Chapter 1389: The Tide Turns

Veronica stepped out of the gate, the gentle warmth of late spring sunlight resting on her shoulders. A blazing sun hung high in the sky, its radiant crown and the faint wood-grain patterns on its surface shimmering behind thin clouds, painting a magnificent scene. A soft breeze drifted in from afar, sweeping through the bustling streets of Cecil and rustling the lush roadside trees. The air carried the fresh scent of grass and leaves, mingled with the distant clatter of carriages and footsteps.

She inhaled deeply, as if trying to imprint the vibrant essence of this thriving world into her very being, then slowly exhaled the stale air. Stretching her arms slightly in the sunlight, she squinted gently. Every sensation her body perceived was instantly transmitted to the main servo matrix—then she opened her eyes anew. The images, sounds, and tactile data captured by 43,672 integrated sensors flooded her consciousness.

Outside, a harsh hot wind whipped up dust, battering the outer defense towers. Damaged armor plates smoldered faintly under the dim sky. Welding drones darted between weapon stations and shield platforms. High-energy missiles and magical beams from afar sliced through the air like a net, striking the ancient shields above the Old Imperial Capital with thunderous roars. The translucent energy barriers rippled under the assault, and beneath their shimmering surface, waves of aberrations and synthetic beasts surged forward. Twisted limbs and chaotic, maddened howls streamed back through battlefield sensors into the matrix, stirring a roaring storm within the data processors.

Deep laboratories were shut down, excavation stations sealed, all manufacturing and processing orders reprioritized. Every ounce of energy and material from the bunkers and fortresses was redirected to the war effort. The Ophelia matrix powered down all nonessential systems, pouring centuries’ worth of accumulated resources into war factories and frontline facilities. The Iron Legion mobilized in full force.

After seven centuries of silence, the last battalion left by the Gondor Empire once again marched onto the battlefield. This might be their final stand—not just for the Imperial Capital, but for all of Gondor itself.

It was the 50th day of the Month of Revival, Year 4 in Cecil. The Battle of the Wasteland had reached its greatest turning point since the war began. After a series of offensives against the civilized world were halted, and the allied forces pushed deep into the wasteland, cutting off the extension of the blockade wall with unstoppable momentum, the dark priests entrenched in the wasteland’s depths abandoned direct confrontation with the alliance’s main forces. Instead, they gambled everything on a desperate assault against the Deep Blue Well.

Aberrations, bio-synthetic beasts, grotesque root constructs, and the priesthood—all the wasteland legions united swiftly into a cataclysmic tidal wave, launching a ferocious assault on the Deep Blue Well from every direction. The central wasteland, which had long been a stalemate, was instantly engulfed in raging flames. Like a dark tsunami, the shadowy horde swept across the vast lands surrounding the ancient Gondor capital. Fierce battles erupted on every scorched inch of earth. Amid the surging black tide, the radiance of the Deep Blue Well once again shone as the brightest beacon on this land—an echo of seven centuries past.

News of this seismic shift spread immediately throughout the alliance, shaking the leaders of its member nations. Yet no one panicked. From the day construction began on the blockade wall, the alliance’s high command—led by the three great empires of Cecil, Typhon, and Silver—had run simulations. Their senior generals and political leaders had long predicted that if the wasteland legions’ command realized the situation was irreversible and attrition tactics failed, they would view the Deep Blue Well as their “last resort.” The entire alliance had been bracing for this turning point. Though it arrived sooner than expected, the mortal armies were far from unprepared.

On the 53rd day of the Month of Revival, after an unprecedented mobilization of supplies and personnel, the alliance accelerated its advance across the wasteland. Led by the main forces of the three great empires, dozens of member states contributed everything they could muster—troops, food, laborers, steel. All flowed toward the ancient lands of Gondor, transforming at the front into a blazing torrent, along with towering purification spires rising from the earth.

