Chapter 1006: The Bone Crusher

Parin Winterfort stood atop the castle’s high platform. From here, he could gaze out toward the inner city barracks—the imperial banners, black with red patterns, fluttered proudly in the wind. Fierce, battle-hardened soldiers moved between the camps, while farther off, towering mage spires rose within the city walls. The Eyes of the Mages perched atop those towers continuously scanned the region without pause.

He lifted his gaze westward, but the gloomy sky and thin mist blurred his view. He could no longer see Winterwolf Keep, now in the hands of the Cecilian forces, nor the distant Longwind Fortress beyond.

Was Andersa still safe on Cecilian soil?

The Count of Winterfort sighed softly, pushing aside the pointless worry. He then reached out with his magic, connecting to the mage towers within the city to confirm that none of the Eyes had detected anything unusual.

In truth, these Eyes weren’t primarily watching beyond the fortress walls. Their real focus was on the knights’ garrison inside the keep and the several fortified camps outside.

Those camps teemed with knights and soldiers brimming with fighting spirit, alongside priests and battle clerics whose devotion bordered on fanaticism. They were the main force of this war—and its greatest expendable resource. Since the conflict began, the military presence in Winterfort had swelled to more than six times its normal size. Every day, fresh soldiers and clerics streamed from the rear lines to the front, crowding the narrow battlefield and making it ever more perilous.

To Parin Winterfort, the magical trains arriving daily from the rear didn’t bring reinforcements—they brought fresh corpses.

But unlike ordinary corpses, these gathered “bodies” were dangerously unstable. They were saturated with frenzied impulses, their nervous systems and sensory perceptions twisted into something barely human. Though outwardly they appeared normal, inside they had become warped beyond even the reach of dark magic’s insight.

Yet here on the front line, there was still a way to control these corrupted beings—strict adherence to the rules of war, allowing them to vent their mental fervor in time, or administering large doses of sedatives to calm their minds. This could suppress their destructive urges or at least slow their mutation, for now.

It was a precarious balance, a daily walk on a razor’s edge. Parin’s task was to maintain this fragile equilibrium and, within the threshold of chaos, to consume these fresh “corpses” with maximum efficiency and precision.

He felt like a technician in a burning acid plant, carefully calculating the fuel and alchemical accelerants fed into the furnace. Human lives were coldly tallied in his mind, ready to be thrown into the raging flames at the next opening of the furnace door. He kept the fire burning here to gradually cleanse the empire’s corruption, to probe and weaken the Cecilian forces, to gather battlefield data, and to adjust the scales of war…

He knew his work was of great significance, yet it sickened him.

War should never be like this—and he should never have to do such things.

“It’s colder here than I expected,” a voice beside him broke his reverie. “But I can’t say whether Aldern or here is worse—the cold here is like a blade, hard and sharp, while Aldern’s chill is more like a swamp, damp and suffocating.”

Winterfort turned to see Count Clement Dart standing next to him. This Aldern noble had arrived with today’s troop transport. Officially, he commanded the reinforcements, but in truth… he was just another “expendable” brought by the magical train.

“This winter is colder than usual,” Winterfort said. “Soldiers from the central and southern regions struggle to adapt here. But compared to the Cecilian North, this is almost mild.”

“Soldiers…” Clement repeated softly, his gaze drifting over the camps where imperial banners flew. “Count Winterfort, these are remarkable young men, truly remarkable… They should have had bright futures. They shouldn’t be dying in this bitter cold.”

Parin was silent for two seconds before replying slowly, “Mortals are fragile in the face of divine cruelty. Our homeland must be reborn through fire, and what you see… is the price of those flames.”

“All I see is meaningless attrition, a long stalemate with no effective counterattack—neither against the Cecilians nor the gods,” Clement said grimly. “Tell me, what purpose is there in burying these mentally corrupted soldiers and clerics on this narrow battlefield? Is this bloodletting poison, or just a futile waste of life?”

Winterfort met Clement’s eyes and after a long pause nodded slowly. “I choose to trust His Majesty’s judgment.”

“…That’s a good reason,” Clement smiled faintly, inhaled deeply the cold northern air, then turned and slowly walked toward the platform’s exit. “In any case, I’m here now… save me a good spot.”

Winterfort watched him go, narrowing his eyes. In his mind, he began calculating the value this “conservative opposition noble” might bring—and where the reinforcements he commanded should be deployed.

…

At the Winterwolf Keep–Shadow Marsh defensive line, cold winds swept over rolling hills and low trees scattered across the frozen earth. Loose snow swirled in the gusts, striking the relay posts lining the railway. Within the faintly glowing protective shield around the tracks, the heavily armored war train Iron Throne—World Serpent cruised steadily forward.

Repulsion generators on either side flickered with rune light, their mechanical joints adjusting angles to slightly increase speed. Snowflakes whipped harmlessly through the shield, caught beneath the train as it roared onward. On a parallel track nearby, a lighter armored escort train, Iron Scepter, kept pace with the World Serpent.

In the rear gun car of the Iron Scepter, inside the engineering car responsible for track maintenance, a war technician finished adjusting valves and screws. He looked up through a narrow window at the snow-covered plains outside and muttered, “Finally, the damned snow has stopped… We haven’t seen much clear weather since mid-Fogmoon.”

