Chapter 1337: The Slip-Up

Wycliffe spoke with a solemn and resolute expression. It was clear his decision was made—not on impulse, but with deep conviction. In fact, this resolve had likely taken root the moment he first heard from the White Knight about Cecil’s so-called “medical techniques” earlier that day, even before Pittman arrived.

Even someone as cynical and flippant as Pittman dropped his usual smirk and treated the king’s decision with serious respect.

“Alright, if that’s your decision—though I must remind you, as the head of this medical ship, it’s my responsibility to say this,” the stooped old druid stepped forward to stand beside Wycliffe’s bedside, locking eyes with him. “Mechanical prosthetics are a new technology, a fusion of druidic magic, magitech, and Talrond implant techniques. We’ve had some successes, but it’s still imperfect. As one of the lead developers, I’m confident I can perform the surgery on you. But someday down the line, this arm might malfunction. In the worst case…”

The old druid paused, carefully choosing his words before continuing gently, “The prosthetic could fail, and you might need another operation. Considering how fast the technology evolves, we might have to reopen your stump to replace the artificial nerves and alloy bone connectors. That process won’t be pleasant.”

“For me, the priority is to recover as quickly as possible,” Wycliffe said calmly. “I heard from my attending physician that the Alliance needs every bit of strength it can get right now, right? Prepare me a mechanical arm. Honestly… I’m even looking forward to it.”

“Alright, a mechanical arm it is,” Pittman sighed and waved a hand. Then, as if remembering something, he suddenly asked, “By the way, will one arm be enough?”

Wycliffe blinked. “…Huh?”

Pittman chuckled, gesturing as he explained, “Since you’re going through all this anyway, if one’s not enough, I can add two more. Prosthetics aren’t like natural limbs—modifying the interface is relatively simple…”

Wycliffe was dumbfounded. Just moments ago, he’d thought himself quite adaptable, even proud of how calmly he faced Cecil’s unbelievable new tech. Now he realized how shallow his understanding of this era really was—Cecil’s gadgets were probably still a bit ahead of most humans.

“Uh… maybe… let’s not,” the human king said awkwardly, waving his hand as he tried to keep his composure. “One normal arm is fine. More than that, I probably wouldn’t know what to do with.”

“Fair enough. Most people don’t adjust well to that many,” Pittman shrugged. “We haven’t reached Talrond’s level yet. I’ll leave the interface ready, though. If you ever want more, just say the word.”

The conversation was veering into strange territory, and Wycliffe felt increasingly out of sync. He forced a polite, awkward smile to keep things civil. Fortunately, the old druid didn’t linger on the unsettling topic. After some wild speculation, Pittman glanced at the mechanical clock on the wall, then stood up.

“Alright, I’ve been here long enough. I won’t keep you. You’ve got a friend waiting outside—I’ll go get her.”

“Friend?” Wycliffe blinked, surprised to hear he had visitors while convalescing in this floating fortress. “Who?”

“You’ll see when she comes in,” Pittman said, waving him off as he headed for the door. “She’s a furry one, been waiting out there a while…”

“Furry?” Wycliffe was momentarily confused, but his question was answered moments later when the door swung open. A tall, well-built orc woman entered, her head wrapped in bandages and dressed in loose hospital clothes.

Bathed in the warm sunlight streaming through the window, she smiled warmly. Her face, covered in fur, blended feline features with the contours of a human woman, giving her a friendly, approachable look.

“Hey, Wycliffe! Good to see your head’s still attached to your body. A couple days ago, I was already planning to come by every year to weed your grave…” she said with a booming, cheerful voice.

Wycliffe couldn’t help but show a hint of exasperation. “Camilla, your mouth… well, you’ve been like this for years.”

“You’re still so subtle with your compliments,” Camilla grinned as she approached the bed, grabbing some fruit from the nearby table and biting into it. Between mouthfuls, she mumbled, “I heard you held out at Fort Falm until the Holy Sunset Legion arrived. Look at you now… finally a real warrior. Honestly, I used to think you were kind of a wimp.”

The orc chieftain’s eyes flicked to Wycliffe’s empty arm socket. He just gave a resigned smirk and glanced over at her.

Camilla’s battle-hardened exterior barely concealed the scars beneath. Bandages wrapped her head, one ear stood upright while the other was carefully bound. Her arms, neck, and every visible inch of skin bore marks of countless wounds. Even the tip of her furry tail was bandaged, and she kept twitching it nervously.

“You don’t look so great yourself,” Wycliffe observed thoughtfully, guessing why she was here. “So you’re staying on this ‘medical ship’ too?”

“Not far from you, but I didn’t want to come up here,” Camilla grumbled. “I know my body. These injuries aren’t fatal. Taking time off to heal feels like a waste. But the Cecil doctors don’t agree. They say if I keep pushing, I’ll lose at least ten years off my life. For my own good, I should just accept treatment.”

“I’m surprised. You don’t strike me as the type to listen to that kind of advice,” Wycliffe shrugged. “Especially now, you’d probably beat up the doctors who told you to rest—and then apologize afterward.”

“…Mostly because I haven’t beaten those doctors yet,” Camilla admitted, looking embarrassed. “Those White Knights are tougher than I thought. They only explained all that after they knocked me down.”

