Chapter 1376: May the Mortal World Welcome the Dawn

As the radiant sun climbed to its zenith, its pale wood-grain patterns and brilliant crown casting endless light across the sky, the entire Crimson Jade City basked in warmth and brightness. The harsh winter had finally ended, and the month of revival was breathing the first life of the year into the land. From the towering city walls to the charred borders of the Crimson Jade Forest, warriors from every Ogure tribe gathered in their camps. On this gentle day, they awaited new orders—the mountain barrier had been rebuilt, the enemy driven back into the wasteland, countless ruined cities poised for reclamation and reconstruction. The anxious populace began to hope for a new life. Yet for those on the front lines, though winter was over, the war was far from finished.

Camilla and Wenna walked side by side along the outskirts of the city’s encampments, passing through the human soldiers’ quarters as they made their way toward the Spirit Tribe’s base at the ruins of the Crimson Jade Forest. A warm breeze drifted down from the mountains, ruffling the soft fur at the tips of Camilla’s ears. The beast tribe chieftain squinted, her pointed ears twitching twice in the air. “Spring has come…”

“Yeah,” Wenna replied, pulling back her hood to let her ash-gray hair fall freely in the wind. Her gaze drifted toward the nearby camp, where rows of tents and wooden barracks stood orderly, and human soldiers busied themselves with preparations. These were the troops Wickliff had reassembled from the western regions.

The soldiers silently checked their gear or marched wordlessly between the barracks. Weapons and equipment transported via the transcontinental air routes and international railways had been distributed to these frontline fighters. Traditional swords and knives had been replaced by Cecil-patterned plasma blades; bows and staves swapped for scorching ray guns and magic-tech terminals with high-capacity energy cells. Warriors from all tribes were rapidly learning and mastering these new arms, but among them, the human soldiers’ progress was nothing short of astonishing.

A patrol soldier near the camp’s edge noticed the two tribal leaders passing by. He stopped, saluted Wenna and Camilla respectfully, then quickly resumed his patrol route.

“Do you feel it?” Camilla’s deep voice came from beside her. The beast chieftain’s gaze was steady and intense as she looked toward the human camp. Her ears tilted slightly backward—a traditional sign of respect among her people. “Every one of them carries a fire burning in their chest. They are as resolute as mountain warriors, steel-willed and ready to face death against the invading monsters.”

“After the fall of Fort Farm, the human tribes lost two cities and countless villages. Over a hundred thousand souls never escaped that hell—friends and family among them. Even their king lost an arm in the battle. Wickliff himself took it in stride, but when he returned with a mechanical arm to reorganize the troops, the fury of countless people ignited instantly. I doubt even he expected that,” Wenna shook her head. “Now, the hatred between the Ogure human tribes and those monsters runs deep. That’s why Duke Bertram chose Wickliff’s forces as the first legion to join the Cecil expedition into the wasteland—they can endure the greatest pressure, and they’re ready for it.”

“But they’re also prone to self-destruction,” Camilla said gravely. “How to avoid falling victim to overwhelming rage and bloodlust—that’s a challenge even for mountain warriors.”

“That depends on Wickliff’s leadership. I trust he can keep his troops in line,” Wenna smiled faintly. “And your mountain legion will soon enter the wasteland too, right? Don’t forget to look after our old friends.”

“No need to remind me. I’m a professional when it comes to war.” Camilla smiled, her sharp canine teeth glinting coldly at the corners of her mouth.

Wenna’s gaze shifted away from the camp to another direction. To her right lay a wide, barren stretch of land. The winter snow had melted completely, revealing the ugly scars of war etched deeply into the earth. Countless charred remains and thick ash covered everything in sight. Once towering ancient trees and stone pillars inscribed with the names of sages lay toppled, buried beneath layers of dust and cinders.

Along with the Crimson Jade Forest, burned and buried here were the former guardians of the woods, a chapter of the beast tribe’s history, and memories of Wenna’s childhood—hunting and gathering alongside Camilla in these very woods.

