The advancing host faltered, lines staggering as gaps tore through them. The Luxenberg artillery did not relent in its constant bombardment. With each shot fired from their cannons, dozens of Red Visconte soldiers were torn apart or thrown about.
Cavalry on the flanks pressed forward, hooves beating a restless tattoo, riders straining to contain mounts made wild by the thunder. The horses reared against the air thick with smoke and the acrid bite of powder, their ears pinned back at each crashing volley. Orders spread hurriedly: press the advance, fill the gaps, keep moving. Still, the wall of flame ahead showed no sign of breaking.
Within the defender's haze, the rhythm of the guns became steady, almost mechanical, a brutal heartbeat across the field. Each volley bought them time, each scream of iron cutting deeper into the foe's courage. Behind the cannons, ranks of muskets stood ready, bayonets fixed, awaiting the moment when fire would give way to steel.
The clearing, once calm, had transformed into a cauldron—smoke, fire, and cries twisting together into a single roar. And though the attackers struggled forward through the storm, the defenders had already claimed the field with thunder, daring them to cross its flame-choked heart.
Through the rolling fog of smoke, the order was given—harsh, clipped, carrying above the roar of cannon. The thunder slackened, replaced by the crash of drums and the shrill calls of horns. Bayonets lowered in glittering rows, muskets levelled in a cold steel hedge. The defenders braced themselves as the battered host pushed forward, determination carving order out of chaos.
With a guttural cry, the cavalry surged first. Hooves struck the earth in a rising storm, pounding rhythm building to a thunder greater than the cannons. Lances levelled, sabres gleamed, riders hunched low in their saddles as the ground seemed to quake beneath their charge. Dust rose in great clouds around them, mixing with the smoke to cloak their flanks as they closed the distance.
From the Luxenberg side, a countercharge burst forth. The defenders' cavalrymen, restless and furious, launched from the cover of their guns, steel flashing like lightning as they met the onrushing tide. The collision was sudden and brutal—iron on iron, flesh against flesh. Horses screamed, blades clanged, and the once orderly lines dissolved into a swirling melee of flashing sabres and plunging hooves.
Behind the mounted storm, infantry pressed forward. Muskets cracked in ragged volleys, smoke spitting fire as shot tore through advancing ranks. Still, they came on, bayonets lowered, shouts rising from dry throats as the distance closed. The defenders, drilled and waiting, answered in kind—first with disciplined volleys that shattered the enemy's front, then with the clash of steel as lines collided.
The plain erupted into chaos. Bayonets crashed together, men grappled in the choking haze, screams rising with the clash of iron. Cannon crews abandoned their pieces to seize muskets, throwing themselves into the fray as the tide pressed dangerously close. Above it all, the banners of both sides wavered in the smoke, snapping violently in the wind, each daring the other to falter first.
The storm of steel raged on, but already the balance tipped. The defenders' line, drilled to perfection, bent yet never broke. Marshal Lefebvre was amongst the infantrymen with a musket in hand. Each shot fired from it finding its mark.
Volley after volley erupted in disciplined rhythm, each crash of musketry cutting bloody swaths through the faltering attackers. Bayonets gleamed in the shifting smoke, thrust forward in unison like the teeth of a single great beast, forcing their foes back step by step.
On the flanks, the cavalry melee reached its climax. The defenders' cavalrymen, steady and well-schooled, rallied behind clear signals and their commanders. With a cry, they wheeled into formation, sabres flashing as they struck the enemy's flank with renewed force. The opposing riders, already wearied and scattered, cracked under the charge. Horses turned, men broke away, the once-proud tide now a stream of fugitives fleeing the field.
In the centre, the Red Viscontes' infantry pressed desperately, but their lines were ragged, torn by cannon fire and thinned by musket volleys. Their shouts grew strained, their bayonet thrusts uncoordinated. The defenders, calm in their precision, countered with iron resolve. A final rolling volley shattered what remained of cohesion, and when the order for the charge came, the defenders surged forward as one.
Steel met flesh with brutal finality. The Red Visconte soldiers wavered, some throwing down muskets, others stumbling backwards into their own dead. The retreat became a rout within minutes. Dust rose in choking clouds as the attackers fled toward the trees, their banners cast aside, their cries drowned out by the victorious roar of their foes.
Count Falcone could only watch in horror. This defeat was astoundingly bad. As the commander of the main Red Visconte Army, he had let at least two-thirds of it perish in a pitched battle that could have been avoided. His overzealousness had cost him dearly. The prospect of ambushing and defeating the Luxenberg Army had clouded his judgment.
"Sound the retreat! Run for your lives!" Count Falcone yelled. But his orders were drowned out by the sound of musketfire coming from the forest.
The skirmishers hidden in the forest had chosen to act now, cutting off any chance of a retreat. Their precision was unmatched as Red Visconte soldiers dropped like flies. Count Falcone had to quickly throw himself off his horse to escape the onslaught of bullets flying his direction.
With their escape route now turned into a killing field, the Red Visconte Army was trapped. Many of the surviving soldiers chose to surrender, while others decided to fight valiantly to the bitter end. Amongst the surrendered soldiers was a wounded Count Falcone. He had sustained a shoulder injury due to him landing poorly on the ground from his horse.
The surrendered soldiers were gathered up and detained. There were about 30,000 Red Visconte soldiers captured, while the remainder of their 310,000 infantrymen, 41,000 cavalrymen and 1,450 cannons army laid dead. The cannons that were not destroyed in the bombardment were to be left in the clearing. Victor did not have the means to transport them all, as there were about 400 of them.
With the Battle of the Forest Clearing concluded, Victor needed to deal with the aftermath.