Weapons of the Third Era (3)

Honestly, I was stunned.

To think anyone could still be standing less than a hundred meters from where Gustav's shell had hit. In a place where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even finding an intact corpse would have been a miracle, the man was still alive.

Until moments ago we had only exchanged voices, but the face itself was one I recognized from years past.

"Impressive, Commander Simon of the garrison. So the title of Sword Master isn't just empty prestige after all?"

"……"

Simon's condition defied even the word "pitiful." The skin across his entire body had been torn open. His eyes were blood-red, not a trace of white remaining. Blood streamed without pause from every hole in his face—the seven orifices of a man who had hemorrhaged from the force of the blast.

He looked as though a single finger-touch would crumble him to powder, yet he remained upright to the last, his sword driven into the earth.

Internal rupture, total hearing loss, fractures, burns—every kind of trauma had stacked upon him. Survival was already impossible.

"That's why I told anyone who wanted to live to run while they still could. The rest of your forces didn't even leave dust behind, yet here you are, still standing alone. I'll give your skill that much credit."

I walked toward him as I spoke.

"The West made only one demand, and you refused it. The entire South will soon pay the price. Go ahead and watch from the other side."

The moment the words left my mouth, Simon's body slowly collapsed. His knees buckled; he pitched forward onto the ground and never moved again.

I tore my gaze from the corpse and looked at the crater Gustav had carved into the earth. The massive Southern Gate that had stood there was simply gone—vaporized. The long stone walls stretching left and right had been reduced, for hundreds of meters, to nothing but scorched rubble.

The shockwave, the tremor, and the roar would have reached tens of kilometers away. Above all, that mushroom cloud had been impossible to miss. Plenty of people in the South would already know something enormous had happened. They wouldn't understand the full picture yet, but once they did, the South would turn upside down.

While I scanned the road leading deeper into southern territory, one problem became clear.

"Looks like any further advance is off the table."

The demi-humans practically leapt out of their skins.

"Why, Great Chieftain?!"

"Don't tell me you're thinking of making peace now?!"

"No way! I want to go farther! I won't forgive those people who looked down on us!"

"Is there something else on your mind, sir?"

I raised a hand and pointed at the vast crater Gustav had left behind.

"The road is gone."

Compared to the original Gustav, this world's version had solved almost every flaw—except one. Born as a railway gun, its movement was forever chained to the tracks.

"I got too excited about the first live-fire deployment and overlooked it. Until those rails are repaired, a direct push into the South is going to be difficult."

The dwarves laughed heartily and thumped their chests.

"Haha! Listen to our Great Chieftain talk nonsense! We've got us dwarves and the orcs right here! A lot of track got blown away, sure, but if we put our backs into it we can have everything restored inside half a day!"

Given orc strength and dwarven combat-engineering skill, that was no exaggeration. We could have begun repairs this very minute if we wanted…

"No. Even if the rails were intact, right now we shouldn't advance. We pull Gustav back and keep it out of sight."

"Why?"

Lumina was the first to grasp my intent.

"You mean to plant fear."

"Exactly."

Driving the train forward the moment the tracks were fixed and blowing every southern skull sky-high would have been satisfying, but structurally Gustav could not engage enemies at close range. We had other weapons, of course, yet nearly every resource had been poured into building Gustav; the rest of the arsenal was still far from fully issued.

A straight fight could still see us pushed back absurdly despite the gun's presence. More than anything, the South needed time to understand what had just happened and for terror to spread.

If we simply marched in now, they would not even grasp the scale of the disaster, and our advance would inspire far less dread than it should.

I pointed at Simon's corpse lying face-down on the scorched earth of the Southern Gate.

"It won't be long before the South sends people to investigate. Place this man's body where they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can't possibly miss it, and drive his own sword into the ground at his head in place of a gravestone. Let it serve as an object lesson in what happens when you resist the West."

"Got it, Lord Isaac!"

One of the bird-folk scooped up Simon's body, flew to a highly visible stretch of roadside, laid him out, and planted the sword he had still gripped.

