The Lord Demon King is Unfathomable!

However, the confusion in his mind didn't get an answer.

Rebel army?

Wait a minute—

Who betrayed whom? Who fought against whom?

At least in his impression, the court of the Campbell Duchy was peaceful, the Barons respected their Earls, and the Earls swore to serve the Grand Duke.

Fortunately, the roar of the officer answered the confusion in his heart.

"Earl Granston's lackeys allied with Ryan's King, their Knights, under the guise of mercenaries, have stepped onto our land, attempting to overthrow our Grand Duke! Occupy our land! Plunder our wealth!"

"Now! They shamelessly want to usurp the results of our Grand Duke's reforms! To take us back to the past, to be their slaves!"

"They're dreaming! If they want my daughter to serve their lords in their castles, they'll have to step over my dead body!"

"Saint Sis will stand with the truly loyal subjects, for the Grand Duke, for Campbell! For honor!"

The Centurion, shouting at the top of his lungs, drew his saber, the anger burning in his wide-open eyes, wishing he could grind his teeth to powder.

"Everyone—"

"Prepare—!"

Nearly three months of training had formed muscle memory in Laman.

The moment the word "prepare" was out of his mouth, his body had already reacted, the butt of the gun thudding against his shoulder socket.

A distance of three hundred paces was too far for the old Flintlock Guns, the young men on the riverbank with experience did not even glance at them, continuing to adjust their unformed lineup and mind the barges carrying supplies.

Those leading Centurions were the same, not even considering the rifles pointed at them, because firing at this distance was just a waste of soldiers' stamina and bullets—

They had no doubts, until that raised saber swung down.

"Fire—!"

A dense gunfire erupted!

The crackling explosions were like rapid thunder, tearing apart the tranquility of the Rushing River.

The young men on the riverbank were caught off guard, the whizzing bullets were a bit too precise, many heads burst open, bright red blood drifting in the river.

Initially, their officers didn't care.

After all, the gunfire was far away, and the reeds obscured their view, no one knew who was shot, only that they were still fine.

Even the officers by the riverbank mocked the other side's weakness, still using precious ammunition to fire warning shots at this point.

A soldier carried a limited amount of gunpowder, generally enough for thirty shots, after which, if the outcome was undecided, would enter a bayonet battle.

Whoever ran out of gunpowder first would be the first to be embarrassed.

However, another dreadful aspect of the "Roxey 1053 Rifle" was that the paper shell fixed ammunition with smokeless powder not only simplified the soldier's loading process but also changed the Campbell Army's ammunition base. Even without carrying an ammunition pouch, a private could carry sixty paper shell bullets in his pocket.

And if a clever Commander had a plan for attack or defense prepared in advance, they could have ammunition pre-buried in pre-dug trenches.

Bullets wrapped in oil paper are almost indestructible unless they fall into the water or stay in the warehouse for several years.

The first volley ceased, the rebel army on the riverbank remained motionless, and death pervaded the atmosphere with a strange chill, the air seemingly frozen.

The first shot was indeed a warning.

If they threw down their weapons and fled, there would be less bloodshed, but unfortunately, no one fled, the coup continued.

The cold wind of the Winter Moon was bone-chilling, but the Rushing River had not frozen over.

Perhaps it was the warmth of people's breath that melted it, or maybe the thin ice had formed in the wrong place, in people's hearts.

Laman felt a trembling against his shoulder, and he heard someone praying softly, praying for the manifestation of Saint Sis, to stop those on the other side, or for them to flee in panic.

Losing to their own kind wasn't shameful, they weren't enemies with deep grudges, perhaps if they met in a tavern tomorrow, they could still drink together side by side.

However, the opposing side did not flee, those standing here did not take even a step back, nor did they raise the muzzle of their guns.

Perhaps the young men from Thunder City beside him all understood what losing while standing here meant.

Everything would return to the past.

An image of his past life unconsciously flashed through Laman's mind.

From a clumsy carpenter, to having his job snatched away by a factory, and eventually he too ended up in the factory, drifting between workshops and docks.

Only recently did he find his place in the army, and clearly he wouldn't stay for long, after all, commanders come and go while soldiers flow like water.

He had neither grand ambitions nor even small ones.

He lacked the foresight of the Grand Duke, the wealth of Mr. Andes, or even the superiority of his officer, who, at least, had a daughter.

But he did possess something of his own.

Just yesterday, a bespectacled comrade shared a frosted cake with him. It was sent from home to that fellow, and urged by the crowd that everyone should get a share, he reluctantly distributed it.

Laman had never tasted such a delicious pastry.

Previously, when Erin said she wanted them to eat cake, he laughed, wondering why Her Highness the Princess did not eat meat paste, and by the time he realized it, the cake was already in his mouth.

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