(I chattered about writing a small suspense a while ago.,Yesterday it was finally finalized and sent.,It's very short.,But it's quite interesting.,Interested friends can take a look.,The title is "The Death of the Substitute",ps,It was supposed to be called "Substitute for the Dead Y" but the name review did not pass.) Pen "fun" pavilion www.biquge.infops2,Tomorrow there are some things to be busy.,The day after tomorrow should be able to maintain a stable update.,Until the end of this book.。 I'm sorry that the previous update was not smooth, so I'm sorry to everyone. ）

On the morning of April 22, in the northern part of the Silver Finch, in the wasteland more than 600 kilometers west of Birdtail City, a dwarven army of more than 30,000 people and more than 50,000 knights of the Trident Mercenary Group who were rushing to Birdtail City met in a narrow way.

The vanguard scouts of the knight army reported the whereabouts of the dwarven army to the leader of the mercenary group, Stanford Kyle, more than half an hour in advance. Although Stanford is not as famous as the Silver Star Knight Crohn and the Berserker Basel, he leads the Trident mercenary group that is on the rise, and has experienced countless battles and has rich battlefield experience.

But even so, Stanford still couldn't organize an army that had been drawn into a long army into a battle formation suitable for meeting the enemy in half an hour.

As the dwarven army burst out of the dust flying on the horizon, Standifer had a sense of foreboding. He has faced almost all the mercenary groups in the western part of the Knight Continent, even with the Silver Star mercenary group that is in full swing. But he had never seen such an army burst out with such a terrifying momentum, and could let out such an inhuman howl, as if it had come not to participate in a battle, but to bite and devour a pack of prey.

If Donner had been there, he would have noticed that this thunderous army of dwarves was very much like a scene in his memory. That's right, it's the scene of the beast tide.

Dwarves are not beasts. This is what should be the scene when a people who have endured for thousands of years begin to pour out their wrath.

On the day of the fall of the giant city-state, the dwarven ironsmith Marcus had already put his life and death aside when he sang passionately in the chaotic crowd on the streets of the city-state's last days. In this army of dwarves in front of him, every dwarf is like Marcus.

The grievances and resentments accumulated for thousands of years turned into monstrous anger, and with a wild attitude that the world had never seen, they pounced and swept through thousands of armies, like a bamboo.

A legion battle unprecedented in the history of the Hulse continent began.

Stanford knew that his army would not be able to stop the first wave of these crazy dwarves no matter what, and all he could rely on was numerical superiority. And because he was in a hurry for days and couldn't get enough rest, he didn't know whether this advantage still existed.

As soon as the two armies came into contact, the situation was like a huge water tank that suddenly burst, blood sprayed everywhere, and the dwarves charged on the corpses of their enemies or companions, and when the sword was broken, they switched to fists, and when the fists were broken, they used their mouths to bite off the flesh of the enemy, even if they were split in half, they would not let go. It seems that only the terrifying shouts of killing and the pure killing intent are left between heaven and earth.

In a flood of blood and corpses, Stanford and his soldiers stood still like a rock. He didn't dare to move, he didn't dare to take even a step back, because as soon as he retreated, the backbone of the Trident mercenary group would be broken, and an irretrievable rout would follow.

Stanford took the gamble, and with his exemplary effect, the mercenary group lost thousands of elites at the top, and finally resisted the dwarven army with a wider front.

The campaign moves into the second phase, which becomes more dull and more brutal. This was not the mode of warfare that Stanford was accustomed to, in contrast he was more adept at a frontal assault with cavalry on both flanks, or deliberately showing weakness to the enemy and luring the opponent into a wide open net, or simply withdrawing his troops and fighting again the next day.

But he was in this battlefield, and there was almost no possibility of any scheme, and he missed the iron cavalry in heavy armor, the light cavalry that advanced and retreated like a swift wind, and he missed everything that could bring variables to the war. Mired in the mire of the dwarven army, he is like a beast trapped in the solemnity, and even if he has the ability, he is bound to death.

Stanford couldn't remember when it started to rain, his eyes were already covered with blood, at first they were slippery, then they were solidified, and then they were washed by the rain, and the whole world turned red.

The sky was dark, and I don't know if it was because of the dark clouds or if the night was about to fall. Every time Stanford turned around, he could see his own soldiers falling, slumped on the bodies that were slowly piling up. It was a cronie who had followed him for an unknown amount of time. At one point, Stanford felt that they were lucky to be able to follow him. But now, they are falling silently on this land that has never been set foot before.

Stanford felt it was his duty to make their deaths worthwhile, not meaningless, and he had to win the battle before he could keep the dwarven reinforcements that could come at the mercy of Sparrowtail.

He roared angrily, stingily calculating the consumption of fighting energy with each shot, and he would never slash with a stabbing blow, but the scene around him made his heart gradually cool. Fatigue began to show its power, and the knights, who hadn't slept a full night's sleep in five days, were falling at a speed far beyond their enemies.

Standifel's black hair, exposed outside the helmet, had been dyed red, and the always calm middle-aged face was mixed with sadness and unwillingness. He doesn't want to lose, he can't lose, and he can't afford to lose. The war has reached this point, and losing is equivalent to death, but as long as there is a shred of reason, you can see this clearly. But reason also told him that it was impossible for him to win the battle.

The battle line began to erode towards the side of the Trident Mercenaries, and Stanford's feet were piled up with corpses, and he hadn't stepped on solid ground in a long time. The two dwarves rushed forward, and Stantivo gave way to one of them with his two-handed sword, and the sword stabbed the other in the chest, piercing the heart through the fragile light armor.

Standifel sneered, what difference does it make between wearing such armor and not wearing it. At this moment, he completely forgot that the Mithril armor on his body was made by Marcus, a dwarven craftsman in the giant city-state.

When he stabbed another person to death, and turned to deal with the dwarves rushing from the side, Stanford stepped into the air and fell into the pile of corpses, and the long sword in his right hand reflexively supported the ground, and then stabbed through several overlapping corpses at once, and in desperation, Stanford grabbed something in his hand with his left hand and threw it at the approaching dwarf.

The dwarf was hit hard in the chest and bounced off, and it was only then that Standford realized that he had thrown the head of a soldier. He roared madly and stood up, only to find that there was no knight nearby.

At the moment when he had just fallen unexpectedly, the remnants of the mercenary group fled like lost dogs.

Standifer looked up to the sky and laughed wildly, he once thought that he had brought out an iron army, but the reality was so ironic, suddenly the sky cleared, like a sneering face hanging in the sky.

Stanford swung his sword and rushed down the mountain of corpses, his posture resolute and dashing, and the dwarven warrior flew up in response to the sword's reach. After killing dozens of people in a row, the dwarves had already been killed by him, and they did not dare to approach him from afar.

Stanford stood there with his sword in his hand, like a rusty sculpture, motionless, with a look of pleasure on his face.

After a stalemate for dozens of seconds, the dwarves tentatively leaned up, only to find that the leader of the Trident Mercenary Regiment had died of exhaustion.

Out of respect for him, no one piled down this statue of the god of war.

The remnants of more than 12,000 dwarves crossed the mountain of corpses and pursued the scattered knight army, and before night fell, almost all the remaining members of the Trident mercenary group died from the swords stabbed in the back.