Chapter 396: The Rout of the Second Allied Army

The Whitewater River wound its way from the southern lands of the Leslie family’s territory all the way to the northern foothills of the Dark Mountains. Count Faronning Peibo stood at the prow of his “warship,” watching as the newly built walls of Tansang Town slowly receded from view. Ambition swelled in his chest.

“Warship” was more a bluff than reality. In truth, it was just a large river merchant vessel. But the Peibo family had long held the finest shipbuilding expertise in the southern region. Any ship they built was the sturdiest of its kind. In this land far from the sea, where no true warships existed, the merchant ships retrofitted by Faronning Peibo were the best fighting vessels available.

Besides, ever since the Storm Church fell and became the Children of the Storm, and humanity was sealed off from the ocean by the magical tides, the Age of Exploration had effectively ended. The budding maritime technologies and naval combat doctrines had withered before they could develop. For centuries, humans had been confined to inland rivers, and it was inevitable that their warship technology lagged behind.

So these “warships,” converted from merchant and cargo vessels, were already a point of pride for Count Peibo.

A nobleman familiar with Faronning Peibo stepped up beside him at the prow, gazing at the retreating walls of Tansang. He sighed, “Look at those brand-new walls. Viscount Andrew Leslie had them built in just a year… God knows how much he profited from all those shipments of ore.”

“Backed by a land rich in gold and silver like Cecil’s, the sickly Leslie heir only needs a few scattered coins from his lord to live comfortably,” Peibo said with a sneer as he looked at the walls. Though freshly built, the battlements showed no signs of rolling logs or boiling oil pots—only a row of old, unused catapults lined the new walls. He shook his head. “But the newly rich are always shallow. In the end, he just stepped aside quietly—no glory, no spoils. At best, he’ll gain a neutral peace from this ‘cooperation.’”

“I heard he initially wanted to side with the Cecils and left your envoy waiting for days,” the nobleman said with a sigh. “It wasn’t until Count Hosman sent a personal letter and messenger that he agreed to open the river for the army’s passage… Such poor judgment. If only he’d cooperated from the start.”

“If he had, I’d worry he might have thrown stones at us while the army passed,” Peibo chuckled. “Viscount Andrew has been aligned with the Cecils since last year. Hesitation during shifting tides is only natural.”

As he spoke, the fleet of dozens of ships—large and small—glided past the river stretch before Tansang. The sparse Leslie soldiers stood atop the walls, watching helplessly as the allied forces preparing to attack Cecil’s lands sailed by.

With the wind shifting, the fleet’s speed increased. The combined power of sails and oars sent the sturdy wooden ships hurtling like arrows toward Cecil’s territory. The mages accompanying the nobles activated runes set along the ships’ sides, reducing the waves’ impact. After half a day’s journey, dense forests began to line both banks, and the Whitewater River narrowed and quickened.

Peibo returned to the prow, curious about their location. Scanning the river, he saw no other vessels besides his own fleet.

That was expected—news of the war had spread, and no other ships would dare sail these waters now.

He called to a nearby knight on watch. “How far to Cecil’s lands?”

“Sir, we’re almost at Frostwood Village’s logging camp!” the knight saluted promptly. “Frostwood is the westernmost village in Cecil’s domain.”

“Good. We’ll take that place first, then send half the men ashore to advance along the riverbank,” Peibo nodded. Looking at the lush forests on both sides, he smiled wryly and raised a hand. “See how narrow the river is here, with dense woods on both sides? If the Cecils had any courage, they’d station battle mages in the forest to ambush us with tidal magic, or attack with heavy crossbows and catapults. We might have lost a ship or two…”

Hidden in a firing position on the south bank, Sir Byron climbed a tree and watched the fleet pass below. Once half the ships had passed, he laughed aloud and casually plucked a fruit, tossing it to a messenger below. “Signal the volley! Fire the damn cannon!”

Two seconds later, dozens of sharp explosions shattered the forest’s silence. Scores of light “Persuader I” magic crystal shells and several heavy “Justice I” cannonballs, glowing faintly with cyan magic, shot from the concealed cannons. They tore through the camouflaging vines and leaves, arcing deadly trajectories through the air before crashing into the center of Peibo’s fleet.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Water columns erupted between the ships, accompanied by massive explosions and shockwaves. Two warships were struck in the first volley. Their wooden hulls splintered like paper under the blasts. One ship broke in two amidships, while another suffered an even worse fate—a heavy shell exploded beneath it, blasting the entire vessel airborne, shattering it into pieces.

The once calm river surface turned into a hellscape of fire and death in an instant. Knights and militia aboard barely had time to react before chaos engulfed them. Screams of the dying and the cries of wounded animals echoed from every ship. Yet on the south bank, Sir Byron was just getting up from the ground.

