Damon's Ascension-Chapter 54: Frontal Assault 3

Damon smiled in a strange manner as he charged forward up the hill. He had picked up one of the sabers wielded by the slain soldiers, now gripping a weapon in each hand.

Above the lower incline of the hillock, at the peak of the small rise, twenty British soldiers held their ground in a tight formation, rifles braced against their shoulders as they fired in disciplined succession.

Each shot cracked through the battlefield like the snapping of a whip, followed swiftly by the hiss of powder smoke rising into the air. The soldiers worked in unison, reloading and firing with the precision of a well-oiled machine while the five logistics staff assigned to their squad were being overworked, collecting used rifles and granting new ones while reloading the old ones.

The redcoats closest to the rear crouched behind crude fortifications, mostly sandbags and hastily stacked crates, their expressions stern beneath the shadow of their helmets.

As Damon rushed forward, one of the riflemen turned sharply, catching sight of the unnatural blur that was his approaching figure. It was impossible for Damon to move completely silently given his current speed, and the bright midday sun bearing down on this hillock made anything less than magical invisibility spells or high-tech cloaking abilities ineffective.

"Bloody hell! Contact on the flank!" The bearded rifleman roared as he turned to face Damon, his eyes filled with ferocity.

His warning was lost beneath the deafening report of another volley. The disciplined British line surprisingly did not break, but several men instinctively pivoted, bayonets gleaming in the harsh light.

Unlike the frantic guards of the hillock—and the loose soldiers who had been in the midst of chasing down Ashanti warriors Damon had dispatched earlier—these soldiers were hardened, battle-tested men who had fought in Africa’s punishing terrain long enough to know hesitation meant death.

Damon had no intention of giving them time to adjust, not when he had the advantage. He surged up the final stretch of the hill, driving his borrowed saber into the nearest soldier’s gut before the man could properly react.

A strangled grunt left the redcoat’s lips as he stumbled backward, but Damon was already moving, twisting the blade free and pivoting to fire the Energy Flintlock right in the face of another soldier, turning him into ash immediately and even catching two more in a straight line behind him.

The disciplined line finally faltered, the faces of many soldiers changing greatly in shock and fear due to what they had just seen. They had long heard tales of African witchcraft and ritual magic, many believing it due to some strange occurrences that had taken place during their various appearances here.

Now that they witnessed Damon moving so fast, snaking left and right like a ghost, weaving through them with ease due to his short-range acceleration ability being superior to his sustained running or top speed.

From the perspective of these soldiers, Damon was truly akin to using the famous flash step ability, or shrinking the ground into an inch. Even a modern soldier with a full kit would be troubled by Damon’s close-range lethality.

Bayonets thrust toward him, glinting in the sunlight, but they found only empty air as he wove between them, cutting through the British ranks with speed and calculated efficiency. The orderly rhythm of musket fire dissolved into chaos as the rear line scrambled to react, some fumbling for their flintlocks while others abandoned their rifles entirely, drawing sabers in close-quarters desperation.

Damon continually fired, time seemingly slowing down in his perception as he entered what humans famously called ’bullet time.’ The Energy Flintlock was like a semi-automatic pistol in this time, firing energy bullets like they were free until Damon emptied his ’magazine.’

While the current him was locked in battle and unable to absorb energy from the ground to refill his tank, his real body outside of the Essence instance pressed his hands to the ground and began doing the recharging remotely.

Since all bodies shared the same energy repository, Damon on Earth was able to recharge energy for Damon in the Essence instance, granting the Avatar the ability to shoot freely. This was one of the simple operational combinations of his abilities that Damon had figured out, and it was only one path.

With such an onslaught, it was natural that every soldier was reduced either to a corpse or a bunch of clothes on the ground, only ashes within. Damon took stock of his gains while resting a bit to recover his expended stamina due to the high-speed movements and maneuvering.

Among the soldiers and support staff, only one was an officer, granting him 50 units of Worldly Essence. Unsurprisingly, it had been the bearded rifleman with sharp senses, making Damon realize that this was less of an officer in the stereotypical sense of a supervisor and more of a squad captain.

