The fierce battle outside the city of Gonda has entered its fourth day.
From the second day onwards, the soldiers involved in the battle had already beco consud by bloodlust. Morality and humanity were irrelevant; everyone in the maelstrom of war was treated equally, their individual thoughts erased, becoming cogs in this at grinder. The only thought ingrained in their minds was to eliminate every enemy in sight.
This was no longer war, but a bloody massacre.
The only difference was that neither side held an absolute advantage, dragging the carnage out indefinitely.
But all slaughters must eventually end, either when the last man of one side falls, or when a weight heavy enough to tip the scales appears on the battlefield.
Amandra returned to camp, dragging her blood-soaked longsword. The hilt of the sword was covered in layers of blood and sticky, shredded flesh, a bizarre sensation of being wet and dry, like an old, clotted sponge soaked and swollen.
“How is it on the Cholakh side?” The queen was covered in blood and dust, her long hair, coiled in a vine-like crown, was filthy, indistinguishable from every other soldier around her. Yet, her blue eyes glead with a burning intensity that was impossible to look at directly.
Ashur calmly took the queen’s longsword. The heavy blade seed weightless in her hands. The reserved chief lady-in-waiting softly replied, “The battle report from Cholakh City arrived an hour ago. Your vanguard has beheaded the traitors, and Cholakh has sworn allegiance to you.”
Amandra’s lips curved upward. “And what about Ponler?”
Ashur shook her head. “No news has co from Ponler City yet; it seems to be in a stalemate there.”
Amandra frowned, pulling off her soaked gloves and throwing them to the ground. She strode to the huge sand table terrain map in the center of the tent, propping her hands on the edge of the table, her gaze sweeping over it.
With Gonda as the center, Cholakh and Ponler were located on either side of the royal city. These two cities guarded the critical passages to other regions, forming an unbreakable triad—a fortress that forced any who coveted Assyria to think twice.
For the past few days, Amandra had been madly throwing lives into the at grinder of Gonds to tie down Gonda’s main forces, preventing reinforcents from reaching Cholakh and Ponler. And Ponler, a city of industry and machinery known only to Assyrian nobles, concealed vast mineral resources and weaponry. Even if it couldn’t be conquered, besieging Ponler to prevent it from supporting Gonda was essential.
Gonda’s royal army possessed Assyria’s most elite combat capabilities. As a princess who had personally led this army into battle and now as queen, Amandra knew this all too well. If the royal army broke through the blockade and linked up with Ponler, she would lose any chance of turning the tide of this war.
“Gonda has launched its eleventh breakthrough attempt!” a dust-covered soldier stumbled in to report, blood oozing from his chapped lips.
Amandra casually pushed her cup on the table aside. It still held half a cup of tea she hadn’t had ti to drink when she last returned. Ashur understood, picked up the cup of water, and offered it to the extrely thirsty soldier.
The soldier paused, as if not quite registering what was happening, then, at Ashur’s silent urging, took the cup and greedily, yet carefully, drank all the tea inside.
Watching him drag his weary body back to the battlefield, Ashur returned with the cup. “…He still looks like a child.”
Amandra didn’t look up, saying coldly, “There are no children on the battlefield. No one will give up killing their enemy because of their age.”
Ashur hesitated, glanced at Amandra, and then walked away helplessly.
Amandra knew perfectly well that wasn’t what she wanted to say, but…
The queen didn’t stay in the tent for long. Almost imdiately after the soldier left, she held her longsword, which Ashur had briefly cleaned, and mounted her horse again.
The next ti she returned here would be three hours later, when Roman’s last batch of reinforcents, having crossed the mountains, would arrive in Gonda.
They brought the final contingent of soldiers, and the resources Amandra urgently needed, and most importantly—twelve steam light armors and hundreds of heavy armors.
Assyrian warriors were born for slaughter. The vast plains gifted them speed and strength beyond ordinary n; their primal worship of beasts honed their instincts—the cunning of wolves, the ferocity of lions, the agility of leopards. Unlike the Romans and Calais, Assyrians were taller and more robust. A hand cannon that required two n to carry elsewhere, they could drag alone. The weight of armor ant nothing to them. When they roared behind their massive oak shields, advancing like an unbreakable tide, the earth itself seed to tremble.
Many within the Roman vanguard were literally crushed to death by such shield formations.