“I heard the name of this place hasn’t changed,” Wenna said instinctively. “Your shamans debated renaming the forest, since the once lush Crimson Jade Forest has been reduced to scorched earth. But you rejected all those proposals and insisted on keeping the name…”

“The Rebirth Tree atop the Ancestor’s Peak grows stronger after the fire,” Camilla said calmly. “Duke Bertram told me the people of the Holy Spirit Plains believe that ‘land burned by fire will sprout even more vigorous new growth.’ The Crimson Jade Forest was once just a small grove—our ancestors turned it into a vast forest sea. One day, it will be lush again. So… the Crimson Jade Forest remains the Crimson Jade Forest.”

Wenna blinked. Suddenly, a low, rumbling hum rose from the sky, interrupting their conversation. The sound grew from faint to thunderous, swelling into a wave that echoed between heaven and earth—like a colossal beast roaring among the clouds. The two tribal leaders instinctively lifted their heads. The imposing silhouettes of the Dawn of the Mortal World and twelve Gorgon flying fortresses came into view.

For most of the past winter, these engineering marvels—floating cities of war—had hovered above Crimson Jade City. They symbolized the alliance’s greatest and most advanced power, bringing boundless confidence and fighting spirit to this battered land. Now, the massive rune matrices surrounding the aerial fortresses lit up one by one. Wing arrays extended skyward, releasing brilliant streams of light like burning flames. Magic particles surged from energy grids embedded in the armor, swirling like mist around the colossal bodies. Then, the majestic fleet began to move eastward across the sky. Beneath the radiant sun, their halos seemed to merge into a vast ocean of light. From countless camps inside and outside Crimson Jade City, thunderous cheers erupted like mountains crashing down.

“They’re moving out,” Camilla suddenly clenched her fist. She lifted her head to watch the fleet’s course, her feline pupils narrowing to slits in the dazzling sunlight. As if to emphasize her words, she nodded firmly and said again, “The Dawn of the Mortal World has set sail!”

Wenna took a deep breath. Usually calm and composed, she now felt an unprecedented surge of emotion—like the last time she’d seen a train loaded with industrial goods roll into Wind Song City. The gray elf leader watched the massive shapes gradually blur into a continuous shadow under the sun, listened to the mountain-like cheers from the camps beyond the city, and whispered softly, in a voice only she could hear, “May the mortal world welcome the dawn…”

“The Dawn of the Mortal World has departed.”

Outside Crimson Jade City, at the eastern camp, Duke Bertram Franklin spoke quietly, lowering his gaze from the sky. He stood beside a frontline command vehicle equipped with composite shields and heavy armor. Nearby, a multifunctional “Iron Ambassador” war machine deployed its onboard magic crystals, projecting a charged energy field over the surrounding area. Further off, armored vehicles rumbled to life, expeditionary soldiers boarded transports, and dragonrider fighters rose with a low hum, linking to ground command stations. Under unified, efficient command, this well-trained expeditionary force was ready to march to the battlefield.

“Send a message to King Wickliff,” Duke Bertram said to his adjutant. “Our unit will depart in ten minutes, moving toward the mountain barrier pass. Request his forces to keep pace.”

“Yes, Your Grace!”

…

The sun sank lower, casting a warm orange glow evenly across the train station platform. In the eastern continent’s Typhon Empire, sunset arrived earlier than in other lands. Amid the deepening twilight, Viscount Hermir instinctively tugged at his collar and adjusted his posture before glancing up at the mechanical clock mounted on a pillar. The brass hands seemed to move agonizingly slow—so slow he almost wondered if the clock had broken.

He stood on the platform of a station on the empire’s southwestern frontier, far from the familiar, prosperous comfort of Aldern, far from his beloved hearth, garden, and the high-backed chair with its sky-blue cushion. Here, there were no well-trained maids or attendants—only rigid soldiers and single-minded technicians. No soothing baths or flower halls, only the mechanical roar of assembly factories and the dull monotony of the platform. It had taken him a long time to adjust to this drastic change, but lately he was beginning to admit that his ability to “adapt” might not be as gifted as he once thought.

“Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with my head,” the viscount muttered quietly to his attendant, who had been waiting beside him for some time. His voice was low, careful not to be overheard by the craftsmen and soldiers nearby, but he didn’t mind confiding in his personal valet—the one person he trusted most besides his steward, more than any sibling in his family. “To think I volunteered to come here… This place is less than a day’s journey from the border where Count Dyson is stationed! I swear I can smell the stench of the wasteland in the air.”

He didn’t know if the wasteland itself had a smell, but the tense, grim atmosphere in this frontier town made him feel as if every morning here carried the scent of that desolation—that unmistakable odor of death lurking just beyond the horizon.

The servant spoke up, his voice as gentle as ever. “But you volunteered to come here, sir. As a brave Typhonian, you’re playing an irreplaceable role—after all, not everyone has your experience managing multiple factories and rapidly assembling large technical teams.”

“Alright, I’ll admit I’m a bit better at those things than some pampered layabouts,” Viscount Hermir pinched his temple thoughtfully. “Besides, as the saying goes… the Empire needs every citizen to do their duty, especially in times like these. We all have to be ready.”

He tugged at his collar again—then, finally, he just took it off altogether. If he’d been at some salon in Aldern, he’d never have dared such a crude move. But here, it brought an instant relief, and he found himself wondering why he’d spent so many days torturing himself with that useless thing.

Raising his head, he looked out toward the V-shaped railway tracks stretching southward into the sunset, disappearing into the distance.

These were hard times. Even proud Typhonians had to admit it. But as a nobleman, it was his duty to inspire those who followed him to believe this hardship would pass—and that everyone must play their part. Perhaps it was that very pride that had driven him to volunteer for this post, to this border town just a day’s journey from the front lines. And now, he was waiting for a train arriving from the south.

The railway led toward the Blue Rock Hills. Ironically, it had barely ever been used. Built swiftly after the 112th Conference as part of the Alliance’s commercial expansion, it was soon baptized by war—viciously torn apart by those clumsy, despicable monsters. But now, with the Silver Elves and Typhonian Empire’s warriors having reclaimed lost lands and repaired this vital artery, the station beneath Viscount Hermir’s feet had waited through an entire winter—and today, it would finally welcome its first train.

Just as Hermir was about to glance again at the mechanical clock tower, a sharp whistle pierced the horizon.

The viscount straightened instantly, all impatience and fatigue vanishing.

He would greet the elves with the utmost dignity, as a true Typhonian should.

The arcane-powered train roared along the tracks, the Silver Empire’s emblem blazing clearly on its engine. The repulsion engines adjusted their angle, gradually slowing the massive steel behemoth. One freight car after another rolled toward the platform, where the long-awaiting craftsmen and soldiers hurried forward, ready for the dispatcher to lower the magical barrier.

Hermir’s gaze settled on the slowly arriving freight cars. On those flatbeds, massive industrial machines were secured with sturdy steel frames and bolts—heavy, precious cargo.

Purification cores from the Silver Empire—technically, these were partially processed cores still needing final calibration and installation.

The key to the blockade was the purification towers. As an established power, the Typhonian Empire could build these towers, of course. But building them was one thing; producing them in quantity was another.

After the devastation of the War God’s Cataclysm and internal upheavals, maintaining the eastern front was far from easy.

Domestic production had its limits. If the front-line legions were to be sustained, the manufacture of purification tower components would suffer. Focus all efforts on producing purification devices, and the war machine at the front would falter.

But now, things were finally looking up.

“Notify General Andersa,” Viscount Hermir smiled, eyes fixed on the massive spindle-like purification cores secured to the train, as if mountains of treasure lay before him. “The purification cores she requested will be here soon.”

(End of chapter)