Chapter 1007: The Move

The thunderous roar of the Rainbow Light main cannon and the arcane giant cannon finally began to subside. The vibrations caused by the power spine operating in high-load mode quickly diminished as the strain eased. Inside the heavily armored cabin of the Iron Throne—Worldly Serpent, the sounds of machinery running smoothly and the train’s wheels grinding against the tracks replaced the earlier cacophony of gunfire.

Mariland stepped away from the command seat and approached a window on the side of the carriage. Through the reinforced crystal glass, he gazed out toward the distant plains. Smoke and flames still billowed on the horizon, and the scorched earth, blackened by the Rainbow Light beams, glowed faintly red at the edge of his vision.

After a moment, the rumble of another train approached from behind. The Iron Scepter, which had slowed earlier to create a firing window, gradually accelerated to catch up with the Worldly Serpent ahead. As the two trains neared each other, rhythmic lights flickered along their hulls, signaling their safe approach.

“No large-scale enemy activity detected by aerial reconnaissance. Onboard sensors report no abnormal magical fluctuations,” a technician reported loudly from the communications console. “Escort train requests permission to accelerate and confirm conditions on the upcoming track segment.”

“Permission granted,” Mariland nodded. “Tell the lads and lasses on that train to keep their eyes peeled. Watch out for those Typhon saboteurs—they’ve learned to plant arcane neutralizers and remotely triggered large bombs along the railway.”

“Yes, General!”

Mariland nodded again, then turned his gaze back to the eastern window. High above, two small black dots flashed between the clouds, trailing faint glimmers of magical energy.

They were the Dragon Cavalry Recon Squadron, escorting the Worldly Serpent. This aerial unit protected the frontline railway, scouted enemy movements around Winterhold’s outskirts, and carried out bombing runs on select Typhon strongholds. When the Iron Throne went on the offensive, their primary mission was to shield the armored trains from Typhon air raids.

This response had been devised after a recent Typhon airstrike nearly inflicted catastrophic damage on the armored trains.

In Mariland’s view, the Typhon air force was not particularly formidable. Their outdated battle griffins and flying mages, though numerous, lagged a full tier behind the Dragon Cavalry’s advanced fighters. The real threat lay in the Typhon’s ground-based air defenses near Winterhold—wealthy and powerful, the Typhon Empire had constructed countless mage towers along the border. In this new era of warfare, these towers were ineffective against swarms of tanks and long-range giant cannons, but their long-range lightning and beam arrays posed a serious danger to the relatively fragile and newly formed Dragon Cavalry units.

During a reckless bombing run, several Dragon Cavalry fighters had been shot down by the lightning and laser barrages blanketing the skies.

This forced Mariland, who had held the upper hand since the war’s start, to repeatedly reassess the Typhon’s capabilities. He drew some conclusions: air superiority could indeed determine the course of a war, but one must never underestimate the threat ground-based air defenses posed to aerial units. In real combat, even outdated weapons could inflict heavy damage—especially when the enemy was quick to learn and adapt.

Nearby, the communicator buzzed.

Mariland approached and activated it. A holographic projection flickered to life, revealing a Dragon Cavalry pilot inside a cockpit. Behind him, clouds drifted by, and the edges of dragon-wing thrusters extended outward.

“Area secure, sir,” the pilot reported. “However, cloud cover is gathering—looks like another snowfall is on the way.”

Mariland instinctively glanced out the window. From his vantage point, the sky was limited, but toward the Typhon-controlled territory, he could see a mass of iron-gray clouds gathering. The Dragon Cavalry up in the sky could clearly see more detail. He withdrew his gaze and nodded at the pilot through the communicator. “Bad weather could affect flight. Stay alert.”

…

The machine, forged from steel and crystal, soared through the sky. The howling cold wind swept past the shield and along the edges of the dragon-wing thrusters. Tiny water vapor and dust particles in the airflow were disturbed by the force field generated by the anti-gravity rings, forming a strange halo around the craft. Protected by layers of shield, steel, and crystal, the pilot inside had just finished the communication.

“This winter’s snow in the north is relentless,” he said to the mechanic and bombardier seated behind him. “It’s only been a few days since the last clear spell.”

“Reminds me of when I flew griffins,” the comrade replied from the rear control seat. “Back then, griffon riders who could take off and return safely through snowstorms were considered true warriors—not only did they need courage and skill to challenge the storm, but also patience and experience to calm their griffins afterward.”

“Yeah, my father had that skill. He was the finest griffon rider in the Solandor region. Once, during a blizzard, he successfully flew the lord’s message to a manor outside the city and was rewarded afterward. Too bad I never mastered his flying techniques before the griffon era ended…”

“Wow, your father was quite the rider… But I’m more curious—what kind of message was so important it had to be delivered through a blizzard?”

“Ha, it was a damn love letter. The lord wrote it to his mistress. My father nearly lost his mind when he found out what he was delivering, but he had to obey orders. Though, when he saw the mistress’s lover at the manor, his mood improved…”

The mechanic paused, then burst out laughing. The steel flying machine was filled with a lighthearted atmosphere.

The pilot chuckled too, eyes flicking between the instrument panel and the view outside. The iron-gray clouds had thickened and moved closer, rolling and churning like a brewing storm. He tightened his grip on the controls and frowned. “Damn… looks like the clouds are heading our way.”

“Clouds move that fast?” the mechanic frowned. “The anemometer shows the wind speed isn’t that high…”

“Weather’s unpredictable. Better stay on guard,” the pilot muttered, his gaze drawn to the roiling clouds. For a moment, he thought he saw thousands of troops moving within the storm, but when he focused, there was nothing there. “Did you see that? Something’s off about those clouds…”

“I didn’t see anything,” the mechanic said, peering through the side window. “Maybe the reflection on the clouds tricked your eyes.”

