"Attack!"
Charging at the front were the Scots, weapons raised as they rushed straight toward Laurent's unit.
Sir John Fastolf reacted instantly, barking orders:
"It's those damned Scots! Turn the carts sideways—form a barricade! Archers, fire!"
The soldiers moved quickly and efficiently, carrying out his command with practiced precision.
Meanwhile, Laurent watched the cannons intently, half-expecting them to accidentally blast their own troops.
After waiting a while, he realized—those cannons were basically for show.
Once that became clear, Laurent decided he'd waited long enough. He vaulted over the cart barricade and calmly stepped onto the battlefield.
Time to earn some credit.
Even at a glance, Laurent could tell the English already had the upper hand.
The enemy couldn't use their artillery for fear of friendly fire, and the Scots were charging across open ground while the English had carts for cover and archers behind them.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?! Going out there's suicide! Wait until they get closer!"
Several soldiers noticed him moving forward and tried to stop him—not because he was breaking formation, but because they were panicking from the encirclement. They didn't want to lose anyone who could still fight.
"Just stretching my muscles," Laurent said, swinging his arm lazily as he kept walking.
"Has that guy lost it?!"
"But… if he's going out there, he'll buy us time! We can finish off anyone who gets through!"
The soldiers quickly adapted, deciding to use whatever time Laurent bought to counterattack.
Arrows poured down like rain, cutting down the Scots by the dozens, but many still managed to break through. Considering how hastily the English had prepared their defense, their reaction was already impressive.
A large group of Scots charged into the barricade line.
Unfortunately for them, just as the English were ready to fight back, they saw something unbelievable—bodies flying through the air.
"Wha—what's happening?!"
When they looked again, they saw Laurent—who should've been dead by now—standing casually amid the chaos, taking down the enemy alone.
No—that wasn't quite right. "Taking down" was too strong. He wasn't killing them. He was knocking them out—cleanly, efficiently, with precise control.
Given his power, he could've sent them flying hundreds of meters if he hadn't held back.
Sir John Fastolf could only stare, mouth agape.
I—is that even humanly possible?
Laurent didn't care what anyone thought. He sidestepped a spear aimed at his face, grabbed the shaft, and with one clean motion, snapped off the spearhead. Then, wielding the broken shaft like a stick, he beat down every soldier who came near—each blow firm but nonlethal.
There were about four hundred Scots total—not that many, spread across such a wide encirclement.
The French forces behind them numbered three or four thousand, yet none stepped forward to help.
From Laurent's perspective, they looked like players in a game deliberately letting their teammates die—watching from a safe distance, not even pretending to assist.
Then again, the English had around 5,400 men, so the French wouldn't have stood much of a chance even if they'd all rushed in.
Maybe their cowardice was the only sensible thing about them.
Laurent broke another spear aimed at his head and kicked its wielder aside. Only a dozen Scots remained, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
Even the English soldiers watching were speechless.
What the hell did I just see?
That guy—he took down dozens of armed Scots with his bare hands!
Sure, the Scots weren't exactly elite soldiers, but still—no unarmed man should've been able to do that.
Laurent's calm gaze swept over the last few enemies. Their hair stood on end; none dared move. Some even thought about running.
Sir John Fastolf quickly noticed their hesitation and shouted,
"The enemy's morale is broken! Counterattack—chase them down!"
He was a sharp commander, quick to seize the moment.
Laurent heard the order too. He lifted the stick in his hand, took aim at a fleeing soldier, and hurled it with all his strength.
BOOM.
The air cracked with a sonic boom as the stick tore through it, slamming into the ground and leaving a small crater. Laurent blinked, finally gaining a clearer sense of his strength.
His blood rejected any weapon not forged by himself; only those made from his own essence could properly channel his power.
The throw was harmless enough, but it froze every English soldier mid-charge. They stared at him as though he'd just turned into a living cannon.
Laurent only shrugged.
"If you're going to chase them, hurry up—otherwise they'll all get away."
The soldiers, jolted back to their senses, resumed pursuit. Their earlier cries of "Charge!" and "Kill them!" were gone—now they advanced quietly, subdued.
Watching them go, Laurent felt something missing.
This battle lacked passion. It was all too dull.
Sir John Fastolf approached, still looking unsure whether to thank or fear him. After a long pause, he finally managed,
"My dear Évigi… may I ask about your noble rank?"
"Noble rank?" Laurent arched a brow. "Is that really so important? Why do you people care about that so much?"
---
A/N:
Don't assume the French here were written as dumb on purpose—drop that thought.
When I looked up the actual history of this battle, I was honestly stunned. These guys were really that bad at warfare.
(If you think I'm exaggerating, go look up the Battle of the Herrings yourself.)
T/N: woah battle of herrings herrings red herring heheh re dering