Chapter 437: Calibration

The night was deep and heavy. The dim light filtering through the tall, narrow crystal windows of the banquet hall barely pierced the darkness on the empty terrace. Ropeine Garland stood quietly there, her gaze lowered toward the spot where Viscount Carol had fallen.

Behind her, the banquet hall’s glow seeped faintly through the crystal panes, hazy and weak. Even the music drifting from inside sounded ethereal, almost unreal.

“Completely silent…” the noblewoman murmured softly, standing still in the night.

Her words barely faded when a voice, low and slightly magnetic, came from the shadows: “You’re taking a risk—if someone had caught you, it wouldn’t have ended well.”

Ropeine wasn’t startled; she had long known someone was there. She turned her head and saw a figure emerging from concealment—a tall, handsome man with striking golden hair, a classic Silver Elf.

This was Solderin, a high-ranking elven ranger from the Cecil territory, the very leader who had secretly guided the team into the city tonight.

Her eyes drifted to the unusual black armor he wore—crafted from alloy plates and sturdy leather—a signature of the “Iron Rangers.” Tonight, dozens of these Iron Rangers had already slipped into the fortress under her and her retinue’s cover, spreading out stealthily within the walls.

Thinking of what these Iron Rangers were about to do inside the city, a rare smile touched Ropeine’s lips.

“Carol was one of the few smart fools among those nobles, but he was too cautious, too sharp,” she said, withdrawing her gaze and quietly looking toward the place where Viscount Carol had fallen. “At such a critical moment, I don’t want this variable to survive.”

“In truth, we don’t care about this variable,” Solderin said, looking at her steadily. “This fortress will face its fate tomorrow. No matter what warnings Mr. Carol might issue, no matter how the fortress commander responds, it won’t matter. But your move tonight—it’s dangerously reckless.”

“Everything went smoothly, didn’t it?” Ropeine smiled faintly. “And for me personally, pushing ‘Mr. Carol’ off the edge was quite satisfying… No one will find out. Even if someone sees the body beneath the castle tomorrow, they’ll just sigh over the tragic early death of a drunken noble.”

Solderin studied her eyes for a long moment before speaking slowly: “I just want to remind you—be careful not to let hatred cloud your judgment.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve waited Ilaven years for this moment; I’m not about to lose my mind now,” Ropeine said with a slight shake of her head and a soft smile. “Besides, I’m looking forward to the beautiful world Duke Gawain promised. I won’t act rashly.”

“That’s good,” Solderin nodded slightly, then stepped back, gradually fading into the darkness. His voice drifted on the night air: “Don’t forget—the loyal anthem.”

It was a peculiar internal code among the Cecils, or perhaps a kind of slang used in certain situations. Though Ropeine didn’t fully grasp its deeper meaning, she repeated softly to the empty night sky, a trace of pleasure in her voice: “The loyal anthem…”

…

Just as Sir Mariland had predicted, the Cecils abandoned any attempt at a forced assault after realizing their magical devices couldn’t quickly breach the fortress. By sunrise the next day, they had not resumed their bombardment. The mages in the tower used their arcane sight to scout the enemy camp and reported that the Cecils had only sent a portion of their forces northwest, where they set up a new camp on a nearby high ground. Beyond that, there were no signs of active attack.

In the fortress’s military hall, Sir Mariland marked the Cecils’ positions on a rough map. Pointing his sword at the new camp, he said to the others, “Here. Compared to their first camp, it hasn’t moved much closer to Rockhold Fortress—just a bit nearer to the Whitewater River. What do you think?”

A southern noble stepped forward. “I believe they set up there for easier access to water. After all, they entered the plains via the White Valley Pass, and the original exit was too far from the river.”

“Seems they’re not very bold,” Mariland agreed. “Once they realized their magic devices were ineffective, they started worrying about the fortress’s catapults. Even choosing a water source, they had to advance cautiously and take a detour…”

The situation appeared to be unfolding as Mariland hoped: the Cecils’ so-called ‘Heavenfire Myth’ had failed against the fortress’s powerful magical barrier. The feared army was now forced into a prolonged siege, and they didn’t dare approach the catapults’ range. This confirmed his earlier suspicion:

Those Cecil soldiers relied on magical tools but lacked true courage.

