Chapter 1326: Incendiary Bomb

Wickliffe found it hard to make sense of what was unfolding before him. Yet whether he understood it or not, this incredible scene was playing out on this fallen land—and it was shifting the fates of many.

In the dark winter night, the Holy Radiant Sun Battalion had chosen to launch a landing assault. Like a massive rock rising suddenly from the black tide, they faced the raging storm head-on, halting what seemed an inevitable defeat—and slowly, bit by bit, began to turn the tide of the entire battlefield.

Hundreds, even thousands, of fully armed White Knights and Sisters stepped onto the field, wielding heavy flamethrowers and holy light cannons to purge the monsters lingering near the Steel Cathedral. Meanwhile, heavy tanks rolled out from the church’s armory, quickly forming an additional barrier before the cathedral and the Fort of Falm. These tanks had been specially modified—their main guns replaced with higher-powered flamethrowers, and beneath their armor plates, more powerful shield generators were embedded. This extra power consumption meant these vehicles had shorter endurance than their standard counterparts, but clearly, the battalion’s tech-priests had anticipated this.

Atop the cathedral, the spire opened. The heavy steel armor retracted into the roof, revealing a massive arcane crystal inside. The entire cathedral transformed into a magical nexus on the battlefield, its potent energy spreading across the defenses. Whether the tanks forming the barrier or the White Knights and Sisters sweeping the remnants of the enemy, all their rune devices glowed brighter than before.

From the shadows emerged a White Knight who carried no flamethrower but bore a heavy warhammer on his shoulder. He strode through the roaring flames and the twisted corpses left by the aberrations, heading straight toward the barrier where Wickliffe and his group sheltered.

Suddenly, a snarling aberration lunged from the darkness, dragging its broken body toward the towering knight. The White Knight casually lifted his warhammer as if setting it down, releasing a mechanical click. The charging monster was instantly crushed beneath the hammer’s weight, then pulverized into a bloody pulp by the hammer’s recoil mechanism against the stone.

“This is Amiel Kreit, commander of the Holy Radiant Sun Battalion. We’ve brought medical personnel,” the burly White Knight said, one hand resting on the long handle of his mechanical warhammer, the other pulling a metal-bound prayer book from his waist. The book’s cover bore the battalion’s insignia and his identification tag. “Glad to see there are still survivors on this line—please open the barrier. You need medical aid.”

Wickliffe blinked, then quickly reacted. Though the surreal scene still muddled his mind, he gripped the hilt of his shattered longsword with his remaining left hand. With a humming sound, the broken blade fragments swiftly reassembled, restoring the sword’s form. The protective barrier around the survivors dissolved just as fast.

The human king of Ogré glanced down at the seemingly restored holy sword in his hand and sighed softly. The shattered pieces could be reformed, but the residual energy and the intricate craftsmanship dating back to Gondor’s era could never be restored. The sword had fulfilled its historic mission; from now on, it would remain a relic in a display case.

He looked up again at the chaotic battlefield and the “priests” before him, suddenly feeling that some things were also due to become history. After all, this world no longer resembled the one he once knew…

“So you must be King Wickliffe himself. Praise the Holy Light—we almost arrived too late.”

The deep voice from beneath the White Knight’s helmet interrupted Wickliffe’s thoughts. The towering priest removed his helmet, revealing a middle-aged face thick with beard and hair. He glanced toward the battlefield’s edge, where aberrations still poured from the distant mountain pass. But the cathedral’s overwhelming firepower and the ground forces it deployed had already sealed most of the breach. Above, numerous dragon-rider fighters circled, while another floating cathedral maintained aerial bombardment on the mountain pass, preserving air superiority. Relief and confidence showed on his face.

“Rest assured, these filthy, profane creatures will not break through this pass again. We brought two aerial fortresses and ample ground troops. Sister Marian is also skilled in purifying heretics with fire,” Amiel said, nodding to Wickliffe. “By dawn, we will have rebuilt the defenses.”

