Chapter 690: The Crucible of Survival
The two young dragon scions had departed, leaving the vast prototype chamber occupied only by an ancient golden dragon who had completed his mechanical immortality—and the countless machines that accompanied him.
Amid the gentle hums and whirs of the various devices, the golden dragon Andal shifted his massive head slightly. Hundreds of alloy joints and electronic nerve bundles worked in concert to execute this simple movement. His gaze settled on a crystalline curtain before him, and from the speaker beside the platform came a low, almost muttering voice: “What do you make of this situation?”
Simultaneously, the crystal curtains surrounding the platform ceased refreshing their data and images. The flowing points of light quickly coalesced into clear, vivid projections. One by one, imposing dragon figures appeared on these delicate display media—some maintained their colossal draconic forms, others took on human shapes, some like Andal himself had undergone thorough mechanical or electronic transformation, while others remained young and natural.
These elder councilors seemed to have been closely monitoring the events unfolding within this chamber. As Andal’s voice faded, a blue dragon responded promptly: “The developmental trajectory and scale of change this season’s civilization has undergone indeed surpass previous eras. However, we cannot yet determine their ultimate fate. Given the unique circumstances of Tal’Rond, our only option is to observe.”
“We have been observing for hundreds of thousands of years,” another dragon elder interjected, unable to hold back, “and countless civilizations that once held promise perished under our watchful gaze. Perhaps this time, we should take a more proactive approach.”
“We must heed the lessons of the Rebellion of the Tides,” a third elder warned gravely. “Any active intervention on our part risks provoking an even greater backlash…”
The Rebellion of the Tides hung like a sword over the dragonkind’s heads. Even Andal’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of that name.
A brief silence followed before another elder broke it: “The Elven Silver Empire once reached a technological critical point. Their greatest influence, the Nature Deity, has since fallen. I believe the Silver Empire is the most significant variable among all uncertainties…”
“But the elves share our flaw,” another elder added. “They struggle to break through that lock… Their average lifespan is simply too long.”
Listening to the council’s discussion, Andal kept his eyes gently closed, silent. Only when the voices gradually subsided did he open his eyes and glance forward. “Omega, what is your assessment of the Silver Empire?”
The room fell quiet. The crystal curtain before Andal dimmed, then a fracturing and reforming circular image appeared on the display, accompanied by a mechanical synthesized voice: “…Zero point three three percent, Andal.”
“And the newly born Cecile Empire?”
“Insufficient data. Unable to assess at this time, Andal.”
“What was the highest evaluation for the ancient Gondor Empire?”
“Querying historical records… zero point four two percent.”
Andal expressed his thanks. After Omega’s data link returned to standby mode, the ancient dragon raised his eyes and surveyed the surroundings.
“It is too early to discuss final evaluations, friends. Whether the Silver Empire or the Cecile Empire, to become a ‘variable,’ they must first survive.”
As he spoke, images of recent reports from agents at various levels flickered through his mind—updates on the shifting political landscape across the continent of Loren.
A nascent Cecile Empire, desperately needing time to recover and consolidate; a Typhon Empire at a critical developmental stage, struggling to break through its bottleneck.
Beyond Tal’Rond, the world never ceased to change. On human-dominated lands, dynasties rose and fell, nations transformed. In this turbulent era of epochal transition, could this fledgling nation endure? Or would it become mere fodder for another vast empire…
At the Cecile Empire’s border, Changfeng Fortress, Commander Mariland led his most trusted aides to the southern military camp of the castle district.
Several squads of raw recruits were lined up training on the open ground outside the fortress. These farmers, conscripted from the fields, were gathered by instructors to perform the most basic drills from dawn till dusk—forming ranks, marching, halting, looking left or right, turning, marching again… hours of repetitive training day after day.
The instructors were veterans from the southern Cecile legions, hardened by the brutal battlefields of the Holy Spirit Plains. But here, they faced a different challenge: the conscripts from the eastern lands were illiterate, slow to grasp even the simplest commands. Many couldn’t distinguish left from right, let alone understand the instructors’ orders. Getting them to march in formation was a trial for everyone involved—the soldiers, the instructors, even the watching veterans and company commanders.
Yet the instructors showed remarkable patience and employed various effective methods. In this era of extreme poverty among the peasantry, a single egg or a bowl of meat porridge was enough to motivate these dull-witted conscripts to train diligently all day. Simplified commands and rote memorization techniques helped these illiterate soldiers quickly grasp their commanders’ intentions. As Mariland walked past the training ground, he saw a squad standing on a narrow earthen embankment, an instructor wielding a long bamboo pole shouting “Left!” or “Right!”—
When “left” was called, the pole would tap the left side of the embankment; when “right” was called, it would tap the other side. Soldiers who lifted their legs correctly avoided the taps; those who failed tumbled down, bruised and battered for the entire day. By the next day, they learned to tell left from right.
If one day of falling didn’t work, then two days. If two days failed, then three.
The method was crude but effective. Given the widespread illiteracy, this was arguably the best approach.
Those who had trained for about a week showed marked improvement. They could march in a straight line for one or two laps and rarely collided when halting in formation. Such low standards might seem laughable to a seasoned Cecile soldier, but Mariland knew what these conscripts had been like on day one—and how difficult it was to teach a group of illiterate farmers the commands “March” and “Halt.” To him, a squad that could march straight was nothing short of a miracle.