That meant as long as their attacks kept failing, their morale would quickly crumble…

…

At the second high ground where the Cecil forces camped, Sir Philip oversaw the setup of new artillery positions. Behind him, on a transport wagon, a magical communication device projected the image of Sir Byron.

“So the cowards inside Rockhold really won’t come out?” Byron, a grizzled mercenary knight, shouted without concern for decorum. “I thought at least they’d come out for a token fight before you started firing…”

“They’re not stupid. They realized the power of firearms during their earlier raids,” Philip replied casually, then looked up toward the fortress’s towering walls glowing with magical light. “But I have to admit… the magical barrier on Rockhold is stronger than I expected.”

Byron blinked. “That’s different from what you said before. What do you mean, ‘stronger than expected’—the cannons really don’t work on it?”

“Not quite. The magic crystal railgun’s power is always effective, but the barrier’s strength is high enough to withstand last night’s twelve test shots. That was surprising,” Philip said honestly. “I estimate we’d need to bombard it continuously for at least six hours to break through.”

“Ha! A barrier that can be broken isn’t impressive. Those nobles inside are probably still celebrating their ‘impenetrable’ shield,” Byron scoffed. “Don’t waste ammo on that barrier—save it for the Prism Cannon.”

Philip frowned. “You say that, but when exactly are you arriving?”

“Soon, soon. We’re on the way. Miss Rebecca’s already checking the ship’s mana circuits to prepare for firing,” Byron said, waving dismissively in the hologram. His voice and image flickered—he was on a warship in the Whitewater River, relying on newly installed magical relay towers along the riverbank. The coverage was patchy, and signal interruptions were common. “At Miss Tyr’s pace, we’ll be there in just over five hours…”

“I’ll conduct another bombardment at noon,” Philip interrupted. “I think the fortress’s magical barrier is… valuable. The military’s arcane engineers agree. I want to test its strength with artillery, observe how it operates. If Master Kamail and Miss Jenny can crack the secret of this giant shield, it might be useful to us.”

Byron looked surprised at Philip’s serious expression. “Since when did you get interested in magic?”

Philip straightened, solemn. “I’m only interested in the interests of the land and its people.”

“People like you? If you were a mercenary, you’d probably be sold to the gladiator pits on day one—and you’d feel honored about it,” Byron said with a wry smile, clearly embarrassed to work with such a stiff. “But seriously, some of your traditional knights still buy into this—Miss Margarita’s right behind you.”

With that, Byron quickly ended the transmission. Philip blinked, then turned to see the female knight from the Kant region standing behind him, watching with genuine admiration.

“There aren’t many left who still uphold knightly virtues like you,” she said sincerely.

“That’s my duty, Miss Margarita,” Philip replied sternly. “Will the heavy accelerator cannons fire before noon?”

“You’ll hear their roar right on time.”

…

At noon, as smoke rose from the inner city of Rockhold Fortress, the Cecil army began their second round of bombardment.

Strange wails, piercing shrieks, thunderous explosions once again rained down on the fortress defenders. But compared to the panic and chaos of the previous day’s surprise attack, this time the confusion was much less. After an initial moment of tension, the noble soldiers inside saw the powerful magical barrier still enveloping the city and settled their nerves.

Some even dared to climb the outer walls, shouting loudly toward the Cecil camp, mocking them.

The magic crystal shells exploded against the barrier outside the walls, their deadly force completely blocked. Even the deafening blasts were muffled by the shield’s interference. At first, the bravest soldiers and knights watched from a safe distance, but soon, someone took the lead and ran to the wall facing the bombardment, watching the explosions burst midair up close.

Surprisingly, most of these bold ones were not Rockhold’s knights or soldiers, but the southern nobles and their private guards—once terrified by the ‘Heavenfire Explosion’ and now acting like lost dogs.

They seemed to be flaunting their courage—or perhaps venting the fear they’d felt a month ago.

Ropeine Garland stood on a distant watchtower, her expression cold as she observed the disgraceful antics of the southern knights and soldiers on the walls.

Compared to those Allied soldiers who, utterly drained of will during their post-war flight, were captured by the Cecilians like mindless corpses, the psychological scars left on these noble remnants who fled early to Rockhold Fortress didn’t seem quite as severe…

But that didn’t matter. Their psychological torment was about to begin.

The female lord lifted her head, gazing toward the southwest of the fortress.

The Whitewater River meandered across the plain, and on its surface—glinting under the sky—a strange ripple caught her eye.

(End of chapter)