Chapter 974: Freefall

In the early hours before dawn, long before the sun would rise, even the faintest light had yet to touch the eastern hills. The borderlands lay beneath a starry sky dimmer than usual, a deep blue canopy stretching from the towering walls of Winterhold all the way to the long-wind fortress of the Cecilian people.

Knights clad in black helmets and armor stood in perfect formation beneath the night sky. Their swords and blades sheathed, banners furled, their warhorses—trained and subdued by both potions and calming spells—stood silently as if fused with their riders. Not a sound stirred. The cold wind swept across the plains, where thousands of statues forged from steel seemed to stand in solemn silence.

A tall figure on horseback circled from the rear of the formation, then returned to the front of the order. His black steel armor appeared even heavier and more somber under the starlight. From beneath the full-face helm came a low, commanding voice—

But it was not human speech.

It was a strange, indistinct murmur, as if countless voices overlapped in a haunting chant. The sound sent chills down the spine, yet carried a solemn rhythm, almost like a prayer.

The black-armored commander raised his arm high before the knights. His eerie voice seemed to stir the entire company. One by one, the knights lifted their arms in response, but not a single shout escaped them. Under strict discipline, this silent gesture was their way of pledging their resolve to their leader—and he appeared well pleased.

He nodded, turned his horse’s head, and swung his longsword toward the dark, endless plains ahead. The knights began to move in ranks, the entire formation rippling like a sudden wave of golden wheat, surging forward in layers. As they advanced, the standard-bearers at the front, middle, and flanks raised their banners high—

The Iron River Knights’ flag fluttered proudly across the night-shrouded plains.

…

Andersa had a dream.

In it, she was falling into a bottomless vortex, surrounded by countless shadowy, smoky black whirlpools. They stretched endlessly, blocking her sight and senses. She kept falling deeper into the swirling abyss. She wanted to wake up—normally, such a sensation of falling would jolt her awake immediately—but some powerful force tugged at her from the vortex’s depths, keeping her trapped behind an invisible barrier between dream and reality. She could almost feel the texture of her blankets, hear the wind outside the window—but her mind remained imprisoned in the dream.

Straining to open her eyes wide, she tried to make out what lurked in the misty shadows. Suddenly, faces began to form—many familiar, many strange. She saw her grandfather, the soldiers she knew best, acquaintances from the imperial capital…

Then, her father’s face appeared from the depths of the vortex—Bard Wendell. He reached out and shoved her hard.

Andersa jolted awake, gasping in the darkness. Her heart pounded wildly, and a lingering sensation like drowning left her feeling sick. Cold sweat drenched her body.

“General! General! Please wake up, General!”

Urgent knocking and voices finally reached her ears—had they just started calling, or had they been shouting for some time?

She sprang up, grabbed a plain garment to throw over herself, and called out, “Come in!”

The door was pushed open, and a trusted aide stepped inside. The young adjutant saluted crisply, his face anxious as he spoke rapidly: “General, there’s been an incident. A riot broke out in the War God’s clergy quarters. A group of battle priests clashed with the on-duty soldiers. There have been many casualties.”

“What? A riot?” Andersa’s eyes widened. She immediately reached for her sword and outer cloak. Though the news was hard to believe, she trusted her aide’s judgment—this was no fabrication. “What’s the current situation? Who’s on site? Is the situation under control?”

As she spoke, she handed her sword to the adjutant and hurried out.

“Knight Commander Bruel has regained control,” the young officer replied as he followed her briskly. “Because it happened suddenly, the soldiers were caught off guard at first, resulting in seven deaths and thirty to forty injuries, at least fifteen of them serious. Nearby patrol knights and battle mages quickly arrived, pushing back and separating the priests, many of whom appeared to be mentally unstable. Patrols and surveillance have been increased in other areas—no further disturbances so far.”

Mentally unstable…

Andersa’s heart sank, and her pace quickened.

As she neared the barracks within Winterhold where some of the priests were quartered, a sharp stench of blood hit her.

The knights had secured the scene. Fully armed soldiers guarded every entrance, while battle mages continuously scanned the area with detection spells, ready to respond to any supernatural outbursts. Several tense patrol knights noticed Andersa’s arrival and halted to salute.

She waved them off and slipped past the cordon into the compound.

The wounded had been moved, but bodies still lay on the ground. The spilled blood had cooled in the cold winter night. Residual magical and divine energies lingered in the air, visible as a hazy mist through Andersa’s magical sight. She frowned at the fallen soldiers clad in imperial armor—most had been killed by searing magical blades or divine powers, with little blood spilled. The stronger scent of blood came from the priests who had been cut down by swords.

The priests’ bodies lay scattered among the soldiers they had slain.

Suppressing the turmoil inside her, Andersa knelt beside one of the War God’s priests, ignoring the bloodstains as she reached out to turn the corpse over.

The priest’s hollow eyes stared blankly at her—or perhaps at the dark sky above. They still held traces of confusion and fanaticism, unsettling to behold.

But Andersa’s attention quickly shifted from the eyes to the wounds.

A fatal slash had cut from near the neck straight through the chest. The enchanted blade had sliced through the thin cloth and cotton robe, revealing torn flesh beneath. The blood had stopped flowing, but on either side of the wound, strange growths had sprouted.

