—— Damn it, even if I really have to die here, at least let me take an enemy down with me!
—— Giving me a drum is really bullying, isn't it?
"Fire!"
Accompanied by the command, gunfire erupted like firecrackers during the Spring Festival.
The enemy was completely engulfed in the white smoke from the shooting. Anning heard bullets whistling past his ears endlessly.
It was like whispers from the Grim Reaper.
Anning decided to just lie down on the ground.
Better to cling to life than to die just yet; choose to survive first.
Now falling backwards, it looked like he got shot, no one would say Anning was deserting.
However, just as Anning made this decision, he was shot.
With a buzzing sound, all his thoughts drifted away from him, and his body uncontrollably, naturally fell backward.
**
He didn't know how much time had passed before Anning opened his eyes.
He stared at the specks of starlight in the sky for a while before he remembered what had happened.
— I was shot?
Anning quickly checked his condition.
As he touched his head, his hand was covered in sticky blood, accompanied by pain.
— Headshot.
Anning carefully assessed the condition of the wound—he knew that touching the wound with dirty hands could lead to infection, but under the current circumstances, the wound couldn't get much dirtier by touching it.
Thus, Anning confirmed that the wound was not deep, it felt—
It felt like a bullet had hit his forehead and then ricocheted.
— Skull ricochet?
Flintlock bullets were spherical lead bullets, and before exiting the barrel, they would irregularly collide with the inner walls of the barrel, making their flight highly erratic. There are numerous instances of skull ricochet in the history of Earth.
But, the odds of this happening were even lower than winning the lottery.
So much so that Anning couldn't help but suspect that this was his special ability—coming through time, there has to be some kind of perk, right?
Thinking this, Anning forcefully patted his head.
— Ouch, better not test the hardness of my skull anymore, what if this time it was just good luck?
He propped himself up to check his surroundings.
It seemed like the sun had just set, there was still a hint of sunset glow on the horizon.
In the distance, there were campfires, with people in grey uniforms cleaning up the battlefield, but they seemed not too diligent, probably planning to do it seriously the next day—having just fought a major battle, the enemy probably needed to rest too.
A few enemies were wandering around the battlefield, and Anning watched them for a while before confirming they were looting the dead.
He saw one of them take off the shoes from a corpse and happily put them on his own feet.
Anning checked himself, confirming he likely had nothing of value—his military uniform was just a common soldier's, and the enemy's main targets were probably officers.
In this era, officers were typically nobles, likely to have valuable possessions on them.
Anning continued to lie on the ground, adjusting to a more comfortable position.
At that moment, he suddenly saw an officer's wide crescent-shaped dog tag by his hand.
— What if I pretend to be an officer and surrender to the enemy?
— Wars in this era probably still follow some rules; they treat nobles with respect.
Anning currently had a wound on his head, which might get infected and lead to potentially fatal fever; medical standards were poor in this era, and treatment was primarily by bloodletting.
Infection could lead to quick death.
If he surrendered, quickly getting some spirits to clean the wound might increase his chances of survival.
Anning found it strange how clear his thoughts were, as if getting shot in the head had suddenly made him wiser.
After making his decision, Anning reached for the crescent-shaped dog tag—
Then his hand was grabbed.
A shocked Anning looked at the person who held his hand and saw a young face.
Although dirty, one could still see that it was a pretty youth.
"Help me get out, I am the son of the Duke of Orleans, I cannot... be captured here," the youth said.
Anning: "Scram, don't you see I'm injured?"
Anning was a modern person from the Eastern Ancient Country, which cherished the philosophy "Why should ranks matter to men of caliber?" and he didn't care about any ducal titles.
However, after the youth said that, he fainted, not hearing Anning's response.
Anning pushed the youth's hand from his wrist, picked up the dog tag, just as a whistle blew from the direction of the campfire.
Anning paused his movements, slightly propped up his upper body to check out the situation.
He noticed that the people cleaning the battlefield and those scavenging the corpse piles all stopped their work and gathered towards the campfire, probably the whistle was a signal to assemble.
Anning suddenly realized this might be a good opportunity to escape.
The last trace of light in the sky had vanished, and there was no moon either.
The pitch darkness was perfect for escaping.
Anning took another look at the youth who had just asked for help, estimating how his physique might affect their escape speed.
— Well, saving a noble and taking him back might be more profitable.
Then, Anning sprang into action. He quietly got up, removed the strap of the marching drum still around him, then hoisted the youth onto his shoulder, and took off running under the cover of darkness.