Chapter 236
Chapter 236
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 236
Chapter Title: Throwing Sparks (2)
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The city of Ibaris, under the Ravirata dynasty, was shrouded in a ferocity fiercer than ever before. The midday heat scorched the ground, sending waves of haze rising into the air, beyond which the yellowish stone walls bore traces of the ancient Upper Asit Empire.
Vibrant, colorfully dyed linens adorned Ibaris's outer walls, beneath which reliefs of ancient sages and heroes were lavishly embellished.
There was undoubtedly something overwhelming about the sight.
Beastkin feared the spectral dynasties of Upper Asit. It was almost instinctual.
The statues of gods with beast heads instilled a sense of awe in the beastkin.
Kadan, the god of the hunt, had also belonged to the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods during the Upper Asit era. To beastkin, the image of the Asit Empire evoked nostalgia and reverence in equal measure.
Even if they were mere phantoms. Even if they were nothing more than undead mimicking the past with crude intellect beneath their cold skulls. Each one was a living relic, an artifact, and history itself.
“Silver benefactor, my subordinates have abandoned the fight.”
Kirhas Hearttaker approached Fernandez Cerned and whispered softly, wary of eavesdroppers.
Fernandez let out a short laugh at the sight and ruffled her hair.
“I already knew. I ordered them to.”
“I will stay by your side, silver benefactor. But will the forces excluding my legion be enough?”
“Of course not.”
Fernandez gazed at Ibaris's battlements as he spoke. The dust cloud kicked up by the imperial army's advance was visible from kilometers away. In fact, the enemy batteries were already swiveling toward the legions that had daringly advanced just beyond catapult range.
Mana cannons. Dwarven magic-engineering masterpieces of devastating power. A single salvo from those siege guns could shatter even the Serpent King's flagship. Let alone those walls.
Walls taller than Libye's inner citadel towers, with a deep moat flowing beneath.
Ibaris was an impregnable fortress city. Moreover, Ravirata was now seething with rage, giving them a strong edge in magical warfare as well.
-Screeeeech! Thud!
At the center of the legion, the imperial siege engineers' towers slowly revealed themselves. Massive towers built to scale the walls moved forward steadily to the rhythm of soldiers' and cavalry's chants.
“Impressive presence.”
Kirhas Hearttaker clicked her tongue briefly. For nomadic beastkin tigerfolk, siege warfare was an utterly foreign concept. The wooden palisades of their settlements could be smashed and breached by cavalry alone.
Yet the imperial army excelled in sieges more than any force in the material world. Their battles were straightforward to a fault, but that very stubbornness was their strength.
The imperials fought by the book—textbooks rigorously tested and refined by the Imperial General Staff's strategists over centuries of experience and records. Direct assaults, yet varied and threatening.
Inter-domain feuds, the empire's countless civil wars during the Age of Fragmentation, wars against external foes. It was the culmination of one nation's long-sustained experience. The imperial castles' tall siege towers had made them siege specialists.
“At the very least, breaking the outer walls should be within the imperial army's capabilities.”
“Doesn't breaking the outer walls end the war?”
“No, street fighting remains. Kirhas. Battles against undead legions shine in urban combat.”
Fernandez stroked Kirhas's head slowly as he spoke. She let out a short growl and shook her head vigorously.
“Street fighting means battles will erupt in the city streets?”
“Exactly. They only need to defend the royal castle. That massive citadel and its inner urban districts are mere... ornamental trash to them. What use have the dead for houses and markets?”
To spectral warlords, city districts were luxuries in peacetime but battlegrounds in war. Normally, fortresses stripped of outer walls surrendered. Castles bereft of citizens and residential zones had no future.
But for undead who neither ate, drank, nor lived... city streets became overwhelmingly advantageous terrain. Maze-like alleys too narrow for war machines, where soldiers easily became isolated and scattered.
Having expended their strength breaching the outer walls, the imperials would falter in the unfamiliar 'urban combat.' And that hesitation would translate directly into casualties. Mounted on his horse, Fernandez chuckled shortly.
“Then shouldn't we warn them?”
“The imperial army?”
“At least Duke Carbellier. He refused rear deployment for this battle.”
“His ego must be sky-high.”
“He's racked up too many victories. From the outside, it's an arrogance well-earned. Always at the forefront, shattering enemy depth and claiming triumphs on every front.”
“Don't underestimate the duke, Kirhas. He was born with the Fifty Years' War, grew up in it, and survived to the armistice. His entire life has been the battlefield.”
Fernandez said as much and looked to the sky.
A falcon soared.
He read the mana flows rippling with each flap of its wings. He whispered briefly. It's begun.
-Whiiiine! Boom!
The fortress opened fire. Grayish trajectories tore through the blue sky. Ravirata's legions unleashed their barrage toward the imperial vanguard and the siege towers beyond.
“It'll be a rough battlefield, Kirhas.”
“If it's the path you tread, silver benefactor, would I shy from a bed of thorns?”
At her words, Fernandez stroked her hair once more and turned his gaze to the front lines. The imperial army began its advance.
* * *
The moment they crossed into arrow range, the undead legion's assault began. Arrows rained down like a storm. Everard gritted his teeth and bellowed.
“Front ranks! Shields up!! Shields uuuup!!”
“Shields!! Raise them!!”
-Thud thud thud thud!!
Arrows clattered onto the interlocking steel shields. Even Everard, clad head to toe in plate, flinched from the impacts. Fierce. He yanked an arrow from the ground and examined it.
