The Kylian Empire VOL 1|Legend of Zelda Industrialization Fanfic

The biting wind howled across the frozen landscape, swirling snowflakes into a chaotic dance that obscured everything beyond a few feet. The Kylian Soldiers, clad in thick woolen uniforms and heavy boots, leaned into the cold with determined grimaces etched on their faces. Their breath misted in the frigid air, punctuating each push with gusts of fatigue mingled with urgency.

"Come on! My uncle can move faster than that! We don't have all day! Push!" shouted General Odin, his voice a commanding force against the howling winds. He paced in front of the struggling line, his gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides, a silhouette of authority against the backdrop of swirling white.

The soldiers strained against the snowy resistance, their muscles taut with effort as they gripped the ropes attached to the artillery piece. Sledges groaned under the weight of the heavy barrels as artillery slid free from the deep drifts. Every step forward, regardless of how small, was a victory against the relentless winter that sought to bury them whole.

The 1st Brigade of the Blue Army, composed of 4,000 men under General Odin, was on a mission of vital importance. Throughout late summer and autumn, the Brigade had ferried 3,000 km up the Roscof river to the northwestern Kylian city of Konsburg. From there, they had been ordered to march the remaining 500 km to the allied City of Viskov. The journey took them near the coast, around the treacherous Viskov Mountain Range, and was proving to be a brutal test of endurance.

Their well-equipped force was desperately needed in Viskov. The Viskovian army, a mere 1,600 strong, was bracing itself against a fierce Hylian advance. The Brigade represented the best hope for bolstering their defenses and preventing the city from falling. The Kylian soldiers were well-supplied, but the unforgiving weather was a constant, demoralizing enemy.

Amongst the struggling soldiers was Lieutenant Pavlo. His face, normally pale, was flush pink with cold. He commanded a platoon of fifty men, pushing alongside them, his own boots sinking deep into the snow. "Keep your heads down, lads!" he yelled, though the wind likely swallowed his words. "Viskov needs us!"

They were nearly to Viskov, just beyond the foothills of the Viskov City, when a chorus of snarls ripped through the air, momentarily overpowering the wind. The shouting died down as the soldiers looked around. The wind had picked up, and the snow was falling so heavily that visibility was down to near zero.

Through the blinding snow, the faint orange flicker of firelight pierced the haze-too many and too chaotic to be city hearths. As the Brigade crested the final rise before the descent into the valley of Viskov, the scale of the battle below became clear.

Flames licked at the outer walls of the city as thousands of red bokoblins wielding clubs and torches swarmed the perimeter.

"What in the name of Hylia…" Lieutenant Pavlo whispered, his breath catching as he dropped to one knee besides a snow laden boulder. 

General Odin raised his spyglass. "They're trying to overwhelm the east gate," he muttered, then turned to his second-in-command. "Get the artillery set up on this ridge–three companies covering the slope, two for a high arc over the city. And get me a signal flare. Viskov needs to know we're here."

A blue flare streaked into the sky moments later, bursting with the intensity of the sun incarnate. Below, a faint cheer rose up from the defenders of Viskov.

The brigade moved swiftly. The artillery crews unhooked their sledges and began shoveling out recessed firing pits into the snow-packed hilltop, stabilizing the rear slopes to brace for recoil. Others drove angled wooden wedges and ice-anchored clamps into the frozen ground, creating firm firing bases to support the howitzers' elevation mechanisms.

Teams worked in pairs, adjusting the elevation gears and loading mechanisms, while others stacked propellant charges and shells in insulated crates behind hastily-erected snow berms. Smoke flags were placed to help spot wind direction.

Further back, forward observers and signalers broke open communication kits''laying out line-of-sight mirrors and flares, or preparing to send runners downhill to coordinate indirect fire.

Behind the gun line, the infantry platoons began forming up in protected wedges, giving the howitzers a wide arc of fire. They didn't aim downhill directly; instead, their rifles remainded low but alert, watching for any advance that might break through the bombardment. Staggered rows ensured minimal clustering–discipline honed by training and necessity.

Pavlo ran down the line of his platoon, his voice sharp. "Bayonets fixed! Fire only on my command! We hit them when they try to climb–don't waste a shot."

The Bokoblins, oblivious to the arrival of fresh troops in the blizzard, continued their assault, emboldened by the weakening resistance at the gates.

Then General Odin gave the order.

"Fire!"

The valley trembled.

The first salvo came from the forward line–twenty howitzers along the ridgeline opened fire in near-perfect unison, hurling high-arcing shells deep into the enemy ranks. A heartbeat later, explosions bloomed across the snowy field like a chain of volcanic eruptions. Bokoblins were vaporized by the dozens, flung through the air in arcs of limbs and fire.

