Chapter 441: Fire

This was a war.

Sir Mariland knew it from the very start—he had always known it was a war. Yet at this moment, he still couldn’t quite grasp what Gawain meant by saying so. What was so special about war?

Nobles made declarations, exchanged letters, official documents, and challenges; summoned knights and conscripts; agreed on times and places; formed ranks, charged, fought, captured prisoners, and bargained for advantage. When necessary, honor was settled through duels and oaths. Wasn’t that war?

The legendary Sword of the Founder—just as storied as the Grant Duke who wielded it—clashed again against his own knightly blade. The black blade burned with fierce flames so intense they almost choked the air. The fiery black steel evoked images of the dark, corrupted wastelands of Gondor, while the blazing fire on its edge recalled the beacon fires that lit the wasteland seven centuries ago. But at this moment, Sir Mariland had no energy left to ponder or marvel at such things.

Rumor had it that this founding hero’s strength had waned since his resurrection, that he was still in a period of weakness.

Rumor said the sword, having slept for seven hundred years, had lost all its magic and was now just an exceptionally sturdy blade forged from legendary materials.

Rumor claimed that Duke Gawain Cecil, risen from the dead, rarely left his lands because the dark wounds he suffered seven centuries ago had yet to heal, leaving him unable to set foot on the battlefield.

Nonsense.

The power wrapped in that black sword was astonishingly strong. Every slash and thrust was perfectly timed. Gawain’s style was hardly flashy—simple and straightforward, like a common soldier’s. Beyond basic knightly skills, the Grant Duke barely used any so-called “legendary forbidden techniques.” Yet this plain, unadorned fighting style made Sir Mariland break out in cold sweat.

Unlike the nobles trained in rigid, dogmatic ways, Gawain’s entire combat experience came from the battlefield—from fighting abominations. Those creatures had no knightly etiquette, no intricate moves, no set patterns. Battles against them boiled down to one simple rule: hit the enemy before they hit you, and strike hard enough to prevent a second attack.

This pure, brutal “combat” unsettled the knight deeply.

He had fought before—against all manner of formidable foes. Challenging stronger enemies in noble wars was nothing new. In his youth, he had even wiped out the largest exiled knight order on the Holy Spirit Plains with only eight family knights—mercenaries and oathbreakers, all ruthless and treacherous.

But clearly, none of that compared to the magical cataclysm seven centuries ago.

If a general from the eastern border were here, perhaps they could do better than him…

Gawain found himself almost fully merged with the experience of Gawain Cecil. His control over this body was not yet perfect, but close.

After more than a year, he had finally reached the legendary tier—perhaps only the lowest level—but defeating the high-ranking knight before him was no problem.

Yet when facing this knight named Mariland, he couldn’t help but recall another opponent from last year:

Bald Windel, the fallen druid of the End of All Things cult, once the Typhon Wolf General.

Though Bald Windel was ultimately defeated by Gawain’s overwhelming power, his battlefield-honed swordsmanship left a deep impression. This high-ranking knight before him, while surpassing Bald Windel in raw power thanks to his retained supernatural abilities, was clearly outclassed in combat experience and awareness.

No wonder. One was the Typhon Empire’s strongest “Wolf General” in a century; the other was merely a fortress commander guarding Ansu’s homeland. Mariland had done well.

A mist began to rise over the river’s surface. The battle between these two supernatural warriors heated the nearby waters, turning them into thick fog. Thanks to Gawain’s careful control, all the shockwaves were confined beyond the safe distance between the two warships, and even the fog did not spread further.

In a brief moment, Sir Mariland and the founding duke passed each other. A tremendous force pressed down on his sword hand, nearly wrenching the knightly blade from his grasp. As he struggled to regain balance, he realized Gawain had vanished.

The next instant, the fog around him suddenly froze. The once intangible mist was now controlled by the legendary duke’s power, forged into a massive cage of steel-like vapor. The armor on Mariland’s body cracked under the crushing weight, and his sword bent under the pressure.

He struggled fiercely, then stopped. The black Founder’s Sword now rested on his shoulder. The flames had vanished from its blade, but an oppressive force remained, suffocating.

The fog dissipated, and the steel-like pressure faded. Sir Mariland lifted his head to see two streams of destructive arcane energy slowly sweeping across the sky. At their end, the shield of Rockhold Fortress shattered with thunderous roars and piercing screams, scattering into countless glowing fragments. The arcane beams pierced the now-defunct shield, carving a massive, horrifying crack into the century-old black stone walls.

From the second high ground, Knight Philip witnessed the collapse of Rockhold’s magical barrier. Without hesitation, he ordered the artillery to fire: “Shield down! All batteries, open fire!”