“That blast knocked me clean off my feet!” The mercenary knight rarely held back his rough speech, even before his lord, and certainly not among his men. Brushing dirt off his armor, he shouted, “Aim carefully! Two hits out of dozens of shots? ‘Persuader’ crews, focus on the closer targets—don’t add to the chaos by following the heavy guns!”

The camouflages on the railguns were stripped away, and the relentless roar of cannon fire echoed across the position. Meanwhile, in the middle of the Whitewater River, the once-mighty allied “fleet” had descended into panic and catastrophic disorder.

Though many shells still fell harmlessly into the water due to poor artillery training, immature tactics, and the difficulty of hitting moving river targets, the towering water plumes and the frequent shattering of ships chilled the survivors to the bone. What was worse, the knights and mages aboard had no way to fight back—or even find safety.

For these men, the ships were merely transport. Ninety percent had no concept of naval combat. These so-called “warships” were barely capable of engaging enemies on water. The heavy crossbows and small catapults on deck were useless—the operators couldn’t even see where the enemy was.

In truth, the fleet’s commanders envisioned battle only after landing—knights and soldiers fighting on solid ground, just like every previous war. And to be fair, that was how noble wars should be fought. The Cecils should have even cleared a stretch of riverbank to let the allied troops disembark, form ranks, and then engage in honorable knightly duels and army formations. That was the code of war among nobles!

But now… what was this?

What were the Cecils doing? Was this even their doing?

Faronning Peibo stood dumbfounded on the trembling prow, watching his family’s years of accumulated ships break apart and sink one after another. The blood of fallen soldiers stained the floating wreckage a vivid red. Knights clad in heavy plate and mages in thick robes struggled amid the blood, debris, and corpses, one by one swallowed by the river’s swift current. He even saw Viscount Loxwal—renowned for his grace, steadiness, and wisdom—clutching a broken plank as he sank before his eyes. The viscount’s family banner still fluttered on the water nearby.

“What… what is happening?” Peibo stared blankly. The sudden upheaval defied his understanding. The scene had become a surreal, grotesque drama, and he was trapped on its bewildering stage. He squeezed his eyes shut, covered his ears, trying to block it all out, and recalled the comfort of his castle’s velvet bed. Seconds later, he opened his eyes and ears again—Baron Corlandov’s corpse sank beside Viscount Loxwal’s.

“It’s over. All over…”

No matter where this disaster came from, it was finished.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Peibo caught sight of something happening downstream—

He saw soldiers who had fallen into the water struggling toward the shore. And on the bank, a large group of warriors clad in strange armor and wielding unfamiliar weapons had appeared. These fighters pointed odd devices on their arms at the swimming allied soldiers, binding them one by one.

The Cecils—they had destroyed the entire allied fleet in a way he could not comprehend.

“Sir! Sir!” A voice jolted Peibo back to reality. A knight, bloodied from the blast’s aftermath, grabbed Peibo’s hand and shook him urgently. “Sir! We have to go! Get on the small boats and flee!”

Peibo finally snapped out of his shock. All his fear and tension gave way to the will to survive. He followed the knight, running toward the escape boats, shouting as he ran, “Where’s Viscount Copani?!”

“He’s dead—don’t know how. No wounds on the body, but his insides are crushed!” the knight shouted. “Many others who stood with Viscount Copani are dead too. They were probably killed by a curse!”

Count Peibo felt a cold sweat break out all over him. His already bulky frame suddenly surged with surprising speed, and in just a few strides, he reached the lifeboats. Together with the knights, he leapt aboard and called out urgently to the nearby soldiers, “Row! Row as fast as you can!”

The lifeboat pulled away from the main ship. The oarsmen frantically swung their oars, steering the small boat wildly through the relentless columns of exploding water. Soon, they had escaped the heart of the blast-ridden fleet. Count Peibo glanced back to see the massive ships at the rear struggling desperately to turn—clumsy and slow despite the aid of magical runes and the oarsmen’s efforts. It seemed unlikely they would evade the explosions closing in overhead.

Only a handful of large ships and a dozen or so small boats managed to flee that hellish scene. Peibo wasn’t even sure how he’d made it out alive. He felt the boat rocking beneath him for what seemed like an eternity, until the nightmare of explosions and the piercing shrieks of something tearing through the air finally faded from his mind. When the familiar walls of Tansan came into view, the shaken count allowed himself a tentative breath of relief.

After confirming there were no pursuers behind them, Peibo’s terrified expression softened slightly. He looked up at the towering walls of Tansan and half in relief, half to reassure himself, muttered, “Thank heavens this is no longer Cecil’s land. If there were enemies lying in ambush on these walls, I’d be done for…”

Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air from the town’s ramparts. One by one, strange devices with metallic rails appeared between the battlements.

As magical light suddenly flared along those metal tracks, the nightmare of thunderous blasts and shrieking cries crashed down once more—

(End of chapter)