Shortly after the alliance’s full-scale push began, forward commanders confirmed signs of the wasteland legions’ decline. Though aberrations and synthetic beasts grew more numerous deeper into the wasteland, their command and combat awareness plummeted. The once-disciplined, tactically precise wasteland forces descended into chaos. On most fronts, the aberrations charged blindly, relying solely on instinct to attack any living target. In some areas, completely uncontrolled “wild” aberrations and lost synthetic beasts wandered aimlessly. This eased pressure on the frontline troops and confirmed the commanders’ and leaders’ suspicions—

The wasteland legions’ numbers were infinite, but their commanders were not. When all their leaders turned to assault the Deep Blue Well, the “rear guard” left on the frontline was nothing but a disorganized rabble.

At the Cecil front, a blinding white torrent tore across the sky, leaving a faintly distorted, heat-warped trail in the atmosphere. At the battlefield’s edge, the torrent struck the earth, its high-purity, high-intensity arcane energy melting rock and scorching the soil, leaving a trail of dark red lava scars. The monsters charging across the plain were instantly reduced to dust beneath the white light, leaving no trace behind.

The armored train “General Winter” rumbled low from its twin armory cars. Heat vents opened beneath the armor plates, and alchemical coolant flowed through the heat exchange grids of the iridescent beam generators, absorbing massive heat and billowing out as white mist from both sides of the war machine. Inside the armory cars, technical sergeants swiftly replaced spent coolant tanks with fresh ones, while empty tanks rolled down rails into recycling bins for refilling.

These disposable coolant tanks—a new technology, or rather a new approach—greatly increased the firing rate and stability of the train’s iridescent beam cannons. Compared to traditional cooling systems relying on bulky pumps and piping, the new alchemical coolant tanks nearly doubled the beam’s firing speed while occupying less than a third of the old system’s space. The saved room was enough to install two additional close-defense weapon stations and their ammo depots.

Philip stood inside the tactical car of General Winter, watching the battlefield through various surveillance feeds. He saw the remaining aberrations and bio-synthetic beasts launching a renewed assault across the plains—if such a mindless swarm could be called an “assault.” The relentless bombardment from the beam cannons and train artillery failed to intimidate these dim-witted creatures. Without command, they lacked the ability to seek cover, disperse formations, or coordinate wave attacks. All they could do was charge blindly, over and over, into the hail of fire.

Yet sheer numbers and reckless courage still had some effect. Even after heavy losses, many monsters closed to a range where the train’s beam generators and artillery could no longer fire effectively. Within this close range, the armored train was powerless.

That was when the light infantry artillery, grenade launchers, train close-defense guns, and the purification weapons wielded by the White Knights and the Battle Nuns came into play.

Under the dim sky, the flesh-and-blood tide of wasteland monsters surged against the mortal-built defenses. Close-defense guns and light rail accelerators roared, sending dense firestorms raining down like a storm. After a brief delay, continuous shockwaves and explosions erupted. Then, heavily armored White Knights charged forward. Their tough armor, unwavering will, and excellent shields—augmented by potent holy light—were enough to withstand the weak energy beams and ineffective magical missiles hurled by the aberrations’ spellcasters. Their holy light assault cannons could purify everything unclean within a radius of two to three hundred meters in moments.

Following them, the Battle Nuns launched their own attack. Clad in enhanced shields, fueled by fervent devotion to the empire and surrounded by sanctified light, they wielded preaching staves fitted with “Blessed Fury” combustion systems. Designed specifically for female clerics, these burners were lighter and had shorter range than the White Knights’ heavy flamers but featured conduits delivering special alchemical fuel from “holy reservoirs” carried on their backs. This potent concoction allowed their flames to burn the heretical monsters until all their sins were cleansed.

Of course, some wasteland creatures were especially resistant to fire, and their sins could not be purged all at once. But that was no problem—the nuns had set up heavy flametowers along the line. These towers unleashed plasma streams—high-level spellfire whips—capable of burning through reinforced concrete walls.