“Clear skies aren’t necessarily good,” another technician nearby shook his head. “Those Typhon raiders might get more active than before. They’ve tried to sabotage the railway more than once. Most attempts failed… but last time, they nearly blew up Line 7.”

The first technician snorted and dropped the subject. He moved closer to the window, peering more intently at the white world beyond. The armored train’s thick plating and steel-meshed windows offered little view—only a narrow vertical slice of scenery. In it, the sparse woods and snow-blanketed hills rapidly receded, while in the distant sky, a faint iron-gray shadow drifted through the light.

That was a sign of another snowfall approaching—this cursed winter.

“What is it?” his companion asked casually. “See something?”

“Clouds on the horizon. Looks like a big one. I’m afraid it’s going to snow again,” the technician muttered. “From experience, it’s probably a blizzard.”

“You’re a mechanic, and now you’re a weather forecaster?” the other scoffed, turning to the opposite window. Outside, the massive, imposing form of the Iron Throne—World Serpent crouched on the tracks, rumbling forward.

…

Inside the tactical compartment of the World Serpent, frontline commander Mariland stood before the command desk, intently studying the map dotted with numerous markers. On the table lay communication devices, drafting tools, and neatly organized files.

After a moment, Mariland looked up at his adjutant. “How long until we reach the combat zone?”

“Thirty minutes to the firing area—forty minutes until we leave it,” the adjutant replied promptly.

Mariland nodded. “Good timing… Notify the armory to start pre-chilling the cooling water for the prismatic beam generator. Power spines at both ends, warm up early—we’ll soon enter Typhon patrol range. Their reaction speed has improved lately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mariland’s attention returned to the map, where the tangled borders of Typhon and Cecilian control zones intertwined like jagged teeth.

In thirty minutes, the Iron Throne—World Serpent would enter a designated firing zone. Over the next ten minutes, the train would unleash its onboard prismatic cannon on a Typhon outpost at the edge of their territory. The beam’s range was limited; it would likely only destroy some outer walls and auxiliary buildings, causing minimal casualties. But that didn’t matter.

The sudden prismatic strike would put the entire Typhon defensive line on high alert. They would scramble to reposition forces, dispatch scouts to track the Iron Throne’s route, and search for other armored trains or escort convoys nearby. Once they were busy, the World Serpent would return to its station in the Shadow Marsh. Mariland would reward himself with a strong cup of coffee, maybe even a hot bath—while planning the next armored train deployment and the location of the next major offensive.

As for gathering intelligence and analyzing Typhon military movements during this process… that was a task for him and his staff.

This had become Mariland’s routine lately, part of a strategy he and General Philip had devised. Its core was to leverage the Cecilian mechanical legions’ mobility and their ability to deliver massive firepower in short bursts. Using the Winterwolf Keep–Shadow Marsh railway network and newly constructed forward tracks, the three armored trains—Zero, World Serpent, and the recently commissioned War Citizen—would conduct relentless harassment and advance cycles.

Harass. Advance. Harass. Advance.

The new rainbow-hued main cannon on the armored train packed immense power and boasted an extraordinary range. At the right firing angle, it could deliver devastating blows to enemies far beyond the horizon. Relying on this advantage, the armored train and its escort vehicles continuously patrolled the railway, launching random strikes against Typhon’s fixed outposts at the edge of their maximum range. The enemy was forced into constant movement—either scrambling to respond, exhausted from endless skirmishes, or retreating to avoid the attacks. If they abandoned those outposts altogether and tried to keep their distance from the Iron Throne while maneuvering across the plains, the tank squadrons aboard the Iron Throne would immediately roll onto the battlefield to sweep through the enemy lines—or simply withdraw, draining the enemy’s strength.

Should the Typhon forces decide to pull back their entire front line during this process, the engineering teams accompanying the armored train would spring into action—laying down “forward railways” to extend the Iron Throne’s operational reach. They would establish temporary stations and energy relay points to supply tanks and infantry with magical power. If the Typhon forces stood by and did nothing, the Cecil Legion could, within a week, construct a sprawling network of interlocking defenses and sturdy fortifications in the newly occupied territory.

But if the Typhon forces refused to watch this happen, they would have no choice but to launch costly counterattacks against the Cecil-occupied zones.

At first, Mariland had been willing to confront those fearless Typhon warriors head-on. But after realizing that these massive, unyielding legions of supernaturals—undaunted by death and unwavering in morale—could inflict serious damage on the mechanized corps if they fought to the death, he adopted a different strategy: if the Typhon counterattacked, engage them briefly, then retreat as soon as gains were made. The mechanized corps moved along the railway at a speed conventional infantry could only envy. The Iron Throne and its attached forces, executing a “harass and advance” tactic, could quickly fall back into the protective zones of artillery positions and permanent fortifications. The enemy’s only recourse was to destroy unfinished works and the hastily laid “forward railways.”

Such losses were negligible to Cecil’s engineering units.

This kind of advance could continue indefinitely—if not for orders from the imperial capital, Mariland believed he could, before the end of the Mist Moon, rely on this improved “steel advance” tactic to systematically flatten the entire Winter Fortress line, even pushing all the way to Aldern…

But the capital had issued orders, after all. At least for now, the Empire had no plans to attack Aldern.

Mariland exhaled softly.

Perhaps that was for the best—after all, that region was a contaminated zone. The shadow of the runaway gods loomed over Typhon’s lands; venturing too deep was never a wise choice.

(End of chapter)