Chapter 1377: The Revival Moon Amidst the Flames of War
On the 22nd day of the Revival Moon this year, with the Dawn of the Mortal World fleet beginning its advance toward the Wastelands, the entire civilized world officially launched a full-scale counteroffensive against the desolation.
On the northern front, the mechanized legions of the Cecile Empire shattered all Wasteland forces north of the Arcane Scorch, pushing purification devices all the way to the ruins of Kagsura, once a key northern stronghold of the old Gondor Empire. The towering purification spires gleamed brilliantly across the barren earth, their radiant walls of cleansing energy stretching from the Dark Mountains to the front lines. Though the Wasteland legions launched several fierce counterattacks over the course of two weeks, their northern command structure collapsed completely, and the allied forces’ momentum remained unstoppable.
On the western front, the airborne fortress cluster led by the Dawn of the Mortal World descended upon the Wastelands like colossal beasts beneath the sky. These massive, awe-inspiring war machines advanced silently but resolutely toward the heart of the wasteland, raining down fiery judgment and thunderous wrath to purge all corruption. The purifying flames surged across the land, incinerating the mutated legions that still roamed after their command networks had fallen. The Wasteland’s feeble aerial units tried to resist but were utterly ineffective. Shielded by overwhelming air superiority, the ground forces—composed of Duke Bertram Franklin’s troops and the allied Ogure tribes—steadily pushed forward, efficiently erecting towering purification spires air-dropped by the Dawn of the Mortal World, extending an unbroken wall of defense across the wasteland.
On the southern front, the intervention of the Cecile expeditionary fleet solidified the Highridge Kingdom’s previously vulnerable defenses. The southern allied forces concentrated their strength at the Star Temple Fortress, while the deep-sea siren expeditionary army became the greatest asset in their advance. Fearless warriors from the ocean depths stirred up towering waves across the wasteland. In their wake, the Silver Elves’ mage corps and the Highridge Kingdom’s artisans swiftly constructed three purification towers within days, their operation dispelling the gloom that had hung over the southern battlefield all winter.
Meanwhile, on the eastern front, the veteran power of Typhon demonstrated its resilience in this brutal war. The Winter Wolf Legion, National Knights, and Mage Corps formed a powerful spearhead under the leadership of Andersa Wendel, pushing into the eastern wilderness of the former Gondor Empire and erecting seven purification towers along the way. Despite enduring divine calamities, harsh internal purges, and massive upheavals, Typhon remained the same indomitable force. By mid-Revival Moon, the eastern Wasteland legions were still locked in fierce, brutal combat with Typhon’s vanguard, but the Typhon forces never faltered in their advance.
The war’s outcome remained uncertain. The terrifying forces entrenched in the Wastelands continued to resist fiercely, but historians recording these events already recognized that no matter when the dust settled, this spring would mark the greatest turning point of the conflict.
…
The living inferno ignited by the Purgatory Incendiary Bombs had gradually died down, but the scorched heat left behind still steamed across the dry wasteland. The shimmering heat waves distorted the air like a warped lens, making the distant horizon waver and blur. For ordinary people, this was an almost unbearable environment, but for the well-equipped soldiers of the alliance, clad in full protective gear, it was the perfect battlefield to unleash their fury and exact revenge.
Heavy war machines rumbled deeply as steel tracks churned forward. Under the dim sky, clusters of Warhammer-II tanks advanced like armored beasts across the earth. The hot wind whipped up coarse dust, slapping against the tanks’ gray-black armor plates. Turrets adjusted their angles in the heat, long acceleration rails aimed at a small group of black-and-red monsters emerging from behind boulders and ruins in the distance. With a flash of blue light from the charging device, arcane shells screamed through the air, detonating moments later and blasting the few monsters that had survived the bombardment into the sky.
Nearby, the more scattered, barely surviving monsters met the light howitzer shells and rapid-fire missile launchers of the Iron Ambassador tanks, as well as the dense thermal beams from infantry weapons. Their hoarse roars barely escaped before their bodies turned to ash and blackened dust, which the next gust of hot wind scattered across the wasteland.