The total take was 290 units of Worldly Essence in total, a very good sum.

Damon had limited time, and there were no horses at this encampment, so he couldn’t mount them to travel. Well, he wouldn’t even if there had been any, because using such a steed would be too noticeable on the battlefield, and his riding skill was not good enough to dodge artillery and gunfire aimed at him on horseback.

"Time to move on," Damon muttered to himself as he took off in a light jog, moving on.

For the next hour, Damon would move between encampments containing small squad after small squad, reaping their lives with a surprise attack. Without telephones or a technology-based communication system, the ability of the British to understand what was happening on the battlefield was limited.

Damon walked through the battlefield almost sideways, and had this been real history, future generations would likely encounter the tale of the African Battlefield Demon, the figure who single-handedly routed British troops during a cleansing operation in the so-called savage lands in their history lessons.

Still, no matter how outdated, after Damon cleared out 20 firing squads—slightly more than a tenth of the total combat troops dispatched by the British on this operation—even including the precious logistics personnel who kept things well-oiled, the officers of the redcoats naturally took note.

Located deep in the rear of the British position, the command center of the redcoats was a stark contrast to the chaotic frontlines.

A wide canvas tent, lined with wooden support beams and draped in the colors of the Union Jack, served as the nerve center of the entire operation.

It was a hastily fortified yet efficient hub of command and control, with tables covered in maps, reports, and hastily scribbled dispatches spread beneath the tent’s open flaps. Stacks of crates filled with ammunition, medical supplies, and rations were neatly arranged in the shade, while couriers hurried between officers, their uniforms dusty from the heat of the African sun.

A small detachment of Royal Engineers worked on reinforcing the surrounding perimeter, driving stakes into the ground and assembling makeshift barricades to protect against any possible Ashanti counterattack or sneak attack.

Sir Garnet Wolseley was at the heart of it all, a tall and rigid figure dressed in his officer’s uniform that was seated in the commander’s chair within the main tent, the deep red of his coat unmarred by dirt or sweat despite the harsh climate.

His keen blue eyes scanned the latest battle reports, his gaunt yet sharp face set in a look of grim determination with a light of hidden cruelty in his eyes.

To his left, Colonel McNeil, his chief strategist, paced impatiently, glancing up every so often toward the distant gunfire. He was a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache, his rugged features betraying the weariness of prolonged campaign planning.

"Reports from the front," a runner saluted, handing a slip of parchment to Sir Garnet.

The general took it without a word, scanning the contents.

His brow furrowed ever so slightly.

Twenty squads lost?

That was no mere battlefield attrition.

Sir Garnet’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he realized that this was something—or someone—cutting through their lines with terrifying efficiency.

Nearby, a group of artillery officers were gathered around a crude sketch of the battlefield, adjusting the angles of their cannons and relaying new firing coordinates to the gunners stationed further up the line.

The occasional thunder of a field gun discharging sent tremors through the ground, their iron shells streaking through the sky toward distant enemy positions.

A few meters away, the medical corps were already at work. Stretcher-bearers carried wounded men into a sectioned-off area, where surgeons in bloodstained aprons moved swiftly to patch up injuries. Some men groaned in pain, while others sat in stunned silence, staring blankly at nothing.

Despite the air of control, there was an underlying tension in the command post as officers exchanged uneasy glances, whispers of something unnatural spreading among them.

The tales of African magic and battlefield spirits, usually dismissed as native superstition, now carried an unsettling weight.

Sir Garnet crumpled the order as his cold eyes scanned the room. As a man who believed in discipline, firepower, and strategy, he was naturally not naive enough to fall for such fanciful stories.

If the savages of these lands had such powerful creatures, then why had they done nothing to stop the capturing and trading of slaves, and why had they never appeared in the many skirmishes before this particular one?

Yet...

Sir Garnet glanced toward the distant smoke rising from multiple scattered encampments, his frown intensifying greatly.

Something bizarre was definitely happening out there, and it had to be curbed without further delay!