They were grotesque flesh buds, unnatural and disturbing. Andersa was certain no human wound should produce such growths. Their purpose seemed to be an attempt to heal the injury, but with the body’s life force completely severed, the effort had failed. Now the buds had withered, clinging to the flesh in a nauseating way.

A bloodstained knight approached.

“Bruel,” Andersa said without looking up, sensing the familiar presence.

“Yes, General,” the knight officer replied gravely. “I examined these wounds earlier. They’re not caused by healing spells or alchemical potions, nor by normal War God divine magic. But one thing is clear—these… abnormalities gave the priests enhanced vitality. Many of our soldiers suffered heavy losses because of it. No one expected enemies who had been cut down to suddenly fight back as if unharmed. Many soldiers were caught off guard, suffering serious injuries or death.”

Andersa nodded slightly. Bruel’s assessment confirmed her suspicions and explained the heavy casualties.

The War God priests quartered here had been disarmed. Without magical amplifiers or weapons, even battle priests should not have inflicted such damage on fully armed, coordinated regular troops—even in a surprise attack.

But if they were facing corrupted priests who had transformed from human into monsters, all bets were off.

Her expression darkened. Though reluctant, she had to classify these rogue War God priests as “fallen.”

“Where are the other battle priests?” she asked, standing.

“They’ve been secured and placed in two nearby compounds, with triple the usual guards,” Bruel answered immediately. “Most are nervous; a few are agitated, but none have… mutated.”

A wave of frustration surged through Andersa. “…So we can only lock them up like this.”

“Yes, that’s all we can do,” Bruel said grimly. “This chaos is clearly caused by some kind of madness. We can’t harm the sane priests—but I worry the soldiers won’t see it that way.”

Andersa frowned, about to give orders, but then noticed something else on the corpse.

She bent down and felt a thin chain around the priest’s neck. She tugged it free, revealing a bloodstained triangular iron talisman.

“A war sigil…” Bruel whispered in surprise. “I didn’t notice that before!”

Andersa said nothing. She tore open the priest’s sleeve. Under the bright glow of a nearby magic crystal lamp, she saw a matching triangular emblem painted in red on the inside of the arm.

“Wearing an iron war sigil, with the War God’s mark painted on the inner arm…” Bruel murmured instinctively. “It signifies wielding weapons in the name of the god—a declaration of entering a state of war!”

“These priests aren’t mad. At least, not completely,” Andersa said quietly. “They did this according to doctrine. This isn’t a riot…”

“This is a sacrifice to the War God, a sign that their faction has entered a state of war.”

“A state of war!?” Her adjutant approached, eyes wide with shock. “Where is this war coming from? Are these people planning a rebellion against the Empire?”

“Renegades don’t wear the sigil. This isn’t rebellion…”

Andersa’s words trailed off.

She quickly reviewed all the recent reports coming in from back home, rapidly piecing together the unusual activity within the War God’s Church and the delicate balance of the border region’s situation—though the intelligence she had was scant, a primal, wolfish instinct was already sounding alarm bells in her mind.

Suddenly, a terrible, dreadful suspicion struck her.

Something was wrong with the War God’s Church. The priests’ deity was in turmoil, and the restless, fanatical followers, driven by anxiety and zeal, would want nothing more at this moment than to appease their god.

But how could these priests—disarmed, ostensibly under protective observation but effectively under house arrest in the camp—possibly placate their deity?

It seemed nearly impossible… yet the War God’s followers were not limited to just these priests.

Andersa snapped her head up. Almost simultaneously, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a mage rapidly flying toward them through the night sky.

It was as if this arrival was meant to confirm her worst fears.

A sinking feeling welled up inside her—a sense that she had grasped the crucial truth but was powerless to change the course of events. She remembered the last time she’d felt this way—it was on a rainy night at the Paramel Highlands.

The messenger mage landed before her, breathless.

“General!” he gasped, panic etched across his face. “The Iron River Knights have moved without orders. Their camp is deserted—the last witnesses saw them gathering on the plains far from the fortress, heading toward the Changfeng defensive line!”

Falling.

Andersa felt herself spiraling down into a vortex.

…

The Changfeng Fortress complex, with the Changfeng stronghold at its core, was a layered defense system made up of bunkers, outposts, railway junctions, and supply stations.

Since its construction, it had never been tested by war.

Now, on the eve of dawn, the stars above grew dim and blurred. A faint glow was rising over the distant eastern hills, signaling the end of this bitterly cold night.

Under the cover of darkness, the knightly order on the march had reached the far end of the “Kamanda Crossing,” the outer edge of the Cecilian defensive perimeter.

Beneath a blackened helmet, a pair of dark red eyes scanned the shadowed horizon, fixed on the direction of the Changfeng line.

Behind this commander, the massive order had formed into a legion formation, surging with magical energy that filled the resonance field.

Minutes later, the magical resonance peaked.

The commander raised his longsword high. The moment it swept downward, the entire order began accelerating in waves—at first heavy and slow, then gathering speed like a massive, roaring tidal wave rushing toward the distant horizon.

The gods demanded that everything be set right.

War—blood and fire—was the true path.

The Lord’s servants cared not who would claim victory, nor whether they themselves would be wiped out, nor even the meaning of this war.

At this moment, the war itself was the meaning.

A terrifying energy reaction began to form above the order—a highly compressed, constrained plasma known as the “Thermal Cone.”

(End of chapter)