The Romans’ physical strength couldn’t match the Assyrians. They couldn’t break through the shields, their spears couldn’t pierce through their thick armor, and while their officers’ chanical guns could penetrate through wood, their shields were also wrapped in iron, causing gunpowder to get stuck, making progress impossible…
Infantry battles was a devastatingly one-sided affair. If not for Roman’s skilled cavalry and abundant reserves of gunpowder weapons, Amandra would have found it difficult to bring the battle to its current fifty-fifty stalemate.
However, this deadlock would soon end.
Physical might is insignificant in the face of absolute firepower.
The greatest—and cruelest—invention in human history: steam-powered armor. Driven by a core of pressurized steam, its segnts interlocked with gears and cables, moving as one seamless entity. Lighter than standard arm yet terrifyingly agile, a soldier clad in it could match the speed of a galloping warhorse, and as long as they held a weapon—be it the most ordinary blade or gun—who could escape their slaughter?
The steam light armor was the iron sword of the Bronze Age, the flintlock of the Silver Age; it was a killing weapon that transcended its era.
When Sancha allied with the newly crowned Raphael, among the gifts secretly given to him by Ro were two steam light armor power cores. He handed these two power cores to Leshert for reverse engineering and reassembly. As the giver, Ro naturally had more.
But this device was extrely expensive; each steam light armor cost as much as a temporary palace. Even for a great empire like Ro, only twenty-six units were currently in service.
And Amandra had transferred twelve of them to the Assyrian battlefield.
“Eternal Sky… will you condemn your daughter as a monster?” The queen reined in her horse, turning it around. She watched a group of chanics in uniform moving in and out of her royal tent behind her. The gushing steam rose like clouds into the sky, mixed with an imnse, undeniable heat that assaulted her, making her skin feel a dense, prickling sensation.
The queen’s muttered words were unheard by anyone but herself, just as her inner pain and struggle remained unknown. Soldiers and guards could only see the queen standing there with a cold and stern expression, her back and head proudly straight in a line. Nothing could destroy her unwavering belief in victory for this war.
The plus of steam erupting here were so obvious that people on the distant city wall also saw them. Gonda’s city gate had been breached by Ro’s attack at midnight on the first day. The tug-of-war between the two sides unfolded around the city gate, one side desperately trying to rush in, the other desperately pushing out those who had entered. Bodies piled up like mountains beneath the city wall, Assyrian and Roman soldiers intertwined like twisted vines, their limbs mixed together. Only for two hours each evening did they tacitly halt the fighting to retrieve the bodies of their comrades.
An Assyrian soldier on the city wall saw the cloud-like steam rising from behind the royal tent. He knew who commanded it: the Queen of Assyria, nominally his sovereign.
Yet, his queen was leading the armies of other nations to attack Assyria’s royal city, and he was desperately resisting the queen’s army, even aiming to kill her on this battlefield.
Even for the lowest-ranking soldier, he felt this situation exceeded the limits of his comprehension.
However, this was the High Priest’s command.
The High Priest, listening to the voice of the Eternal Sky, declared that Assyria would no longer accept Queen Amandra’s rule. They would have a new monarch—a new Bairaetu—and under the banner of this new hero, Assyria would restore the Eternal Sky’s glory of dominating the Black Sea.
The High Priest quickly received the news and, surrounded and supported by the temple priests, ascended the city wall, settling at the vantage point with the best view.
A group of people silently watched the surging, cloud-like steam in the distance, their hearts sinking simultaneously.
Assyria did not possess steam-powered armor.
Years of internal strife had depleted Assyria’s self-developnt capabilities. Assyria’s weapon technology was still ten years behind that of the Syracuse Peninsula. In those ten years, steam light armor had beco the focus of research for Ro and Calais, but this didn’t prevent the priests from knowing about this terrifying weapon; they had also seen corresponding illustrated catalogs through various channels.
The priests wore cloaks woven from eagle feathers over their linen round-necked robes. Wolf teeth, ox bones, and other ornants hung from their cowhide belts, and many hardened, sun-dried fruits were strung on the straw ropes across their chests—symbolizing the priests’ mastery over life and death, their role as bridges communicating with the Eternal Sky and all things in nature.
Their faces were painted in verdant green and crimson, ancient patterns resembling the oldest script. The High Priest’s forehead bore a sun totem drawn in fresh ox blood, to bless the warriors on the battlefield. When he looked up at the Roman camp, the still-damp, sticky blood ran down, across the corner of his eye, bringing a stinging sensation.
