Chapter 394: Thunderclap

At the Cecil Dominion Military District, high up in the intelligence bureau’s office building, Gawain sat surrounded by a constant stream of reports. This hub, where all intelligence from the Cecil Dominion converged, had been temporarily converted into the command center for the current military operation. Messages from the front lines arrived nonstop—couriers on horseback, carrier pigeons—ensuring Gawain had real-time updates on the battlefield.

Amber stood beside him, briefing him on the latest intelligence just handed over: “The Kant and Whitewater River defensive lines are fully prepared. Just as you predicted, Hosman has boldly split his forces—fifty thousand troops are advancing south along the Kingdom Road and Shattered Ridge, while another contingent moves westward along the Whitewater River, through Tansan Town, toward our territory. Judging by their pace, Philip’s forces will engage the enemy first.”

Gawain nodded calmly, showing no sign of concern. “Most of our heavy artillery is positioned north of Tansan Town. There are over a hundred ‘Persuader’ light railguns there, plus minefields and shooting bunkers. Philip’s position is secure.”

“Fifty thousand men,” Amber said, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you really not worried at all? I know you’re fearless, but that number is staggering… If they all charged at once, even with artillery, I doubt we could hold them back.”

“That’s exactly why I’m not worried,” Gawain said, adjusting the satellite map’s angle in his mind. “The roads at the junction of Windward Hill and Shattered Ridge are treacherous—no place for a charge or to reorganize troops. And those fifty thousand Hosman gathered? Hmph…”

He snorted dismissively, a look of disdain crossing his face. “I hardly consider that an army. Nobles’ private militias these days have almost no military discipline. They rely entirely on their elite knights to lead the charge, then swarm forward in a disorganized mass. They’re more like undisciplined bandits than soldiers. And as is typical in noble wars, they lack unified command—each small unit fights for itself. They’ll clamor out of Shattered Ridge in chaos, only to be blasted apart by our artillery. Once the big guns roar, do you really think those fifty thousand will still be able to hold formation and charge?”

“…Alright, I’ve never seen a real battlefield, so you’re the expert,” Amber said, pouting slightly as she sized him up. “But still, I’m surprised you’re not at the front lines. Isn’t it said that the legendary Gawain Cecil often leads charges himself, sweeping across the battlefield? Why are you sitting back here instead?”

Gawain casually tossed the charcoal pencil he’d been marking the map with onto the table. “You forgot—I died charging headfirst in my last life.”

Amber was speechless.

“Don’t take it seriously,” Gawain smiled, standing and strolling over to the window at a leisurely pace. “There are two real reasons. First, in the new tactics of the Cecil Legion, individual prowess and leading charges are becoming less important. I don’t need to be at the front; I just need to ensure we have excellent commanders out there. Second, I’m staying here to prepare for any ‘visitors’ who might show up.”

As he spoke, Gawain gazed through the crystal window of the intelligence bureau, his eyes seeming to pierce the vast northern plains and forests, reaching all the way to the front lines at Windward Hill and Shattered Ridge…

On the treacherous slopes of Shattered Ridge, Ropeni Grant lifted her head, watching the increasingly disorderly and noisy ranks ahead with a cold, detached expression.

Her knights stood guard close by, accompanied by three mages and several priests from the territory. Beyond them were the knights’ retainers, militia, and conscripted young men. As a viscountcy still recovering from the disaster a decade ago, Grant’s domain could only muster a modest force, but even so, nearly a thousand stood around this lady viscount, forming a significant portion of the “army.” When the bagpipes played, the scene was lively and spirited.

Having recently rested, the “army” was full of energy. Soldiers from all directions bustled about with a festive air—the anticipation of plunder and “glory” stirred their spirits. Ropeni Grant watched it all like an outsider, her gaze cool and distant. After passing another crossroads, she nudged her horse closer to a bearded knight. “Where are we now?”

“Milady, just a few more miles and we’ll be out of Shattered Ridge,” the knight replied with a smile. “Beyond that lies Windward Hill.”

Ropeni looked at the bearded knight and suddenly asked, “I remember… ten years ago, you were a castle guard.”