“You… where did you come from? What’s the situation in Crimson City?” Wickliffe finally found his voice, his mind racing to the aberrations already flooding the kingdom and spreading south, and to the other defensive lines holding out.

“Your Majesty, please be at ease,” Amiel quickly raised a hand to halt the king’s anxious questions. “The Empire’s main forces are currently in Crimson City. Sister Marian and I received Chief Camilla’s message there and rushed here to assist.”

“The main forces… and you’re not the main forces?” Wickliffe blinked, staring oddly at the cathedral wreaking havoc and the floating fortress above. His lips twitched as if to say more, but a sudden tremor shook the mountain pass nearby, cutting off all voices.

He looked up toward the breach—once a triple wall built by humans and spirits together, now reduced to rubble by siege cannons and monsters. What he saw made his eyes widen.

A massive, swaying figure appeared—the “Behemoth,” the most powerful magical construct in the aberration army. Surrounding it were countless grotesque, four-limbed synthetic giants crawling like malformed titans. Bulging, ugly sacs grew on their backs, spewing thick purple-black toxic smoke that polluted the entire battlefield.

“Watch out for those crawling creatures!” Wickliffe shouted. “Their gas is not only highly toxic but rapidly corrodes and weakens any armor or walls—the outer walls of Fort Falm were destroyed by these monsters working with the Behemoths’ bombardment!”

“Looks like the commanders behind these monsters refuse to admit defeat,” Amiel said, his face twisted with undisguised disgust and contempt as he saw the hideous synthetic beasts. He pressed a spot near his armored collar, activating a comm device that glowed faintly between his pauldrons and neck. “Sister Marian, we need the ‘Purgatory’ incendiary bombs. We can’t let more monsters cross the pass.”

“Understood, Purgatory incendiary bombs,” a young female voice responded through the comm. “Purification will commence shortly.”

The cathedral on the ground was not fighting alone—another aerial fortress belonging to the Holy Radiant Sun Battalion maintained flight, providing crucial cover for the ground forces. Deep within this flying fortress, where another cathedral and treasury were housed, a young nun with long blonde hair stood at a steel-cast prayer altar, watching the battle unfold below.

Behind her, where the pulpit should have been, stood a massive mechanical device. It consisted of a humming base and a vertical crystal tube, whose alloy protective shell was now open, revealing its contents: a pale yellow biomass solution filled the tube, and a huge synthetic brain floated suspended in the center. Countless cables and nerve fibers extended from the brain, deeply embedded within the walls and pillars, connecting the cathedral to the anti-gravity platform beneath.

Inside the cathedral’s prayer hall, nuns and priests focused on their control terminals. The long hall, theoretically for religious ceremonies, was dotted with softly glowing arcane platforms and floating holographic projections. One such projection clearly showed the aberration army surging from the distant mountain pass.

“Commander Amiel needs support,” the blonde nun Marian said to the console. “Begin assembling the Purgatory incendiary bombs.”

“Understood,” a neutral mechanical voice responded from above the pulpit. The brain in the crystal tube stirred slightly, releasing a stream of bubbles. “Assembling Purgatory incendiary bombs…”

Beneath the cathedral, a small armory factory sprang to life. Pre-prepared components were retrieved from isolated chambers and, through a combination of human and mechanical effort, loaded into the launchers’ loading bays—specialized cylindrical casings, twelve highly sealed internal tanks, fragmentation dispersal devices, and specially formulated alchemical napalm. In a remarkably short time, these were assembled into terrifying bombs nearly two meters in diameter. Finally, a mechanical arm, controlled directly by the brain, retrieved the “ignition core” from an obsidian-sealed chamber.

An artificially created, instinct-driven, short-lived living fire elemental was temporarily confined within a specially designed crystal sphere.

On the surveillance feed from the brain, Sister Marian watched calmly as the mechanical arm placed the restless, nearly uncontrollable elemental creature into the “crew compartment” of the Purgatory incendiary bomb.

