Chapter 655: The Trap
This would be the most challenging and perilous operation since the founding of the Cecil Legion.
Yet, until the mission succeeded and its secrets were laid bare, the vast majority of those involved would remain in the dark about the truth.
Mortals were about to hunt a god—albeit an artificial false god. Though the crucial strike would be delivered by a powerful ally, the very nature of this mission was nothing short of earth-shattering. In a world steeped in religion, where faith was woven into everyday life, ordinary people dared not even imagine such a thing. Even the mighty and well-organized Cecil Legion might have faltered if confronted with these truths before the operation began—morale would waver, and combat effectiveness would surely suffer.
Most soldiers knew only the orders issued from above. Many mid- and low-level commanders were privy only to their own segments of the plan. Only the highest military commanders, senior officials of the Administration Bureau, and the architects of the entire scheme truly understood what they were up against.
Commander Mariland of the Iron Throne stood inside the armored train’s tactical compartment. Through the shielded windows, he watched soldiers bustling across the armed platform and defensive lines, saw vehicles transporting ammunition, and war machines rolling toward various points along the front. Above it all, the sky hung heavy and gray, casting a somber pall over the scorched walls and towers standing silently on the plains. Everything felt weighed down, as if heralding an approaching storm.
A staff officer in a black uniform entered the compartment, saluted Mariland, and reported loudly, “General, all units are in position. The railway inspection is complete, and all crews report normal!”
Mariland snapped out of his reverie and nodded. “Good. Where is the monster now?”
“The target is still roaming in the southwest but is gradually closing in on the defensive line,” the officer replied immediately. “Currently about fifteen kilometers away.”
“Has the ‘Brave Ones’ assault team reached their designated position?”
“They have arrived and are patrolling the target’s perimeter, awaiting orders.”
“Keep them on standby…” Mariland inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “The order will come soon.”
“Yes, General!” The officer responded crisply and returned to the communications console. Mariland withdrew his gaze from the window and turned to the holographic projection on another arcane network terminal.
The sacred yet eerie, majestic yet terrifying giant stag paced restlessly across the plain. Compared to when it first appeared, it was clearly more awakened now. A power beyond human comprehension, surpassing even the known laws of magic, radiated from it. Wherever it passed, the land within hundreds of meters transformed: half scorched and parched, utterly lifeless; the other half bursting with endless flowers and vines, vibrant and thriving. It was as if the natural laws of life and death had been made manifest around this creature.
But this was no mere monster. It was a god—a nature deity resurrected through forbidden rituals by fanatics who sacrificed countless humans in their madness, a god born of unnatural means.
Every time Mariland thought of this truth, his heart quickened. In his decades of life, he never imagined he would take part in something like this. Yet, as the priests often said—fate is fickle.
Ironically, if even gods could be artificially created and slain, what meaning did the priests’ words hold?
Mariland gathered his thoughts, calming his racing heart.
He was a knight, a noble. Though the noble system of Cecil had been turned upside down, and knights of the new era were far different from those of old, he would never betray the oath he swore when he first took up his sword.
Having pledged loyalty, he would see it through to the end.
…
The winding Whitewater River flowed from west to east, crossing Cecil and Grant, eventually entering the eastern territories. In the southern region, the river slowed abruptly, splitting into several branches that trickled through fertile fields and rolling hills. At the first fork stood the White Sand Hills, quietly resting on the riverbank for centuries, backed by the eastern plains and gazing toward the southern mountains.
The miners and technicians had been evacuated. Only the White Sand Mining Company’s security forces remained—a combat battalion, two tank platoons, and artillery units stationed on the high ground around the mine—to maintain order and prevent any unwitting eastern nobles from disrupting the carefully prepared stage. Soon, even these forces would withdraw to minimize casualties.
On a hill near the riverbank, Holm gazed at the rippling Whitewater River and the straight arcane rail line emerging from the northern woods. His expression was tinged with worry.
“I don’t think we can hold this mine,” said the former serf and mine manager to the alien woman beside him. “An operation this large… even the assault on Rock Fortress wasn’t this intense.”
“The mine’s facilities will need rebuilding, but no war, no matter how brutal, can truly destroy nature itself,” Tyr replied, flicking the tip of her raised tail. She glanced at the young man—he was neither military nor a senior official and thus unaware of the full secret behind this mission. He only knew the Cecil Legion was teaming up with “alien allies” to ambush a powerful monster, so Tyr hadn’t gone into detail.
But her words were not mere comfort—they were lessons the merfolk had learned over their long history.
Mortal wars often only destroy mortals themselves; nature endures. Even if they hunted an artificial god, that fact wouldn’t change.
After all, the merfolk had never truly regarded the “gods” worshiped by humans as gods.
“An hour from now, you’ll withdraw with the security forces,” Tyr said, looking up at the gathering clouds that were dimming the sun’s brilliance. “I have preparations to make.”