The mighty “Justice-I” acceleration cannons and the fierce “Persuader-I” acceleration cannons roared in unison. Hundreds of pale blue streaks tore through the sky, crossing the vast battlefield plain before crashing heavily against the fortress walls.

This time, all of the Cecilian “Heaven’s Fire” weapons were unleashed.

The fortress walls, built from massive stones and sealed with metal, faced the heavenly fire’s power for the first time. The once unbreakable bricks shattered instantly, exploding into a storm of debris and molten metal. The few soldiers still clinging to the walls began to retreat after the shield’s collapse, but many were knocked off or killed outright by cannon fire and flying shards. The expected defensive counterattack vanished the moment the shield fell.

Inside the fortress, knights, officers, and southern nobles descended into chaos. Even with officers struggling to maintain order, the fall of the fortress was inevitable. Worse still, the two terrifying beams of energy reappeared after less than ten minutes of silence.

They swept the sky relentlessly, their low hum turning into a scream more terrifying than the heavenly fire’s descent. No longer cutting the walls for long stretches, the beams now systematically destroyed mage towers, arrow towers, watchtowers, and upper castle structures.

Every high-level defensive position was being wiped out.

Viscount Mario and Viscount Konsko sprinted up the fortress’s outer stairs, desperate to escape this living hell.

Explosions and cries echoed from all directions. The sky was filled with the screams of falling heavenly fire and the hum of sweeping beams. At this moment, memories of the horrors on Shattered Stone Ridge and the even more dreadful, hopeless wilderness flight that followed flooded their minds. They no longer cared for noble decorum or basic etiquette—every attendant was abandoned, every shred of dignity discarded. They changed into the clothes of servants and stable hands, grabbed all the gold, silver, and jewels they could see before fleeing, and ran without pause up the seemingly endless stairs.

Another ear-piercing hum came from above. The short, stout Viscount Mario glanced back in terror. A blinding white beam slowly swept across the upper castle towers. Where the beam touched, stone towers exploded in a chain of blasts, the remnants raining down like a storm of stone. Slightly farther away, the castle’s original rooftops were also obliterated by the beam.

Though they didn’t understand why the Cecilians never bombarded the castle district with heavenly fire, only sweeping the upper castle with beams, Mario and Konsko dared not ponder this now. They were paralyzed by the beam’s terrifying power, their only thought to turn and flee northward.

They ran down stairs, along paths, through the chaotic inner city, drawing closer to Rockhold’s north gate. Here, the Cecilian assault weakened somewhat—the linear beams couldn’t reach the lower northern district beyond the high walls, and the heavenly fire never bombarded this area. Still, the two viscounts dared not linger.

They pressed on, gasping for breath. The gold and jewels they carried felt unbearably heavy, sapping their strength with every step. But the northern walls were now within sight.

A pungent smell stung Viscount Konsko’s nostrils. Glancing around as he ran, he saw thick smoke and flames rising from several nearby military facilities.

Fire—someone was setting the city ablaze. The already chaotic, crumbling fortress would plunge into the abyss once these fires spread.

But that was no longer his concern.

“I… I can’t run much longer…” Viscount Mario panted, his breath ragged. “You… you wait for me a moment…”

Konsko glanced back but barely slowed, not even speaking.

Every word wasted precious energy needed to survive.

The fires inside the city grew fiercer, black smoke billowing from more and more places, as if hundreds were setting fires throughout the inner city. The choking smoke assaulted Konsko’s sensitive airways, but he pressed on through the haze—because the walls were only a few hundred meters away.

Two hundred meters.

One hundred meters.

Hope was right before their eyes—the path out of hell lay just ahead. In that moment, even the Vicomte de Mario, who had been lagging behind, found renewed strength and quickened his pace to catch up with the Vicomte de Konsko.

Through the swirling smoke and dust, Konsko caught a faint glimpse of figures standing ahead, blocking the only route to the North Gate.

As they drew closer, he finally made out the face of one of them—it was Lady Ropennie Grant.

The noblewoman stood there with a faint, composed smile, elegantly observing the two vicomtes dressed as coachmen and servants.

Beside her stood a blonde male elf, unfamiliar to Konsko, and not far behind them were dozens of fully armed warriors.

“By the gods!” Konsko exclaimed in shock. The haze and his chaotic thoughts had kept him from noticing the soldiers behind Ropennie at first. “Lady Grant, so you’ve already…”

“Vicomte de Konsko, Vicomte d’Oran, good evening,” Ropennie said with a slight bow and a gentle smile, her voice calm and clear as it reached the two vicomtes. “What do you think of the fire today?”

Konsko’s expression stiffened for a moment, his voice trembling slightly. “What do you mean by that…?”

But Ropennie paid him no mind, continuing softly, “Doesn’t it remind you of the one Ilaven years ago?”

(End of chapter)