Toristine!" "For the Ancestors!!"
"Kill!!!"
Archers' short blades proved no match for longswords, but three-to-one odds held the line — barely. Each fallen shieldman or swordsman cost two or three bowmen.
Rear archers could only target the Longmen Stone; shooting ahead risked friendly fire — and Albion outnumbered them.
No clever tactics, no vast power gap — just brutal slaughter.
Under archer fire, Albion lost eight hundred crossing the stone; of the remaining twelve hundred, a hundred more died charging. Then melee: Albion's full division bled out against Toristine's archers.
True soldier's work — mutual annihilation. Albion, blood-soaked, exterminated nearly all Toristine before perishing to the last.
Fewer than two hundred archers survived on Toristine's side.
Angel rallied them toward the port.
The harbor crowned La Rochelle: a massive tree at center, over ten berths for floating ships. Sappers clustered here, planting thousands of charges along the city-to-port road.
Explosions ignited as the first Albion appeared.
BOOM!!
A sprinting swordsman trod a slight bulge. Before his foot cleared, the blast shredded him — gore spraying wide.
The signal unleashed hell: boom-boom-boom-boom-boom! Albion's vanguard disintegrated in fire and shrapnel.
Followers halted, refusing to advance.
Blast scars pocked the thirty-meter road; three or four hundred lay buried.
Aware of lurking mines ahead, Albion froze.
The rear commander arrived, eyed the port two hundred meters off, and hardened.
"Ten abreast, ten meters apart."
He glared at his men, clasped hands with guards to span fifteen or sixteen meters. Death etched their faces. Then they charged the kill zone.
BOOM!
Flames engulfed the ten, clearing three or four meters as they ran.
Under officers' merciless stares, Albion advanced in waves, embracing death.
Boom-boom!
Rhythmic blasts claimed lives, but section by section — ten meters, twenty, fifty, one hundred, two hundred — the minefield yielded.
When the final pair reached the steps unexploded, rear Albion cheered wildly. Over five hundred sacrificed to pave the way, leaving more than a thousand.
The five hundred port sappers saw enemies breach the field — suicidal resolve igniting their eyes.
They bore no blades, yet ranked second only to mages among arms. Why?
Toristine's sappers, explosives strapped head to toe, charged with fanatic zeal toward the fresh-crossing Albion.
"For Toristine!" "For Her Majesty!" "Long live the Queen!" "Long live the Ancestors!!"
No archers in Albion's ranks — no ranged detonations possible.
Personal bombs plunged into clusters. In terrified eyes, they absorbed dozens of frantic stabs, spat blood with mocking grins — then BOOM!!
Blasts claimed the sapper and six or seven foes.
Albion recoiled in panic — too late. Sappers rammed home, exploding in clusters, dragging multiples to oblivion. Trapped midway on the ten-man-wide road, rear-runners blocked by converging friends, Albion despaired.
Five hundred sappers charged in waves of ten, linking hands to span the cleared width. They vanished in fiery groups. Albion melted away in the inferno.
Gunpowder choked the air; flames crackled; limbs flew — earthly purgatory.
Another Albion division of two thousand witnessed this upon entering from the city's flank.
Silently, they rushed the port along the path cleared by their brothers' blood.