Chapter 395: The Northern Collapse

The disaster descending from the sky showed no sign of abating.

No one could see where the enemy was, nor could they comprehend the nature of the assault. Even the most brilliant mages among the allied forces—if they still had the capacity to think—couldn’t conceive of any spell that could strike so far away, with such devastating power, and without any detectable magical fluctuations before impact. It defied everything they knew about magic!

In fact, it wasn’t until the relentless bombardment turned the entire open plain into scorched earth that a few realized they were under attack. Most still hadn’t grasped that a battle had even begun, let alone that the force killing them was Cecil’s power.

They were bombarded, shattered, vaporized in a haze of confusion. In their final fleeting moments, their minds couldn’t connect this seemingly divine punishment with the so-called “Cecil Expedition” they were part of.

Only after nearly all the frontline soldiers were wiped out, and the knights were mostly dead, did the remaining mages, knights, and clerics begin to react—or rather, guess at the cause of this unimaginable hell. Someone screamed wildly, “The Cecilians! The Cecilians are attacking!”

But the shout was drowned out by the continuous explosions, faint as a mosquito’s buzz. Soon, the man who shouted was swallowed by a new crater, and many others died from the shockwaves of the blasts.

Those who lagged behind due to slow movement were lucky. Left behind by the lax discipline, they witnessed the nightmare unfolding on the plain from the rocky mountain paths. They saw once-mighty knights and mages writhing in “heavenly fire explosions,” crawling on the ground clutching shattered limbs. Thousands of vanguard troops were reduced to ashes in mere breaths. The survivors were terrified—but soon faced an even deadlier threat.

The warhorses panicked.

Though trained to remain calm amid magical explosions, the horses were unprepared for the relentless artillery barrage and occasional fireballs. The explosions exceeded what the horses could endure, triggering chaos within the allied ranks.

Frightened horses bolted wildly, trampling their riders. The noble mercenaries, stunned and terrified, lost the discipline that once held them in check. They screamed in panic and began to retreat. A few brave nobles and their knights tried to rally order with loud commands, but were soon thrown to the ground by their own horses. Within minutes, at least a third were crushed under hooves and iron boots. The rest were swept up in the rout, fleeing down the mountain paths—

Only to be met by fresh troops unaware of the disaster ahead.

The allied line was stretched too thin. While the vanguard was obliterated by artillery, the mid and rear units were still on the mountain paths of the Rocky Ridge. Hearing the distant thunderous explosions, many mistook them for springtime thunder echoing through the mountains. Superstitious southern soldiers believed that spring thunder was an ill omen, and that anyone caught in the mountains during a spring storm would be turned to stone atop the peaks. So the reinforcements quickened their pace, colliding with the retreating troops ahead.

One side desperately fled, the other pressed forward. Noble mercenaries flew different banners, shouted different commands, and spoke in various dialects. Chaos erupted on the mountain ridges. Confused soldiers were swept along in the crowd, some pushed back onto the apocalyptic plain, others tumbled down cliffs amid the turmoil. The deafening explosions and screams finally spread to the Rocky Ridge. Someone shouted, “The front line’s been defeated!” and the chaos exploded into a deadly frenzy.

Viscount Carol was forced back by the troops ahead. He had no idea what had happened, only faintly hearing talk of thunder and mad soldiers shouting that Cecil had unleashed ten thousand great mages, instantly destroying Count Hosman and his entire corps. These frantic rumors, combined with the reality of the allied rout, battered the viscount’s fragile heart. Struggling to keep his balance on horseback, he and his loyal knights turned northward, his mind a jumble.

The once-mighty allied army had utterly collapsed, shattered like a broken plate. Knights and noble lords tried repeatedly to restore order, but in the end, all they could do was run with the masses. In the middle of the Rocky Ridge, over twenty surviving nobles and their retinues scattered like headless flies. Carol looked around in panic and saw that fewer than half of his men remained—others had fallen down slopes or been separated by the surging crowd.

Slowly, though, the fleeing soldiers began to regroup. Among them, Carol spotted a somewhat familiar banner bearing the emblem of the Grant family.

Lady Ropeni Grant spurred her horse through the crowd, flanked by a group of calm, sturdy guards that inspired confidence. She rode up to Viscount Carol and called out loudly, “Quick, follow me—I’ve gathered some men! We’re heading northeast!”

