To the north of the Metz Fortress, the betrayed Sebas stands on a corpse-strewn grassland, his sticky Chasport rifle turned into a cane with bayonets, helping him barely stand on his feet.

His big hat was long gone, and the blood on his face was as thick as camouflage—he looked around, only to see another line of defense of the Prussian army.

The Prussian army was quietly displayed in front of the mountains, waiting for the rabbits. The Prussian army was at ease, neatly formed and brightly dressed, in stark contrast to the blood-soaked and ragged Sebas.

The remnants of the French army regrouped at the division headquarters. After a cursory count, Sebas realized that half of his brothers had been killed in battle. The exhausted soldiers looked up to the division commander, eager for him to show the way.

"I was abandoned for more lives. Sebas told himself repeatedly. This belief gave him determination. He clenched his rifle and roared at the impossible target: "This is the final breakthrough, and we will win France!"

Only by escaping into the Vosges Mountains will it be possible to make a comeback. Seeing the stumbling division commander taking the lead in the charge, the remaining French troops also rose up and followed closely behind, with a rainbow of momentum.

This desperate army rushed to the enemy who was waiting for him.

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Sebas wasn't the only casualty.

Griffith stood alone on the raised trench, his horse long dead in front of the sandbags, his iron armor dented by the shells. The draconers stood hunched over the sandbags with their gasps in sharp breath, their rough breath beneath the thick golden masks—the mountains of corpses beneath his feet were terrifying, even though the golden knight was alone.

Like a torrent divided by a delta, the sporadic French army spontaneously evaded Griffiths and then poured into German positions.

Despite the loss of the cover of the armored brigade, the 20,000 French troops were still like a blue tsunami, slowly engulfing Claude, engulfing the armored ruins, and then devouring the German positions inch by inch, driving the Germans out of the last trenches for the camp step by step.

Winning more with less is the exception. Being outnumbered is the norm.

Griffith's dragoons fought and retreated, breaking the retreating Germans - after losing six trenches in a row, Griffith lost his horse and clung to the last trench exhausted, swearing not to retreat. The corpses of the French army quickly piled up around him, and Griffith was also confused by blood loss, and even the red cloak he was showing was full of holes.

The body of the adjutant lay crooked in a trench not far away, and seven or eight rifles with bayonets were embedded in his armor, as if mushrooms were growing vigorously on the corpse. Wounded by exhaustion, exhausted by blood loss, and finally died in the manner of infantry - this is the end of all knights.

However, the military flag held by the adjutant was firmly planted beside Griffith, and the black cross flag could not be shaken. The blue French army passed by the dragoon like a tidal wave, but no one dared to enter within two meters of him - against the backdrop of the corpse, the stern metal mask, like the death of a blood sacrifice on the top of the pyramid, made mankind sincerely fearful.

Behind Griffiths, the Germans had no way to retreat and fought valiantly with four times as many enemies. The screams were incessant.

The front is about to collapse.

But the hatred in the heart of the Iron Knight grew more and more fierce - the desire for revenge, and the humiliation of defeat, burned his heart. In the midst of all his hatred, Griffith forgot the fear of death. He furiously drew his military flag, held it in his left hand and raised his sword in his right, and swung against the tide of the surging crowd, and his roar even drowned out the dense gunfire:

"The dragoons are gathering for me!"

The deafening cry was covered with head-and-face fire, but Griffith swung his sword and slashed at him, allowing the bullets to rain down on his armor.

When this noble knight strutted his head, even the French companies were timid.

And the remaining dragoons were in a desperate situation, suddenly heard the call of the commander, and they all looked around and saw the position of the military flag - as long as there is a direction to assemble, they can launch the final charge!

Cavalry from all sides fought their way through the bloody path and assembled behind Griffith without hesitation. Gradually, three, ten, eighteen...... Familiar colleagues appeared one after another, panting into a stream of iron.

A knight decided to dismount and fight, and he helped the exhausted Griffith onto his horse.

"You don't have to be ......," Griffith had lost blood to the point that his vision blackened.

"Die, and die together. The knight insisted.

"The dragoons are going to die on the way to the charge. Griffith grunted, groggily. The blood loss made him sleepy, but the hatred in his heart spread—even if his eyelids were as heavy as lead, he was enraged by his own muttering, which made his eyes widen, the bloodshot became more obvious, and the roar gradually became louder: "The dragoons will die in the way of the charge!"