As the imperial military manual stated: White Knights and Battle Nuns were exceptional medical units—not only praised for their healing skills but also for their ability to cleanse and heal the land itself.

The distant roar of artillery aboard the armored train gradually faded. When the enemy was utterly routed, General Winter’s close-defense guns fell silent first, followed by the infantry artillery at nearby firepoints. Philip withdrew from the monitors and moved to the other side of the car. Opening the armored panel of the window, he surveyed the battlefield directly.

The main wasteland forces occupying this area had been annihilated. Only a few stragglers staggered through the flames and craters, driven by instinct to crawl toward any sign of life. The soldiers need not chase them down; these creatures would willingly crawl into the fire and meet their end. Without command, the wasteland legions were nothing more than a pack of monsters, less than wild beasts.

Some writhing shadows stretched out from the edge of the car window—dark brown vines, or rather tendrils—slithering across the scorched battlefield. They roamed among the charred corpses, rummaging and picking through the remains. Philip saw a staggering bio-beast just crawling out of a shell crater when one of the tendrils snaked around it. The ugly creature thrashed wildly in the air, roaring loudly, before the tendril dragged it onto a fire to roast. It struggled until it was thoroughly cooked, then fell silent. The tendril swiftly wrapped around the prize and disappeared into a nearby fissure in the ground.

Munching sounds echoed from deep beneath the earth.

But most of the tendrils came up empty-handed. The battlefield was littered with nothing but completely charred, carbonized remains or shattered fragments so pulverized they couldn’t be pieced back together—just dust and distorted skeletons drifting away. Back when Beltira first emerged from the edge of the Black Forest, starving and desperate, she might have accepted such scraps. But now, she wasn’t so desperate for biomass and naturally turned up her nose at this “low-grade food.”

The tendrils, frustrated, gave up foraging on the surface and burrowed back underground to continue gnawing at the soil.

Suddenly, the nearby magic network terminal lit up. Philip turned his head and saw a figure in a green priestess’s robe appear in the projection. Behind her stretched a vast field of pure white flowers.

“Lady Beltira,” the young Imperial Army Marshal nodded respectfully to the battle-hardened woman, “we’ve cleared this area. You may extend your limbs and begin constructing your defenses.”

“I’ll break ground once the surface cools—the spore bodies are already on standby in the soil nearby,” Beltira replied with a nod. Then she frowned slightly, muttering with a hint of complaint, “There’s less and less edible stuff on the battlefield these days… Have you gone a bit overboard? Especially today—the explosions were a little too thorough.”

Philip hadn’t expected a complaint and suddenly felt awkward. “Well… actually, after the enemy lost command, they had no tactics left. Those monsters just rushed the fire blockade in a frenzy. Most never even got close before being turned to dust by tank cannons and rainbow beams. It’s really hard to preserve relatively intact remains under those conditions…”

“Oh, it’s fine. I was just saying,” Beltira said, noticing how seriously the young man was taking it. She waved her hand dismissively. “This is war, not a picnic.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Philip said earnestly, but couldn’t help asking, “Since it’s getting harder to collect biomass from the battlefield, is your growth supply running into trouble? Should we add more delivery conduits or biomass fission pools? The railway is open now, so logistics are smooth…”

“No need. Biomass supply is stable,” Beltira interrupted. “The purification devices in the rear have been working well. The clouds over the wasteland have cleared up a lot compared to before. I can rely on normal photosynthesis to absorb some nutrients, and I’ve found new nutrient sources underground.”

“New nutrient sources underground?” Philip’s curiosity was piqued. “You mean…?”

“I successfully severed the root network of the All-Things-Perish Cult across the entire northern region—or rather, my incompetent comrades willingly abandoned what they could no longer control,” Beltira said with a trace of satisfaction. “Now I’m gnawing on the tree roots.”

Philip: “…Well, as long as you’re happy with that…”

(End of chapter)