Behind the front lines, Duke Bertram Franklin leapt down from his vehicle and surveyed the dark land shrouded in filthy clouds. A protective shield of gentle wind shimmered beside him, blocking the heat waves and toxic gases. A soldier clad in light infantry armor, bearing the Cecile Empire’s emblem on his chest, approached and reported loudly, “Your Grace, the ground battlefield is clear. The drop zone is secure!”
Bertram nodded and glanced toward the other side of the position. “How’s King Wickliffe’s situation?”
“The fighting there has also ended. His Majesty’s engineering corps is constructing fortifications and assembling ground signal stations.”
“Looks like those Ogure warriors are getting the hang of it…” Bertram nodded, then looked up at the sky. The Dawn of the Mortal World hovered overhead, subtly adjusting its angle and position. Twelve Gorgon fortresses floated like small “islands” around the massive fortress, while countless dragonrider fighters swarmed like a hive around the aerial fleet. Countless gun barrels pointed toward the distant wasteland; if the monsters dared to surge again, the thunderous celestial fire would annihilate them all.
On the other side of the line, King Wickliffe gazed toward a rolling shadow on the battlefield’s edge. It appeared as a jagged, oddly shaped mountain range, but in truth, it was a molten city—the horrific scar left by the great Gondor explosion. Accompanying scholars explained that the city’s main power node had been detonated by uncontrollable deep-blue magic, its backlash melting the entire city into this terrifying form. Such dreadful sights were common throughout the Gondor Wastelands.
Seven centuries later, the wasteland’s horrors still chilled every witness to their core.
“Your Majesty, the surrounding area has been cleared,” a soldier approached, breaking Wickliffe’s reverie. “The Dawn of the Mortal World requests permission to begin the air drop.”
“Reply that the site is ready and can accept the drop at any time,” Wickliffe nodded. Just as he finished speaking, a sudden movement stirred among nearby wreckage. A half-bodied mutant clawed its way out of the dirt, emitting a chaotic roar as it lunged toward them in a grotesquely twisted form. The soldier nearby drew his sword in shock, but the king reacted faster. Wickliffe raised his arm; mechanical joints whirred softly as a black cannon barrel emerged from his alloy palm. With a sharp whistle, three arcane missiles streaked out, shredding the mutant’s broken body into fragments.
Wickliffe retracted his arm, the transforming mechanism quickly resetting under direct neural control. He glanced at the soldier. “Be warned: these creatures have terrifying vitality. Even if you blow them in half, they might not truly die. Only when their bones start smoking black are they truly finished. Make sure the troops watch every piece of wreckage on the battlefield—don’t leave a single scrap of flesh behind.”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” the soldier responded loudly before sprinting back to the rear lines. Wickliffe watched him go, then lifted his gaze to the flying fortress above.
After a period of adjustment and learning, the soldiers he had brought along were finally adapting to the Cecile combat style—something they had never encountered before. The tactic was straightforward: the airborne fleet led by the Dawn of the Mortal World would strike first, bombarding all large enemy units and most gathering points. Then, heavy armored units would push in to clear surviving enemy strongholds and hidden facilities. Infantry and light vehicles would follow to secure the objectives and build fortifications. Throughout the operation, the flying machines maintained total air dominance—a concept the Cecile called “air superiority.”
Air superiority was essential because the Wasteland legions did possess their own flying units. The bloated, spellcasting “Swollen Polluters” were no match for the airborne fortresses, but without air cover, ground forces would face a terrifying threat.
Frankly, this was not the kind of combat the Ogure soldiers had initially imagined. In most cases, monsters that survived aerial bombardment and tank fire were so few that soldiers rarely needed to engage in close combat. The scattered mutants often fell under concentrated light weapon fire as soon as they appeared. The bloody, vengeful battles they had envisioned never materialized, which initially unsettled the troops—but that unease quickly faded.
