Chapter 548 - 57: Spaniards
The brave, bloodthirsty, and crazed Indigenous Warriors crashed against the reef like waves, only to be shattered.
In a few breaths, over half of more than a hundred Indigenous Warriors fell, and the remaining half completely lost their will to resist, abandoning their weapons and fleeing in panic.
However, no human speed can surpass that of a bullet; no matter how fast they run, unless they hide behind cover, they all face death if caught within the aim of the scope.
The gunfire tore apart the Indigenous line, and shattered Lisoben’s confidence.
From his position at the rear, he watched helplessly as his elite warriors loyal to him fell in full swoop, hearing the terrifying thunderous sound bring about a one-sided slaughter with no power to stop it.
It was at this moment that he finally woke up to the reality that the title "God’s Chosen Warrior" was a falsehood.
Just like the old Priest said, there are no gods in this world, and even if there were, they would not respond to mortals, nor would they select warriors to rule tribes.
Clear in his heart that there’s no chance of winning this conflict, Lisoben still had some courage left and was not scared inflexible by the power of firearms.
He turned directly around, taking cover with the help of his trusted confidants, and fled into the jungle.
Thick trunks can obscure the enemy’s view, block their attacks, and provide him a chance to escape.
At this moment, he has one last straw to grasp—
To find those Spaniards, also outsiders, only those guys dwelling temporarily on the island might be opponents to these enemies.
Lisoben understood that, as of now, this conflict is beyond his involvement.
Through this battle, the tribe was seriously weakened, leaving most adult warriors lost, which would make it challenging to fend off attacks from other smaller tribes in the future, let alone achieve his dream of unifying the island.
This is a "God’s" war, and only "God" can intervene; it’s not a realm for a lowly one like him to touch.
...
After firing two shots, Sunday lowered his weapon and resumed observing the situation below with a telescope.
The sailors beside him were firing freely, each flushed with excitement, with none showing signs of fear, even though this was their first real experience of causing casualties with firearms.
This was the Indigenous people’s natural advantage; blood and death have been familiar occurrences since their childhood.
The torn wounds and splattering blood during melee combat couldn’t instill fear in them, so the visually less impactful killing by bullets certainly wouldn’t affect them.
Just like children from war-torn regions, influenced by their environment, they have long shed their innocence and are compelled into becoming hardened Warriors.
The cruelty of the battlefield and the decay of life doesn’t cause them alarm; from the continuous gunfire, Sunday could distinctly capture the sailors’ counting voices—
"One, two, three..."
The blood of these Indigenous people was now composing their battle achievements.
And Sunday was focused on the most crucial target—the Tribe Leader.
From an overhead perspective, the battlefield situation was particularly clear; another thirty corpses were left behind by more than a hundred Indigenous Warriors fleeing, with only a dozen successfully retreating into the jungle and evading the sailors’ pursuit.
Among these dozen, most were the Tribe Leader and his most loyal guards; their rearward positions afforded them the earliest chance to escape.
...
"Catch the leader first to control the enemy."
This was the lesson Chen Zhou taught Sunday, and Sunday further derived from his knowledge of the Indigenous people—
To achieve a decisive victory in a single action, one must not kill the Indigenous leader directly on the battlefield.
He should be kept alive so that the tribe can see how their invincible Leader is captured alive, how his proud martial might is easily crushed.
Only then will the survivors in the tribe abandon their hatred and submit to the more powerful force.
This may seem unreasonable, but this is how things have always been done by the primitive tribes on the island for years.
When a Great Tribe annexes a smaller tribe, it doesn’t kill everyone.
Except for the Leader, Priest, and warriors loyal to the Leader, most underage children and women are spared.
Once part of the Great Tribe, those children become the lowest class, working physically to earn food and serve ordinary members of the tribe, while the women become breeding machines, either awarded to brave Warriors or shared among other Indigenous people.
In primitive society, there aren’t many moral codes, no concept of shame; no one finds this odd, after all, these are the rules passed down through generations.
Though the new world Chen Zhou established is drastically different from this backward place.
But thinking of relying on twenty people to control hundreds, Sunday thought this was the best method possible.
Treat them first in a way that the Indigenous people are most accustomed to, then gradually bring them to the island, where they can learn step by step, change bit by bit.
The journey from savagery to civilization requires a process; it cannot be accomplished overnight.
Eliminating elite Indigenous Warriors, then capturing the Tribe Leader in front of all the tribe members—that was Sunday’s aim.
...
"Collect your shells, note down the enemies you’ve dispatched, pick up your Shields, and let’s advance downward."
Hearing the surrounding gunfire shift from being sporadic to drizzling, Sunday knew the sailors could no longer see and hit the enemies effectively, and immediately issued further instructions.
During the free shooting earlier, he still felt a bit flustered.
His fear wasn’t of defeat but of the sailors targeting the Tribe Leader while shooting, and killing him prematurely.