Ashen Dragon

"Didn't they just finish fighting the High Mountain Kingdom? Do these guys not get exhausted from war?"

"They're a bunch of lunatics!"

The soldiers murmured amongst themselves, with panic, anxiety, and tension filling their hearts. They no longer wished to participate in any war.

In recent years, they had heard of many well-known countries being destroyed by the Ashen Empire. In the northern Thrace fairy tales, each soldier of the Ashen Empire was a monster capable of breathing fire.

But under the stern gaze of the Military Governor, no one dared to talk of retreat or surrender.

Under countless focused gazes, Hain stood at the top of the city tower, raising the dazzling Sun Holy Spear, his voice echoing in the city: "Loyal warriors, you must have heard the news— the Ashen Empire has declared war on us!

They shamelessly tore up the peace treaty, seek to seize our land, plunder our wealth, and turn our loved ones and friends into the slaves of evil dragons!"

Hain's voice was passionate, but the soldiers were not excited, their expressions even somewhat numb.

Many of these soldiers were deployed from the Southern Territory, having experienced the brutal Three Emperors Battle and witnessed countless comrades die outside the Holy City. These slogans no longer had much impact on them.

Questions often appeared in their minds— for we were once Fadlan people, why fight to the death over the sovereignty of a city?

"Everyone, heed the order!" Hain shouted, his voice loud like war drums in the silence, "Today, there is no retreat for us. If this city falls, our homes will turn to ashes.

So, no matter what happens, not a step back!"

"Hurry!"

"Follow up, get into position immediately!"

"Quickly, move these shells to the North City Tower! It's still short of two boxes there!"

Under the organization of the officers, the soldiers arrived at their respective positions, checking those cannons, loading their firearms, and transporting boxes of ammunition.

Ironically, many of these armaments were purchased from the Ashen Empire, with the stamp of 'Made in Imperial' engraved at the bottom, now used to resist the impending invasion from the Ashen Empire.

"Where is the Sun Holy Arrow?"

"Where are the Arcane Army people? Quickly charge the Radiant Disc!"

"Not enough time! Quickly awaken the Steel Golem!"

A thick smoke appeared in the valley, followed by a pressing iron-gray cloud over Esengard, like a giant black curtain engulfing the entire city.

On the city tower, Hain's expression grew more grave, seemingly shrouded by the gloom: "At this time in Elbert Valley... there shouldn't be fog."

He ordered solemnly: "Arcane Army, clear this smoke, show me what's hidden in there!"

"Yes, Lord Earl."

Several mages dressed in crimson gold robes appeared in the air, chanting spells and raising their Magic Wands, their eyes bursting with dazzling light, creating gusts of wind.

"Swish–"

The gale roared, sweeping across the land, dispersing the smoke, and the mages casting Divination Spells suddenly turned pale, they screamed: "Beware! Their shells are coming!"

"Enemy attack!"

A piercing screech sounded, and after the smoke vanished, the sky appeared to be covered by a dense web of shells, as though to envelop the entire city.

Hain roared: "Activate the Radiant Disc—"

The mages, priests immediately chanted spell incantations, attempting to activate Esengard's Protection System, but the speed of those pointed shells was too fast, almost instantly breaking through the air, tearing through the sky.

"Boom!"

"Boom! Boom!"

In an instant, on the Cast Iron Wall blossomed

In the distance, a deep thunderous sound rolled in continuously, it was the ominous sign born from enemy iron hooves crushing the soil and war chariots trampling over rocks as they approached.

An iron-gray cloud pressed over the capital spires of the Krug Empire, and the copper bell of St. John's Cathedral suddenly boomed at six in the morning. William, the train station dispatcher, tugged the oil-stained collar of his uniform, watching as the twelfth military train puffed white steam into platform three. The fresh anti-rust paint had yet to dry on the cars, and in the open flatbed, the tubes of field artillery wrapped in waterproof canvas gleamed a bluish hue in the morning mist.