As she spoke, her sinuous, exotic snake tail unfurled, its surface shimmering faintly with magical energy. Holm instinctively glanced at her non-human limb. Though she was an ally from the south, he couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy. Curious, he asked, “I’ve heard some legends about merfolk… A bard once told me that before the seas were sealed, when human ships still sailed the open ocean, sailors would sometimes encounter merfolk singing magical songs that lured ships into traps… Is that true?”
“We do sing at sea,” Tyr said with a wry smile, “but we don’t lure human ships into traps. Back then, if humans strayed into dangerous waters, we would secretly help them… Merfolk don’t want the sea to swallow any life that doesn’t belong to it—the water quality would suffer.”
Having gained some useless exotic knowledge, Holm, ever eager for new things, left satisfied. He planned to pack his belongings and withdraw with the security forces. Tyr remained on the riverbank hill, and when the time was right, she climbed a magical crystal tower.
Her tail coiled around the crystal, weaving a secret connection of magical energy. The runes on her body flickered softly as she began humming an ancient, unfathomable deep-sea chant.
Though her demeanor was somewhat questionable and unreliable, Tyr was actually among the more conservative merfolk. She cherished the oldest, most orthodox merfolk songs and excelled at weaving magic into these ancient melodies, unlike the younger generation who dabbled in strange magical chants.
The magical field stirred, leaping between crystal towers and sentry posts. Invisible currents of power rode the ripples of space and time, carrying the song’s encoded message into the elemental realms. Tyr sang softly, feeling the orderly rhythm of magic and elements, quietly savoring the moment.
Those death metal tidecallers… they were always heretics.
…
On the Holy Spirit Plain, the “Brave Ones” assault team was ready. Hunter sat inside his war machine, peering through the periscope at the indescribable monster in the distance. The faint blue glow of his mental defense system illuminated his calm, serene face.
He was a commoner from old Cecil, one of over eight hundred refugees who had fled the territory’s early days of reconstruction.
Before donning his uniform, he had been a hunter.
He remembered the forest beside old Cecil that once sustained his family. He remembered the fires and cries when mutants invaded their lands. He remembered the soldiers who covered his retreat and fell. He remembered the cheers of survivors when the new camp was established and he returned with the first meat from the hunt.
As a rural commoner, he felt he had lived through experiences most would never know—enough to fill a thick book.
His night school teacher once said: most commoners in this era couldn’t fill even a blank sheet with their life stories, but Cecil’s commoners were lucky—they had far more to write about than others.
Hunter didn’t know if his experiences counted as luck, but he remembered the joy he felt when Duke Gawain Cecil awarded him a medal after the new camp repelled the mutant attack—a happiness unlike any before.
That joy drove him to enlist during the Legion’s third expansion, to learn new skills, and to come to this scorched plain as a member of the “Brave Ones.”
The soft glow of the mental defense system calmed the hunter’s heart. In a strangely relaxed state, he pressed his eye to the periscope again, focusing on the distant target.
In truth, life hadn’t changed much. His task remained the same.
The hunter was here; the prey was there. Between them lay a patient, cautious wait.
Though the prey was larger than usual, the hunter’s weapon was no longer a bow.
Hunter’s hand rested on the trigger of the railgun. He had to be extremely careful—there was only one shell on board.
The other vehicles nearby also carried just a single round.
In fact, not only did they carry only one shell each, but the crew was reduced to just two per vehicle: a gunner-observer and a driver-commander. This was the minimum crew needed to operate the Warhammer-I tank. All of this was to reduce weight and improve speed and maneuverability, increasing their chances of survival after firing.
After all, conventional tank shells did little more than enrage that monster.
At that moment, the vehicle’s communication console flashed sharply. The order from above came through.
“Commence operation!”
Far beneath the endless, distant sea, on the land the sea witches called the “Continent of Eos,” the colossal Elemental Warp Tower had been activated. Surging energy powered this advanced and intricate machine, causing its layered, shell-like structure to emit a faint glow. At the tower’s peak, a spherical device shimmered with dreamlike ripples. Above it all, an astonishing vortex of energy had begun to form, swirling through the clouds and spinning relentlessly.
On the plaza below the tower, thousands of sea witches gathered in orderly silence, poised and ready.
Even the most lively sea witches knew when to be serious.
On a raised platform beside the plaza, Queen Petia stood firm, clutching her trident scepter. A deep-sea attendant approached and bowed respectfully. “Your Majesty, Tyr has sent the coordinates. The recognition code: Rising Tide, Feast.”
Queen Petia nodded softly. “Activate the Rift Generator.”
Under the deep-water technician’s control, the Warp Tower emitted a strange, wave-like hum. The illusory vortex above expanded and solidified in an instant. With a terrifying surge of energy, the vortex unfolded into an inverted funnel, and the entire plaza was instantly enveloped in a shimmering barrier, cutting it off completely from the outside world.
In the center of the plaza, General Vanessa raised her trident high and commanded:
“Attention all—Evaporate!”
(End of chapter)