He noticed instructors leading these newly trained soldiers along the edges of the drill field, their chests puffed out proudly as they passed by the conscripts still struggling with “left” and “right.” The trained squads all wore neat cloth training uniforms, their uniformity instilling an almost inexplicable sense of pride.
That initial sense of honor was born from the uniform and the appearance on the training ground.
The crisp, deep-blue cloth uniforms had only recently been issued. Though ordinary fabric offered no battlefield protection like enchanted metal armor, the imperial insignia and the sheer uniformity of the attire were enough to inspire the soldiers. For most of these impoverished conscripts, simply owning a sturdy, handsome new outfit was a tremendous boon—many poor farmers went an entire year without new clothes.
Mariland had heard from Philip that these uniforms were surprisingly inexpensive. The fabric came partly from southern textile mills and partly from Typhon. Thanks to industrial production, once costly cloth and garments had become affordable. Within two years, more textile and garment factories would open across the eastern lands—rich in cotton fields—making cheap ready-made clothing accessible to everyone, just as it already was in the south.
“At least these recruits have some ‘bearing’ now,” Mariland said to his companion as they left the training ground. “When they stand on the walls, they look like soldiers—not just farmers who swapped pitchforks for guns.”
“The new training manual does help them grasp basic discipline quickly,” his aide replied, “but bearing is one thing. I don’t know if it’ll be enough to intimidate the Typhon forces. Our previous ‘reinforcement’ efforts had some effect, but they also seem to have raised Typhon’s suspicions. Lately, they’ve been sending scouts frequently around the fortress, trying to gather more intelligence.”
“That’s fine. Our plan has more than one layer…” Mariland smiled and shook his head. With that, he and his trusted aides left the training ground and returned to his private chambers within the castle. After dismissing all but his closest officers, he activated his personal arcane terminal…
In the Cecile capital, at the Mechanical Manufacturing Institute, the central platform known as the “Mechanical Throne” was occupied by the rotund Nicholas Egglord. He floated serenely at the center of his domain, manipulating a swarm of floating parts as he joyfully assembled various structures according to blueprints. The cacophony of machine tools and arcane devices filled the air—a noise that to ordinary ears might sound like chaos, but to him was a symphony that lifted his spirits.
Lately, the machinists and arcane technicians had been abuzz with talk of the empire’s founding and the impressive coronation ceremony. Townsfolk discussed market changes and news broadcasts. But Nicholas Egglord’s interest lay elsewhere—he was absorbed in the new flying machine blueprints recently sent by Minister Rebecca, and the construction plans for the second armored train, the “Iron Throne—World Serpent.” For him, nothing was more fascinating than working with metal and machines.
Suddenly, an unexpected communication interrupted his pleasant workday. A machinist in work clothes hurried to the Mechanical Throne, calling out loudly: “Director! Your arcane network communication! It’s from Changfeng Fortress!”
Nicholas grumbled softly, and the floating metal parts slowly settled to the floor. Descending from the platform, he instructed his assistant, “Don’t touch anything here. I’ll be back to continue.”
Leaving the bustling workshop behind, Nicholas entered the quiet communication room. The arcane terminal glowed softly in the center. The holographic image of Commander Mariland of Changfeng Fortress appeared.
Seeing the commander who had been pestering him for orders, the iron-sphere alien greeted him cheerfully: “Oh, Mariland—the Iron Throne is repaired, but it won’t reach you until the railway is laid.”
“I know. I’m not here to rush the Iron Throne,” the commander smiled. “I’m here to place a new order.”
“An order?” The massive metal sphere hovered in place. “What kind of order?”
“A batch of arcane armor and combat backpacks, along with matching plasma swords and arcane terminals. Delivery within five days.”
“Oh, that sounds doable. How many sets?”
“Seven to eight thousand. If possible, even ten or twenty thousand…”
Nicholas nearly jolted out of his seat, almost dropping to the floor. “Holy crap! I could just do a vertical takeoff and slam right into your head! What, you bored staring each other down with the Typhon people and need some entertainment?”
“I haven’t finished,” Mariland hurriedly interrupted. “I want it… custom-made.”
“Custom-made? How custom?”
“As far as I know, the most complicated and time-consuming parts of making magic-powered armor and its weapons are engraving the runes and embedding the crystals, right?”
“Yeah… that sounds about right,” Nicholas calmed down from his earlier shock. Realizing the fortress commander wasn’t joking, he started thinking seriously. “There’s also the calibration and structural adjustments, plus testing. For the magic terminals, assembling the internal moving mechanical parts is another time sink. That part still has to be done by hand.”
“So what if I just want a shell? No runes, no crystals, no internal mechanics at all…”
“That’s basically just stamped metal plates!”
Mariland smiled broadly, nodding enthusiastically. “It can be even simpler—just a one-piece iron shell is fine. Even defective rejects meant to be melted down again will do. Even if it’s so shoddy I have to hold it together with wire, I want it.”
“…What exactly are you planning to do?” Nicholas looked utterly baffled, though his face still wore a comical expression. “Wait, did your superiors approve this order?”
“I’ve already submitted the request. You should hear back by this evening. As for what I intend to do…” Mariland smiled faintly. “I plan to hold the fortress with a thousand troops and ten thousand horses…”
(End of chapter)