The shattered mutants under heavy artillery and the beasts reduced to ash by living flames could equally honor the sacrifices made at Fort Falm. Though the monsters might not have been slain by the soldiers’ own blades, their deaths were far less pitiful than dying by sword or spear—and that was enough.
Wickliffe glanced down at his silver-glinting mechanical arm, feeling the surging power coursing between the alloy frame and artificial nerves. His fingers slowly clenched, then relaxed.
Above him, a flash appeared at the edge of the Dawn of the Mortal World. A frame the size of a house detached from the fortress, its anti-gravity rings glowing faint blue as the entire structure rapidly descended toward the surface.
Soon, more drop structures separated from the fortress. Assisted by disposable anti-gravity units, these massive “components” howled through the polluted air and rising heat waves, finally slowing and landing in the designated area near the ground forces.
After the anti-gravity ring powered down, the gravity-regulating runes embedded in the airdrop structure continued to operate for a while. During this time, the engineers transported each component to its designated spot and, with the help of heavy machinery and dragonrider aircraft, assembled them into a towering purification spire—one of the nodes of the barrier wall.
The entire process took about twenty-four hours—an astonishing speed compared to purification towers built through conventional means.
Images from the surface streamed through neural conduits into the control hall where the main brain was located, then projected via the magic network terminal connected to the biomass reservoir onto the main console. Rebecca’s eyes stayed fixed on the airdropped components as they descended toward the earth, slowing under the anti-gravity ring’s influence. She watched the engineering teams on the ground retrieve each piece as it landed, only allowing herself a slight breath of relief once the last component was secured.
“The cargo has reached the surface,” she said, lifting her gaze to Jenna Prince standing nearby. “They’ll start assembly soon.”
“Then we’ll have our hands full shortly,” Jenna nodded softly from the commander’s seat. But her eyes were drawn to another set of holographic projections—an array encircling the display, showing the vast wasteland surrounding the entire aerospace battle group. Within the range of the sensors—the “big eyes” around the Dawn of the Mortal World—faint black dots were gradually converging, gathering like an incoming tide.
The wasteland legions feared no death. Though their controllers were sentient dark priests, after suffering several defeats at the hands of the Cecilian long-range and ultra-long-range firepower, those dark priests had learned to hide far in the rear, relying entirely on root networks to remotely command their monstrous armies. As a result, the forces the Alliance could strike within range were now only those death-defying aberrations and biochemical horrors.
No matter how heavy or fierce the blows they took, these creatures would quickly regroup and launch wave after wave of counterattacks.
Honestly, these counterattacks were pointless. But the aberrations never cared—they were an extension of the wasteland, part of its twisted ecosystem. As long as the wasteland endured, the aberrations would maintain a steady population. Whether it was a supercritical accelerator or a purgatory incendiary bomb, they were like stones thrown into water: even if the splash pushed the surface back momentarily, the pond’s water would rush back to fill the void in the next instant. The enemy never cared whether their counterattacks achieved anything.
Even though those waves of monsters couldn’t slow the Alliance’s advance by so much as a fraction, they kept coming relentlessly.
Because their commanders understood that no matter how overwhelming the Alliance’s victories were in each battle, the “cost” of fighting kept accumulating—the soldiers’ morale, ammunition consumption, the social pressures of maintaining a wartime footing across nations… none of these reset with victory. Instead, they piled up, becoming a heavy burden on the entire civilized world.
By contrast, the wasteland legions’ cost was simply the ever-shrinking space in which they could operate—and in this vast, boundless realm of the old kingdom of Gondor, they still had plenty of room to pay that price.
At this point, the initial momentum and fanaticism had faded. The wasteland commanders seemed to have come to a clear understanding of the nature of the conflict.
A battle of giants: the exhausted fall.
“Begin assembling the purgatory incendiary bombs,” Jenna breathed out softly. “Supercritical accelerator pre-charging. Awaiting launch command.”
(End of chapter)