“Hurry and reinforce the city gates, avoid direct combat,” the High Priest finally gave this order.
“Why? Our warriors fear no challenge!” the centurion, wielding a huge battle-axe, said excitedly.
But the High Priest did not answer, nor did he need to. Everyone could see that the surging steam clouds behind the royal tent suddenly expanding at an extrely fast rate. Sothing had changed.
The twelve armors were inspected. The carefully selected knights pulled down their steel visors, concealing every last inch of skin beneath the impenetrable armor. They thodically flexed their fingers, wrists, and ankles one by one, and then stood up.
This process was utterly terrifying to unard people. Each armor stood nearly three ters tall, the steel humanoid figures appeared both human and absolutely non-human. As they moved their limbs, mimicking human actions, there was a sudden sense of an alienated creature coming to life.
Gears inside the armor rotated and engaged with their movents, emitting precise, regular clicking sounds. Levers and knobs began to operate, cylinders and pistons sang joyfully under the influence of newly added oil. After a long period of preheating, the armor had reached its optimal state. As the knights stood up, the pipes connected to the massive steam power core devices on their backs detached with a snap, spraying hot, scalding steam that instantly burned several people who hadn’t moved away in ti.
This was an absolute weapon of violence. Every part of the armor could be used to kill; every intricate design served this purpose. The knights walked silently along the pre-cleared path, like moving mountains casting shadows on either side. Steam hissed from the seams of their armor with every step, shrouding them in a faint mist, making them appear like demons that descended from ancient myths.
An undeniable slaughter began.
No matter how great the Assyrians’ strength, before this chanical masterpiece, it was like a praying mantis trying to stop a chariot. The steam power operated furiously, allowing the knights, who were rushing down the hillside, to instantly overtake the horses in front of them, sweeping like a whirlwind into the Assyrian army. Wherever they went, Assyrian soldiers collapsed at the slightest touch.
Four-ter-long swords were like toys in their hands, easily cleaving through a line of people at the waist. Oak shields could be crushed by the high-powered armor. They advanced wildly, sparing no weapons. If a longsword beca too slippery with blood, they would draw a knife from their waist or a sword from their back. Short blades could spring from the front of their iron boots. Every one of their movents reaped countless souls.
No one could be indifferent to this scene. Even the most cruel executioners or serial killers would be dumbfounded by such an unbridled slaughter of life. We can tolerate fighting and killing between individuals, but we absolutely cannot accept such widespread death that defies all reason.
Amandra stood on a high hillside, watching this scene. Her expression was as cold as ever, just a shade paler than before.
Steam light armor had existed for many years, but its true application on the battlefield, especially against an opponent so outmatched, seed to be a first.
Even the Roman soldiers beside her, witnessing this sight, felt their blood run cold, their joy imperceptibly diluted to almost nothing.
Ashur stood a few steps away from the queen, also looking at the horrific scene below. “Do you regret it?”
Amandra said nothing. She stood firmly there, her back more rigid than a statue.
“Assyria will henceforth view you as a tyrant,” Ashur’s voice was like a gust of wind; if one wasn’t careful, it would be blown away. “You reduced casualties, but even those Assyrian subjects who still longed for you will no longer approach you.”
Amandra still said nothing.
Ashur was silent for two seconds, then walked over, spread her arms, and draped a heavy cloak over the queen’s shoulders.
Her hands lingered on the queen for a mont. Beneath her palm, the queen’s body trembled slightly, very faintly.
“But this is war,” Amandra finally spoke, eyes fixed ahead. “My father told
never to consider right or wrong in war. The only thing is victory. I am the queen; I cannot lose.”
“I have achieved countless victories for Assyria, allowing Assyria to live freely and independently on this side of the Black Sea. Now I still must win—just like before.”
The queen said softly, her body trembling, yet her voice was more stable than bedrock.
She did not care if they called her a tyrant.
She would take back her Assyria.
Author’s Note:
Just a reminder—from the perspective of our universal values, the actions of the characters in this book are both right and wrong. However, there are no perfect saints in the world, and even villains can do good deeds. All actions are based on the character’s personality and identity. Please keep this in mind! Even Raphael is capable of wrongdoing (please don’t learn from him). In short, the environnt shapes the characters. If you really can’t accept it, please quietly leave. [crying]
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