Her straightforward, commanding tone was uncharacteristic of a noblewoman—lacking flowery words or softening endings—but at that moment, Carol found it reassuring and trustworthy. He immediately urged his horse forward and shouted to the loyal knights behind him, “Follow the Grant banner! Forget the militia and peasants!”

Far from the battlefield, atop a cleverly concealed tower nestled in the canopy of giant trees, a soldier clad in Cecil-standard armor lowered his spyglass.

Turning to his comrades, he said, “Signal: three reds, two yellows.”

Moments later, several small, specially designed light grenades were fired into the sky, bursting into colorful smoke clouds.

On the Windward Hill, a messenger ran up to Philip. “Sir, the observation post has signaled—half the artillery hits are confirmed, and the enemy has begun to retreat.”

“So we didn’t even need the lightning field or the close-defense positions… just a rabble after all,” Philip shook his head. “Alright, cease fire after this salvo. Signal the Second Battalion to hold the enemy—don’t let them escape.”

After the messenger left, Philip sighed softly. “Signal flares are useful, but they can only convey such simple messages… I wonder when Master Kamail’s communication device will be ready for testing…”

He looked up toward where the Kant Knights and their Second Battalion were stationed.

Walder and his men still hadn’t recovered.

The continuous thunder of the accelerated cannons, the orderly commands and execution, the distant booming explosions—it was a war unlike any they had known.

This wasn’t a battle of knights and warriors clashing face-to-face. It was more like a machine in motion… like a clockwork mechanism crafted by skilled artisans.

The Cecil corps pressed switches with precision, artillery fired with accuracy, enemies died with certainty—the machine ran, and the outcome was clear.

Only now did Margarita and her knight companions understand why the lord hadn’t sent the Second Battalion and the Kant Knights into battle. For warriors still unskilled with rapid-fire rifles, entering such a battlefield would only cause chaos.

But just as the Kant Knights were lost in shock and doubt, Philip approached them.

“Knights, you wanted to fight, didn’t you? Your orders have arrived.”

Walder Perich looked at Philip in confusion. “Us? Isn’t it over already?”

“Who said the war ends when the enemy retreats?” Philip smiled. “Before the expedition, the lord told me one thing—the enemy may open fire, but when to cease fire is our decision. Count Hosman sent a challenge to Cecil, and now Cecil is responding in their own way… Knights, rally your men and join the First Battalion to pursue the invaders.”

Though something about Philip’s words felt off, the Kant Knights, finally given a chance to prove themselves, didn’t care about the details. The chance for thousands to chase tens of thousands was too rare to pass up.

They eagerly gathered their troops, ready to lead the charge.

Meanwhile, as the massive fifty-thousand-strong allied army collapsed in the Rocky Ridge, staging a grand retreat, another force assembled under Count Franning Peppo had no idea of the terrible fate that had befallen their northern brethren.

The stout Count Franning Peppo stood at the bow of his ship, the cool river breeze clearing the haze of last night’s hangover. He gazed at the flotilla of warships on the river and thought of the twenty thousand men under his command heading to the front. A surge of pride swelled within him.

Though Peppo was not highly respected in the southern lands, his family had long roots here. In fact, during the Cecil era, his ancestors had been local nobles. A century ago, during the great upheaval, the Peppo family preserved their title and lands by timely allegiance. Though their prestige had waned under Cecil’s rule, the name Peppo still carried the rank of count.

Franning Peppo’s lifelong ambition was to restore his family’s glory, to reclaim the influence befitting their noble title.

Now, he felt the opportunity had arrived.

He had supported Count Hosman’s “Magic Network” project, investing money, effort, and manpower to help Karlov Hosman extend the network across the southern lands. When Hosman called for arms, Peppo was the first to answer, offering all the family’s inland river vessels as “warships.” His investments had paid off.

He finally had twenty thousand men and the chance, as a count, to lead a coalition army to seize honor and influence.

As long as he could open up the route from Baishui River to the Cecil territory and secure the riverbank before Count Hosman’s army marched south, he would restore the Peipo name to its former glory across the southern lands.

(Life really is all about grinding it out!)

(End of chapter)