The tired horses were foaming at the mouth, the desperate knights were holding their military flags, and the major generals, like the immortal gods of war, were still in the lead, numbly rushing to kill in the endless sea of people; they opened a bayonet and more bayonets stretched out densely; they cut down an enemy, and a steady stream of enemy troops surrounded them like waves. This monotonous battle has evolved into a gorgeous funeral.

Griffith didn't know how long he could last, and he felt like he had become a monster, able to continue fighting even when his body was exhausted—as if hatred was not flowing in his veins, as if it was not oxygen that was swallowing in his lungs, but murderous intent. He obviously lost more than blood, but he can live on hatred.

The number of comrades-in-arms around him is constantly decreasing. There are knights who fall to the ground from exhaustion. There are knights who stumble on the horses. Some knights were roped off their horses, their armor was lifted, and bayonets pierced their throats, while others were cut off their hooves and their horses were rolled into the yellow dust, and their lives and deaths were unknown.

But Griffith was still numbly slashing. He believes that his comrades who died in battle have a bright fate, and he himself will go to the fate of a warrior, and more killings will allow him to die a righteous death.

He was sure that on this day the dragoons were destroyed. So at this moment, Griffiths had only death in his heart - a glorious death that belonged to the dragoons.

However, this valiant knight, who was filled with hatred, did not die in the end, because on the high ground next to him, a mass of French troops poured down from the sea.

"Enemy reinforcements?" Griffith cried out in despair when he heard someone.

He slashed even more wildly, the Wind King's sword slashed several rifles into sawdust, and the human body was sliced open like a pumpkin, and the sound of blood splattering in a string.

This devil-like immortal knight had actually scared off the surrounding French troops a long time ago, and no one was stupid enough to fight with a bloody demon with a bayonet. Griffith chased the enemy in a frenzy, and the cries of his teammates buzzed in his ears, and he didn't hear them clearly:

"Route! It was the defeat of the French! Both of their wings were crushed, and the last one could not hold out for long! Brothers, we are victorious!"

The conscious dragoons shouted the news of victory while struggling to protect the major general. Sure enough, after the French rout army entered the battlefield, not only did it ignore the armies of any country, but also broke up the French formation, desperately seized the road and fled, heading straight for the dawn of dawn.

Theoretically, the rout would avoid the officers who were overseeing the battle, and even if they fled, they would not be so bold. But then the answer came - a shouting heavy cavalry poured down from the heights, like flowing molten steel, mercilessly engulfing the slow-running French deserters.

At the front of that cavalry, there was a row of hunting flying red cloaks, and Filia's Guards Dragoons bore the brunt, their bright red cloaks particularly eye-catching. Next to her was Frederick, who held aloft the Eagle's Head Cross Flag, shouting "Long live Germany" over and over again at the top of his voice, as if asserting sovereignty over the land, and behind the overwhelming number of knights, followed by a phalanx of infantry, apparently the main force of the victorious pursuit had been in hot pursuit, killing from the left flank to the center, and then from the middle army to the right flank, wrapping the French into dumplings.

That's why the French deserters rushed out of their own formation in a panic - because they had behind them a more formidable cavalry than the Overseer, the Frederick Guards cavalry led by Filia!

When they saw the knights on the hillside sweeping down, the embarrassed dragoons wept with joy. Only then did they know that in fact, the battle had already been won, but the last five minutes of the victory were extremely difficult.

Anyone with a modicum of common sense could see that by the time the heroic Philippia and the Guards cavalry appeared, the French had already suffered a great defeat - this was the standard application of oblique tactics, and the battle was won in exactly the same way as Marshal Bazin had envisioned, except that the French had lost.

At this moment, Marshal Bazin was already on his way to escape. Of course, his feelings were extremely complicated, and perhaps he had made decent efforts - but if he could not save the Chinese army from retreat in time, he would not have been able to save this catastrophic defeat.

France, ruined on this day.

Marshal Bazin is to blame. He sacrificed one of his Sebas divisions and could not bring the rest of the Metz regiment back to Paris, while Frederick sacrificed three squadrons of dragoons and reduced the entire 80,000 French troops to mud dolls running all over the ground.

Marshal Bazin is also understandable. After all, it was the selfish Paris who issued ten edicts in a row and forced him to defend Metz.