Rusty and rotten, as if it would shatter at a touch. How could it pack such force? From farther than the imperial army bow's maximum range. Arrows that reached this far shredded shields and felled soldiers.
If they could mount such an assault, why hadn't they until now...?
Everard's pondering was cut short. A whistling scream rent the sky.
“Cannon fire!!”
At Everard's roar, soldiers scattered in panic. Shells soon struck where they had stood. Boom! Smoke rose from craters large enough to swallow three grown men.
“Forward! Keep moving! Advance!”
They couldn't stop. Everard scanned sharply around. Ham knights deflected incoming arrows near the siege towers as they pressed on. If the towers survived, if they could just hook the outer galleries... the battle would be won.
-Whirrr! KABOOM!!
A shell slammed into a siege tower's flank. The tower wobbled with a groan before toppling slowly. Screams and shouts swirled beneath, then fell silent. Such scenes dotted the battlefield.
Horrible. Everard shook his head. Horrific. That they wielded not catapults but elf-like cannon batteries was horror itself.
The empire had a few such mana batteries in major cities and ports.
But none with this firing rate and destructive power. They were mere weapons that ignited mana circuits in the barrel to launch iron shots—maintenance and production costs so exorbitant they were practically ceremonial.
In that moment, he spotted something. A banner rising from the west. Duke Erb's standard!
“Damn it, we can't delay! Advance! Pick up the pace! Standing still means death!”
At Everard's cry, soldiers accelerated their march. Arrows poured ceaselessly; with each shattered shield wall, porcupine-like soldiers collapsed.
But this central imperial contingent was the capital's elite, qualitatively superior in morale too. At least superior to the duke's. They had to prove it. Amid death, screams, and the battlefield's fever, Everard bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Advance! I'll personally behead any who retreat!”
* * *
Duke Erb's soldiers marched toward Ibaris's western walls. Ibaris lay at the southern edge against a great river, forming fronts on west, east, and north.
The main forces struck east and north. Imperial legions split into two prongs, each launching their sieges. Meanwhile, the west—the shortest wall on the trapezoidal city's geometry—was Duke Erb's approach.
Short walls meant dense defenses, soldiers more exposed to batteries. Farthest from the palace too, making it least suited for glory.
Erb accepted anyway. Rational choice. Even a host charging short walls had limited ladders or towers. Better suited to his smaller force than the full legions.
His knights disagreed, grumbling nonstop.
“Your Grace, isn't this too much? Even when those cowards pissed themselves fleeing, we led the charge. Now we're sidelined like cold rice.”
“That's your grievance? Be grateful. Less fire concentrated on us than the main body.”
“Celebrate reduced threats?”
“Of course, you fool. Did your soldiers sprout from the earth or fall from the sky? They're Libye's people. Minimizing their losses is cause for joy.”
Erb said so, inwardly thankful for his helm. Shame burned his neck red.
If he cared so for the people, he shouldn't have waged war—or if he did, not charged the front lines for glory all these years.
Unaware of his self-mockery, the knights nodded in admiration. He was glad for their foolish loyalty.
'If they weren't such fools, they wouldn't cling to a sinking ship like me.'
Libye's fall wasn't overnight. These knights had stood by him through it. Naturally ignorant of political calculus.
Erb gazed warmly at them and clapped their shoulders.
“Go protect your people. Recall your knighting vows. Step forward, my knights. Fear not death. Fear only the cowardice of watching the weak die.”
“Yes, my lord!”
The knights roared back and charged across the lines. Advance! Step up! Your king marches with you! Their cries echoed beyond the front.
-Whirrr!
Shells arced in. This sector's fire focused on smashing towers. Rightly so—only three could hook this short wall from outside.
“If towers fall, abandon them! They're expendable!”
Erb bellowed. He glanced at his reserves behind.
He had split his forces from the start. Heavy infantry to draw fire and eyes to the wall's base—
“Ready?”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
And ladder teams. He nodded, and the rearguard surged forward. The siege towers? He'd never intended to use the imperial engineers' handiwork.
'Not unless I knew what they'd done to them.'
Yield the glory of scaling walls? Hardly.
Something was wrong with those towers; he'd prepared ladders and tactics the moment siege was decided.
“Ladder's hooked! Pull!!”
“Puuuull!!”
Front-rankers shouted. Hooks at ladder tops scraped and gripped the outer galleries. Soldiers climbed, shields overhead.
“Good. Follow them. Shall we let mere soldiers tread the walls before us!”
“Haha, Your Grace, mind your age—leave this to us young ones.”
“Nonsense! I'd handle a dozen of you with one hand! Haha, I've watched you snot-nosed whelps toddle about.”
“Beware stray arrows, Your Grace. Please follow behind.”
“Then outpace me! Hahaha!”
The warlord drew his sword, bellowed, and mingled with the soldiers.
While enemy fire pinned towers and vanguard, they had to crest before realizing the towers were bait.
Hot. Good. Duke Erb's life was war's timeline. Born as it began, first steps on battlefields, knighted at its height.
This horrific frenzy—blood, screams, a blind arrow piercing visor to kill no surprise—boiled his blood instead.
He forgot his age, roared, and charged.
His knights charged with him.
“The warlord leads personally! All forces! Advance!!”
Morale soared higher than any front. Erb sensed the air keenly. Victory's scent wafted.
Premature, of course.