A Sword Master—one of the greatest living combatants of the age—reduced to this hollow death. The mere sight of that grave would force the South to feel the gulf in power.

I went further: I pressed a letter I had written myself into Simon's stiff fingers. With the stage set, I ordered a full withdrawal.

"We've left an excellent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first example. Everyone return home for now and reorganize! This battle was our perfect victory—not a single casualty!"

"Wooooaaaaahhhh!!!"

A thunderous cheer rose from every throat. In high spirits we celebrated the triumph and climbed aboard the trains. As Gustav and its support cars rolled backward, the smoking ruin that had been the Southern Gate dwindled into the distance.

I could hardly wait to see the southerners' faces when they finally beheld it.

From cities far, far from the Southern Gate, endless reports flooded Archduke Harth's office: the ground had suddenly shaken; every pane of glass in the city had rattled violently; a roar that felt as though it would split eardrums had rolled across the land.

Even without those reports the enormous mushroom cloud of smoke rising on the horizon would have told him something catastrophic had occurred. Harth immediately dispatched men to learn the truth.

Some time later the communication crystal flared to life. Harth answered at once.

"This is me. What happened?"

The voice on the other side was half-mad with panic.

"Y-Your Grace! Disaster! The Gate… the Gate has vanished without a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trace!"

For a heartbeat Harth wondered whether his ears had failed him.

"…What did you just say?"

"Exactly what I said—the entire Gate structure is simply gone! Where it stood there is only a crater… a truly colossal crater! Diameter about fifteen meters, depth maybe ten! The surrounding earth is blackened, and all that remains are tiny scraps of iron plating!"

"And the walls… more than half the walls that guarded the Southern Gate have disappeared completely. What little is left has collapsed into heaps of stone! Every observation tower is down. There is nothing left that even resembles the place it used to be!"

"A crater fifteen meters across and ten deep, the Gate itself evaporated, half the walls gone and the rest rubble? Are you trying to tell me a meteor fell from the sky?!"

"B-but this is precisely what is before my eyes! Not a single exaggeration—"

"The troops—where are the troops?! How many wounded?!"

"Th-the troops… there are no wounded."

Harth felt a flash of relief. If the men were safe, buildings could always be rebuilt.

Then the voice beyond the crystal trembled even harder, as though it had stared into an unnameable horror.

"Th-the thing is… it isn't only that there are no wounded… there are no dead either. No survivors either. No weapons, no armor. Just… nothing at all…"

"They fled? The knights?"

"The problem is there aren't even footprints. They simply… vanished. As if they had all turned into ghosts…"

Cognitive dissonance began to crack Harth's mind. He slammed a fist onto the desk.

"Don't bring me this nonsense as a report! There were over a thousand troops stationed there! You're telling me that many men vanished without armor, weapons, or even footprints? Did they fly into the sky?! Where is Simon—put Simon on!"

"We are confirming Sir Simon's status at this very—ah?"

A sudden uproar erupted on the far side of the crystal. Then the reporter screamed in pure terror.

"S-S-Sir Simon is… Sir Simon is… d-dead…!"

The shock sent Harth staggering; he sank to the floor.

"Dead…? Simon…?"

"Every inch of his skin is torn open and his entire face is a mask of blood! The sword he always carried is half-melted and driven into the ground beside his head… Th-the others are examining the body right now—there isn't a single cut, not a single trace of magic!"

"What kind of gibberish is that?! No wounds, no magic, and a Sword Master is dead?!"

"We're checking—p-please wait a moment! There's a letter in Sir Simon's hand… Th-the West! A letter left by Isaac, Great Chieftain of the West!"

Bloodshot veins stood out in Harth's eyes.

"Isaac? That bastard left a letter on Simon's corpse? You're saying this is his doing?"

"I-I'll read it."

Harth's entire body shook with rage. Unable to contain it, he hurled the crystal against the wall, shattering it, and roared with every ounce of strength he possessed.

"You fucking western savages and your filthy tricks! I don't care what you did—I'll crush you with raw force! Inform every single unit across the entire South at once! This is total war with the West!"