Then came the rest.

Eighty more guns–emplaced in staggered echelons across the high ground and reverse slopes–began their barrage in waves. Not all fired at once, but in disciplined rhythm. Every ten seconds, another group spoke: thunder rolling across the battlefield without pause. Shells screamed through the air in an unending stream, bursting high and low, sending geysers of snow and blood skyward.

The entire eastern valley became a kill zone.

To the bokoblins, it must have felt like the sky had opened and rained fire. Their warbands dissolved into chaos–burning, shivering, trampling over each other in blind panic. Crude siege engines were blown apart mid-roll. Fires spread unchecked. Craters overlapped into fields of churned ash and bone.

From the walls of Viskov, even the most hardened captains stared in slack-jawed silence.

"Well… no wonder why the Coalition was defeated," one soldier whispered. "With an army this strong they might as well be facing the goddesses themselves."

Another dropped his spear and knelt instinctively, making the sign of the Tri-force over his chest.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Pavlo's platoon advanced steadily downhill, rifles ready but unfired. They didn't need to shoot. They didn't get to shoot. The howitzers had stolen the battlefield.

"Let the guns burn through them," Pavlo said, voice tight with awe. "No need to waste a bullet."

Within forty-five minutes, the Bokoblin force–numbering in the tens of thousands–was broken. The survivors fled into the forests screaming, many on fire, many too injured to run far. Not a single monster made it within twenty meters of the advancing blue army, nor had a single Kylian soldier died.

Suddenly a deep groan echoed across the icy valley as the eastern gates of Viskov strained open, their iron joints stiff with ice and rust. Behind them, defenders huddled in soot-streaked armor and torn cloaks, faces blackened with smoke and fatigue. They stared across the blood-smeared snow to the ridge above, where the Kylian artillery still hissed steam from the last salvo.

A banner unfurled over the gatehouse—black and purple, the crest of Viskov flapping ragged in the wind.

General Odin stepped forward from the gun line, his long coat whipping behind him. The silence in his wake was profound. His boots crunched over frozen blood as he walked downhill, flanked by his staff officers and a rear guard of riflemen. The wind had calmed, as though the storm itself had bowed to the firepower unleashed on the valley.

Pavlo followed, eyes darting between the battlefield's devastation and the city gates ahead. He could smell the acrid sting of gunpowder mixing with scorched meat. Snow still fell, but it no longer concealed—the valley was laid bare, a graveyard for monsters.

At the base of the hill, a delegation from Viskov emerged slowly from the gates. Leading them was a tall man in rugged leather and chainmail. His dark plum colored beard was singed at the tips, and a black gash streaked down his cheek.

"General Odin," he said, voice hoarse but proud. "I am Valord Viskov, Valord of Viskov (Try saying that 10 times). On behalf of the alliance…" He paused, eyes flicking to the smoking craters behind Odin. "...we welcome the Blue Army to our city."

Odin nodded, returning the salute crisply. "Your city held longer than what it should have, Valord Viskov. It appears you held most of them off, correct?"

Varkas gave a weary smile. "Yes, if the Blue Army hadn't arrived in time, my state may have been wiped off the map before a Hylian even steps into Viskov City."

They clasped forearms, a sign of camaraderie in this case. Around them, Kylian soldiers fanned out, aiding the wounded and extinguishing fires that still clung to the outer walls. The smell of pitch and pine wafted from burnt siege ladders. Cries of relief, mingled with the sobs of survivors, rose from inside the gatehouse.

Then a sharp whistle cut through the brittle air.

A runner approached, boots crunching rapidly across the snow. He skidded to a stop before Odin, saluting with frostbitten fingers.

"Report from the Logistic Battalion, sir. Final assessment just in." He took a quick breath. "Kylian casualties: zero. No fatalities."

Odin's expression didn't change, but a silence passed between the officers.

The runner hesitated, then added, voice lower, "The State of Viskov reports two hundred dead. Primarily gate defenders and local militia. Some civilians... in the lower districts, sir. Collateral from the fire and rubble."

A muscle in Viskov's jaw tightened. He gave a single nod. "Get me names. All of them. Everyone who fell. The living will remember who died to hold this line."

The runner saluted again and sprinted toward the gatehouse.

Above them, the sky finally began to clear. The wind eased, and a dim sun pierced through the cloud cover—bleak, pale, but enough to gild the ruins in cold gold.

Although the battle was over, across the Hylian continent, the second year of blood and fire had begun.