The pilot’s brow furrowed deeply. Having survived the divine disaster on the Holy Spirit Plains, he quickly made a decision. “Report this immediately. This war’s full of strange things. Don’t dismiss anything as a hallucination—maybe the experts back home can analyze it.”

The mechanic nodded in agreement. The pilot reactivated the communication device in the corner of the cockpit. Meanwhile, unnoticed by both, several faint runes in the cockpit’s mental defense system began to glow softly—barely visible to the naked eye, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

…

Clement Dart stood atop a high hill, overlooking the land still smoldering with smoke and flames. Scattered wreckage and tattered banners lay haphazardly between blackened soil and patches of white snow. He remained silent for a long time.

After several minutes, a gust of wind swept loose snowflakes across the hilltop. The Typhon noble finally spoke in a low voice to his mage attendant beside him. “Is this the destruction caused by the Cecilian weapons?”

“Yes, my lord,” the mage bowed his head. “Intelligence reports say the Cecilians call it ‘Rainbow Light’—a high-purity, high-intensity arcane focused beam capable of sustained fire with devastating power and extreme range. This time last year, the technology was immature and limited by heat dissipation. The Cecilians could only mount it on fixed positions or ships. But this year, they’ve installed it on their mobile fortresses…”

“Mobile fortresses…” Count Clement narrowed his eyes. Above him, a Mage’s Eye hovered, scanning toward the Winter Wolf Fortress line. In the cold, detached ‘pupil’ of the Mage’s Eye, the distant horizon reflected railways, bunkers, and armored trains moving southward. “I see it. Truly an incredible creation.”

“Indeed, incredible…” the mage sighed. “That incredible thing has caused us several major casualties and even destroyed multiple fortresses outright—fast-moving, terrifyingly powerful, heavily armored, and always accompanied by a swarm of other war machines. It’s a steel fortress on wheels, and we’re helpless against it. Count Parin of Winterhold once organized an airstrike—we nearly succeeded, but lack of preparation led to failure. The Cecilians immediately learned from that and began deploying flying machines to counter our air raids.”

Clement manipulated the Mage’s Eye, scanning the distant sky until he locked onto the small black dots darting through the clouds.

“It’s alright… we’re here to solve this problem,” he said gravely, looking up with his own eyes toward the northwest sky. A massive cloud bank was rapidly forming and moving toward the Winter Wolf Fortress line. “A war miracle, huh… Ask those priests when their so-called ‘miracle’ will be fully realized.”

“I already asked,” the mage replied. “The officiating priest said everything is proceeding smoothly. The gods have responded very positively to the prayers. They recommend you depart in twenty minutes.”

Clement nodded slightly. “Good—notify the mage corps and griffon riders to prepare in ten minutes.”

…

Near the hill where Clement stood, a large assembly hall hosted a sacred ritual nearing its conclusion.

A war god’s priest, clad in ceremonial robes, stood in the center of the circular hall, leading nearly a hundred priests in the final chapter of prayer. Their deep, solemn chants echoed through the hall, drowning out the howling wind outside. At the center of the room, a raised platform held a massive brazier, its flames roaring fiercely. The fire’s flickering light gradually took on an iron-gray sheen.

The War God’s priest completed his final circuit around the flames, coming to a precise stop at the exact moment and place. He turned to face the fire, his back to the bowed priests who were deep in prayer. A look of joy and fervent zeal now shone uncontrollably across his face.

He could feel it—his Lord had cast a watchful gaze upon this world.

These were turbulent times, dark and oppressive. The situation seemed dire beyond hope. In Aldern, throughout much of the Empire’s heartland, open gatherings and prayers to the War God had been brutally banned. The faithful and clergy had tried to resist, but they could not stand against the Augustus family, who held firm control over the military. Many priests had grown disheartened; some even entertained thoughts of forsaking their deity—and were punished for it.

Yet here, the priest felt a glimmer of hope.

That cruel emperor had not yet dared to fully abandon the gods. He still remembered who had protected Typhon for centuries. Here, on this frontline closest to the war, the priests could still pray, still perform these grand sacred rites, still commune with the divine… What could be more comforting, more inspiring than that?

The northern front was cold and harsh, far from the warmth of the churches in the rear. But for a devout priest, any place where one could draw nearer to the gods was the most comfortable place of all.

This battlefield was the closest place to the divine. Every faithful War God priest here could feel it: as the war dragged on, as order slowly reasserted itself, the presence of the gods grew ever clearer along the Winter Wolf Fortress—Winter Fort front. Without a doubt, this entire region had become a holy ground—just as the scriptures called a “sanctuary.” This battlefield, closest to the truth of the gods, had become the place in the mortal world nearest to the divine realm.

A smile spread across the War God’s priest’s face. He gazed into the brazier before him, his six eyes and three gaping mouths all radiating joy. Within the roaring flames, he saw his revered Pontiff—Malm Duniet—standing there, offering a gentle, loving smile to the devout priests gathered in prayer.

The surrounding prayers reached their final passage. The invisible bridge had been forged; the connection between the divine and mortal worlds was stronger here than ever before.

Without hesitation, the priest drew a steel dagger and sliced deeply into his palm. Before the wound could begin to close, he let his blood drip into the brazier.

The flames suddenly surged higher, the iron-gray hue spreading rapidly through the fire. In the next moment, the entire blaze was dyed the color of steel, and a majestic, overwhelming presence descended upon the gathering.

“Lord! Please grant us a miracle!”

(End of chapter)