"Make way! Make way!" Sparks flew from horseshoes striking the granite pavement, as a massive cart pulled by twenty draft horses rolled down Queen Street. Colin, the bakery owner, hastily moved the freshly baked rye bread back inside, and through the steam-covered window display, he saw four engineers securing the cart with steel cables around a fifteen-meter-long metal monster—the latest 240mm Siege Howtzer, its hull still dusted with copper shavings from the lathe, bearing the Royal Armory's eagle emblem.

At the Seventh Pier of the naval port district, crane arms rose and fell like a forest of steel. George, wearing a wicker safety helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead, his work pants already stained grey-white by ammonium nitrate crystallization. Inside the hold of the ship "Iron Ten," boxes upon boxes of 7.92mm bullets glimmered with brass hues in the morning light, as the loading supervisor cut open wooden crates with bayonets, scattering bullets on the deck to check the primers.

"Mind the spacing! Maintain steam pressure!" barked Major von Strauss, the armored train commander, waving his gilded command saber. His polished boots stepped over loading Mark III tanks. This -eighteen-ton steel beast lay subdued on its special transport truck, with fresh red soil from the test track wedged in its tracks. At the moment of connecting the gas pipes to the boiler, the composite steam engine let out a low growl, akin to the awakening of giant dragons, scaring the lined-up Grenadiers back half a step collectively.

On the school grounds of the Holy Blood Knights academy, five hundred apprentice officers simultaneously unsheathed their swords. The wooden prosthetic leg of Old Marshal Hohensohlen thudded against the review platform, with the blue Max medal and the gold badge of the Staff Academy on his chest almost scorching the retinas of new recruits under the sunlight. "Gentlemen!" his hoarse voice resonated through the brass loudspeaker, "When your great-grandfathers fought Napoleon with flintlocks, could they have imagined today?" He suddenly raised his silver-inlaid cane towards the sky, where twelve Zeppelin airships were slicing through the clouds, their aluminum frames flashing like the chariots of the Gods.

By the fountain pool in Municipal Square, sewing shop apprentice Emma clutched the silver cross left by her mother tightly. The crowd in front of her suddenly parted like waves, as three armored cars equipped with 37mm rapid-fire guns rolled down Rose Avenue, which former emperors had walked for their coronations. The tracks crushed the basalt stone slabs laid two hundred years ago into powder, and when the lead car's horn suddenly blared, Emma distinctly saw the Old Marquis faint on the post office steps, her pearl-studded dress frame trembling violently from the exhaust expelled by steam turbines.

At the secret testing ground on the east side of the arsenal, Chief Engineer Schneider tore off his leather goggles, scarred by three burn holes from acetylene flames. In front of him, in a giant trench, the supertank codenamed "Land Cruiser" demonstrated its obstacle-clearing ability. This steel fortress equipped with four 75mm ship guns suddenly accelerated, smashing through custom-cast reinforced concrete barrier walls with its sixty-ton weight. As the staff officers in the observation tower feverishly recorded data, no one noticed two kilometers away, in the slums behind a window adorned with holy icons, eight-year-old Thomas was peering at this monster through his father's legacy monocular telescope.

When dusk reddened the cast iron chimneys of the armory, William finally completed the last dispatch of the day. He leaned against the riveted signal booth outside, lighting his pipe, watching the never-ceasing flow of transport teams under the evening glow: - Mules and horses laden with aerial bombs paralleled trucks filled with boxes of gas masks, as military courier cyclists weaved between steamrollers and mobile kitchens. Suddenly, a piercing air raid siren shattered the sky, and six biplane scouts soared over the city, dropping not bombs but leaflets—the printed words of His Imperial Majesty's proclamation to the people, fluttering falling on the dome of the closing department store.

As the furnace of Cast Iron City exhaled the eighth plume of smoke at dawn in late autumn, the fingers of female worker Erin were already worn bloody by brass shells. She watched the river of bullets flowing on the conveyor belt, with every five seconds a 7.92mm rifle bullet marked with her blood being packed into a pinewood box, with the words 'Southern Territory Special Supply' brushed in black paint on the lid.