The knight’s expression stiffened briefly before turning respectful. “It’s an honor to serve you.”

“Of course, it’s your honor,” Ropeni smiled charmingly, her eyes scanning familiar faces—castle guards from ten years ago, Grant’s mage advisors, bridge sentinels, watchmen, archery captains. One by one, these faces flickered through her vision, as if shrouded in flames—blazing fires fierce enough to scorch the castle gates. Her smile grew brighter, a radiance unseen on her face for a decade, blooming suddenly and dazzling those around her. “Today is a day full of glory.”

“A day full of glory!” The knights, retainers, and militia cheered loudly, though they didn’t fully understand. But since their lord said it, they raised their arms and shouted with enthusiasm, “A day full of glory!”

Ropeni took a deep breath. At the edge of her vision, smoke rose from the dense forest—likely a seasonal wildfire.

The lady viscount swayed slightly, then pressed a hand to her forehead. “I feel dizzy.”

The knight immediately stepped forward, eager to assist. “Milady, shall we stop? We can switch places with Viscount Panila’s rear guard.”

“No, you all keep moving forward. I’ll stay here with a few guards to rest,” Ropeni shook her head, then smiled at the knight. “Don’t fall behind—move quickly.”

The knight accepted the order—or perhaps he simply didn’t want to be left behind in what was sure to be a victorious, plundering campaign. He turned his horse and led the troops onward, leaving Ropeni and her chosen fewer than a hundred guards behind in a quiet spot by the roadside, watching the main force advance.

In the distant forest, a second plume of smoke rose.

Count Hosman and his troops emerged from the narrow exit of Shattered Ridge. The rough mountain path finally ended, opening onto a rocky, uneven expanse—still difficult terrain, but at least open ground.

Having had enough of the mountain trail, Hosman smiled faintly. Around him, knights urged the soldiers forward to regroup and count stragglers. Other noble contingents did the same upon reaching the clearing, turning the desolate place into a bustling camp.

Hosman rode leisurely ahead, unwilling to stoop to shouting orders and losing his dignity. As a count, he had excellent military advisors and knights to handle such matters.

Suddenly, a low, distant rumble reached his ears. Despite the surrounding noise, the sound caught his attention. Curious, he looked toward its source—is the third rain of spring coming? Thunder at this time of year was never a good omen.

His thoughts drifted, then a strange, sharp whistle pierced the air above—a high-pitched, piercing sound, growing louder and more shrill, as if something was rapidly approaching from the sky.

Then came the thunder—on the ground.

An unimaginably terrifying explosion shattered the plain. No one saw what had landed nearby, but with the thunderous blast, countless rocks and dirt were hurled skyward, mixed with torn flesh and shattered warhorses. Hosman felt as if an invisible hammer had struck him, lifting him off his mount. His ornate count’s cloak shimmered with magical colors as his carefully guarded protective charms shattered instantly. The terrible shockwave battered him; his organs and bones trembled violently, fracturing under the strain. As his vision rose higher, he saw more “thunderclaps” detonating across the open ground, one after another.

Explosions rained down relentlessly, as if hundreds of furious archmages were unleashing devastating spells from the sky. The entire clearing was instantly engulfed in flames, smoke, debris, and the agonized cries of the dying. Knights roared in terror and fury, while panicked soldiers and horses rampaged through the hellish battlefield. The mages desperately cast protective spells, but their fragile shields were like fleeting sparks in the darkness—easily torn apart by the heavy magic crystal shells exploding nearby. Worse, the magical backlash and chaotic energy bursts killed many mages faster than the blasts themselves: the violent magical shock destroyed their casting environment, and the fragile human nervous system couldn’t control the raging power. One by one, mages bled from every orifice behind their shields, their brains burned to ash by their own magic before the shields even faded.

Amid the explosions, Count Hosman finally hit the ground—or rather, the part of him containing his head did. He couldn’t feel his limbs, but he sensed his life slipping away fast. Before his vision went completely black, a scorched, twisted fragment of metal fell before his eyes. Faintly etched on it were the words:

…This is our evidence.

(End of chapter)