She narrowed her eyes, then defended herself, “I was careless and not in shape. How can I fight those ironclads barehanded? Besides, who expects a bunch of ‘doctors’ to be so tough? Next time I’ll bring my axe… never mind.”

Wycliffe twitched his mouth, listening to the chieftain’s rambling. Finally, he interrupted, “You really trust those White Knights calling themselves ‘doctors’?”

“…I was careless,” Camilla sighed. “Got played by the Cecilians.”

Wycliffe’s lips twitched into a smile. For a moment, he felt a rare sense of ease and familiarity.

But he didn’t linger in that comfort. After a few seconds, the human king’s smile faded as he looked Camilla in the eye. “How’s the situation now?”

“Overall, good news. We’re reclaiming lost ground. The gaps in the northern and southern defenses are being patched up by the air fortresses and Cecil’s ground troops. The enemy’s main forces took a heavy blow the day the Dawn of the World entered the fight. They won’t be able to mount large-scale offensives anytime soon. The main battlefield is shifting south, with Stur’s troops and some air fortresses reinforcing the southern line.

“Stella and her golem legion are on the Holy Mountain. The fae are helping Cecil build a new communications network—I don’t understand the tech much…

“Wenna’s in Red Ruby City, just below us. She’s with Duke Bertram, planning to retake the Mountain Barrier. There are still many mutants holding the eastern barrier—those are organized ‘regular troops,’ not the lone rogue monsters in the forests. They’ve turned large areas into wastelands. Retaking that region will be tough, but as long as the Dawn of the World moves east, the problem will be solved…”

Camilla’s voice grew heavy, her expression complex. “…We’ve lost many lives, cities and villages have been razed, fertile fields and water sources polluted, forests burned to charcoal. But many of us have survived. Wycliffe, you’re an optimist. I don’t need to remind you now, right?”

“Yes. Many of us have survived,” Wycliffe said softly, gazing out the window as the massive silhouette of the Dawn of the World rose from the clouds, reflecting a pale golden light. “It’s good to be alive.”

“…Indeed. Being alive means we can do what the dead could not.”

Silence fell over the room as the two tribal leaders sank into their thoughts. Then, a voice suddenly broke the quiet—from a communication device on a nearby table, a holographic projection of a young woman with a golden ponytail appeared. Her expression was serious as she addressed Wycliffe.

“Apologies for interrupting your conversation, Your Majesty Wycliffe. I am Jenna Prince, supreme commander of the Cecil Air Force. I need to discuss some details regarding the recent Battle of Falm…”

Two hours later, north of Wolfspine Mountain, before the ruins of the Farm Fortress—once breached and razed to the ground by the Aberrant Legion—the towering Steel Cathedral stood resolute on the scorched earth. A barrier of holy light shimmered over the fortress’s original walls, while within the cathedral’s energy field, intersecting firepoints had been established. A hastily constructed line of defenses now sealed the mountain pass that had been broken open, with vigilant cannon barrels extending from the fortifications, trained on the vast fallen territory to the east.

Thick flows of molten, obsidian-like substance oozed down from the nearby mountainside, piling up into layered, uneven obstacles at the pass. The flames of the Infernal Incendiary Bombs had long since died out, but the terrifying scars they left behind still served as a grim warning to any creature daring to challenge this battlefield.

Above the Farm Fortress, another Steel Cathedral hovered in the sky, maintaining air superiority alongside the entire aerial combat fleet over the region.

Inside the flying cathedral, Sister Marian stood before a steel-forged pulpit. A holographic projection flickered above the iron platform shaped like a prayer book, clearly displaying a scene from the ruins of a section of the Farm Fortress. Judging by the perspective, the image was transmitted from a ground-based communications terminal.

A cleric clad in heavy white knight armor appeared before the projection. He saluted Sister Marian at the pulpit and reported, “Sister Marian, we have reached the ruins of the North Tower. This should be the location King Wickliffe described to Commander Jinna.”

Marian frowned. “Any findings?”

“Not yet. All traces here have been destroyed. Even if there were clues, they’re likely buried deep within the rubble. However, there are still residual magical fluctuations—we’re currently gathering readings on ambient mana interference.”

“Search thoroughly,” Marian said gravely. “Something abnormal definitely happened here. The Aberrants deployed an unusually large force to storm the Farm’s most fortified northern tower. After completely destroying it, they occupied this area for a long time. That’s unlike their usual tactics… Those monsters may have erased many traces, but under Warlord Amiel’s thunderous assault, they shouldn’t have had time to cover everything.”

“Yes, Sister Marian!”

The white knight responded solemnly. After a brief pause, the young cleric couldn’t help but ask, “Sister, what exactly are we looking for?”

“Our frontline scholars discovered clues to the Wasteland Legion’s true objective here on Wolfspine Mountain,” Marian explained seriously. “We’re searching for a black cube, about one to two meters in length, called a Rune Stone. Those dark priests are attempting to use these devices to carry out some unspeakably sinister purpose…”

The blonde sister’s expression hardened as she glanced at another nearby hologram showing an aerial view of the ravaged Ogure lands and the warband warriors guarding the mountain pass. She took a slow breath.

Perhaps the warband’s efforts on this land had not truly secured victory. Behind the monsters’ apparent retreat lay the grim truth of their dreadful scheme coming to fruition.

But… in the end, those monsters had shown their hand.

(End of chapter)