The great trees of Solin could summon treants armed as heavy gunners through druidic magic; mages could conjure arcane servants as lab assistants—or sometimes as test subjects; elementalists of various factions could summon or create basic elemental beings as servants or fighters. So it was perfectly logical that the Empire’s weapons production line would summon a living fire elemental to serve as the ignition core and amplifier for their incendiary bombs.

Princess Rebecca’s brilliance on the path of “fireballs” was truly impressive.

“The Purgatory incendiary bombs are assembled and ready for launch,” the brain’s voice echoed from the pulpit, breaking Sister Marian’s brief reverie.

“Permission to launch—may the Holy Light protect the bomb’s casing and fuel tanks.”

The mechanical device roared to life as a dark, cavernous launch port opened on the side of the aerial platform. Accompanied by the humming acceleration of the rail system and a cascade of pale cyan light streams, a strikingly bright cyan gas cluster detached from the base of the cathedral. It traced a graceful parabolic arc through the night sky, howling as it plunged toward a mountain pass to the northeast.

Midair, the shell fragmented; twelve storage tanks burst open before the projectile even hit the ground, spraying alchemical solution thoroughly into the air. Then, a dazzling flame erupted from the shell’s impact point, illuminating the entire mountainside with a blood-red glow. At the very heart of that fiery cloud, an intensely white-hot light detonated again, spreading and intensifying the blaze.

From within the inferno, a massive, vaguely humanoid figure rose, wildly flinging searing flames in every direction it could sense. The artificially created elemental environment caused this terrifying, uncontrollable summoned creature to grow rapidly within seconds. Before its lifespan ended and it disintegrated, this man-made hellfire was enough to incinerate everything on the surface.

Far off, Amiel, leader of the White Knights, watched the fire elemental giant ravaging the mountain pass. The night sky was lit as brightly as day by the inferno. He muttered thoughtfully, “I heard that cursing at the hellfire incendiary before it launches can boost its power and burn radius by twenty-five percent… but that can’t be true, can it?”

Wycliffe, standing nearby and a bit dazed, didn’t catch the high priest’s muttering and asked, “What did you say?”

“Ah… nothing,” Amiel snapped back to himself, waving a hand dismissively. Then, his expression grew serious as he looked over the human soldiers being tended by nuns and knights. “The environment here is harsh. Any wounded who can be moved should be transferred to the cathedral… Also, we suspect there may be other survivors in the area. I’ll send search parties to check the nearby ruins—we need to save as many as we can.”

Wycliffe gave the high priest a strange look. “You guys… really medical personnel?”

“Of course,” Amiel said, a little taken aback by the question. He glanced down at the prayer book in his hands, then at the cathedral and the nuns aiding the wounded nearby. “How do we not look like doctors?”

Wycliffe’s eyes flicked to the warhammer in Amiel’s hand, then to the flamethrower ports protruding from the cathedral walls and the mechanical gauntlets worn by the nuns. His mouth twitched. “Honestly? You don’t look like it anywhere.”

Just then, a young nun approached a fallen soldier. The soldier, struck by the nun’s beauty, momentarily forgot she was clergy and blurted out, “Oh, beautiful lady, I’m so lucky! Do you have a sweetheart? Maybe some time to—”

Before he could finish, the nun’s expression remained impassive as she asked, “Half anesthesia or full?”

The soldier blinked. “Uh… full…”

The next moment, a mechanical fist wrapped in metal surged toward his face—his last sight before losing consciousness.

“Fist anesthesia,” the nun nodded, signaling a junior sister to take over, then turned to another wounded soldier. “Half or full anesthesia?”

The other soldier swallowed hard, no longer daring to be flippant like the first. “Ha… half…”

“No half anesthesia.” Bang!

Wycliffe stood dumbfounded, watching the scene unfold.

Amiel had to explain, “Part of the nuns’ holy light healing apparatus is integrated into those gauntlets…”

“But I swear I just heard—never mind, I trust you.”

(End of chapter)