novelraw Chapter 298: Albert’s Dire Wolf, The Battle Begins!
Chapter 298: Albert’s Dire Wolf, The Battle Begins!
Deep within the vast, lifeless expanse of the Ser Wilderness, about thirty kilometers south of the Serpentine Earth Rift.
It was the dead of night; both the true moon and the false moon were completely swallowed by thick, heavy clouds. Their dim light could barely pierce the overcast, and the land below was shrouded in a viscous, suffocating darkness that felt almost tangible.
Yet within that inky gloom, a thin, purposeful stream of firelight moved forward in silence.
It was a tide made up of elite cavalry and warriors in finely crafted heavy armor, each armed with long spears or war spears, and backed by rows of alchemical golems! The faint magical glow seeping from the seams of their armor combined with the shimmer of alchemical runes, forcibly carving out strips of light that became the only living bands in the darkness.
This unit was the Albert family’s private elite force—the direct line of warriors that Count Mills had cultivated with immense care, resources, and effort.
In common belief, noble private armies might be well-equipped and well-treated, but in terms of true battlefield ruthlessness, they often fell short of the regular frontier troops who spent their lives at arms and on campaign.
That opinion was generally correct—except when it came to the Albert family.
The Albert family rose on a foundation of military achievements and maintained deep, tangled ties with the Raymond Duchy’s military system. Their private army’s core officers were carefully handpicked from the finest troops of the military.
While receiving the most generous resources for development, they also endured merciless, long-term military training—often being sent to the edges of true conflict zones so that, through real blood and fire, these soldiers would be tempered into razor-sharp blades.
When they fought for the Albert family, they were private troops.But bring them onto any real battlefield, and they instantly became a fearsome, battle-hardened army of a hundred victorious campaigns.
At the front of this silent and dangerous column stood a hulking knight almost entirely encased in heavy, dark armor etched with battle scars, his face hidden, only his eyes flashing coldly beneath the helmet’s shadow.
He carried a massive tower shield on his back and wore at his waist a great two-handed sword without a scabbard, its blade rim flashing faint runic light.
Unlike the standard alchemical gear most soldiers bore, if one looked closely they would notice that every piece of his equipment—from helmet to greaves—was engraved with bewilderingly intricate runes, emitting a force far deeper and more restrained than ordinary alchemical reinforcement.
Anyone familiar with the warrior path could instantly identify this leader’s extraordinary vocation.
He was a Rune Knight—an advanced and rare branch of the warrior path. Rune Knights did not rely solely on external tools; they mastered supernatural runes, fusing their power into techniques and gear to unleash destructive and protective capabilities that defied common sense.
This Rune Knight commander was named Rhod Albert.
He shared the respected Albert surname with Count Mills, yet he had no noble blood in his veins.
He was fatherless and motherless, a complete orphan; no one knew the origin of his lineage or the land of his birth.
From when he could first remember, his life had been bound to the cold stone walls and meager porridge of the orphanage funded by the Albert family.
His turning point came in childhood.
During a fierce brawl inside the orphanage, he displayed a ferocity and resilience far beyond his years, which led to his selection and removal from the orphanage.
After that, he endured the harshest training, grew up in the most dangerous thickets of blade and steel, and every piece of his honor was tied to campaigns fought for the Albert family.
When he turned thirty, his body covered with indelible marks of merit, the rulers of the Albert family finally bestowed genuine recognition upon him.
He was formally accepted into the family registry and granted the honored Albert name.
He even married a lady of true noble blood born into the family, formally becoming one of them.
From then on, he lived for the family, fought for the family—and was willing to die for the family.
Known for ruthlessness, cold efficiency, and decisive action, Rhod had earned a fearsome sobriquet in the army: Albert’s Dire Wolf—the Dire Wolf General.
At this moment, the face beneath his cold helm tightened slightly; a faint crease formed between his brows.
He abruptly raised an iron-clad arm and made a clean, precise halt signal. His voice rolled over the silent wilderness like distant thunder.
“Halt!”
The command was law.
Almost the instant the Dire Wolf General barked the order, the formation—previously moving with machine-like precision—came to an abrupt stop. Every soldier froze in place with perfect uniformity. The whole force exuded a grim, killing silence.
Rhod raised his head a little; his cold gaze swept forward like a hawk’s, heavy with scrutiny.
Directly ahead of the formation rose a jagged, ominous hill that, in the thick night, looked like an ancient beast crouched low and ready to spring. The surrounding terrain was a maze of broken ground and concealment, an ideal ambush site.
Countless battle instincts that had crawled out of blood-soaked mountains and fields sharpened within Rhod; he immediately sensed the danger in the air.
This spot was only about thirty kilometers from the Molten Iron Tribe’s stronghold.
Since the count intended to crush those monsters with an undeniable show of force, they had not tried overly hard to conceal their approach; the likelihood of their exposure was high.
Any Molten Iron commander with the most basic strategic sense would certainly choose this hill to set a heavy ambush and bide their time.
If he were in command, Rhod was absolutely certain he would do the same.
Arrogant noble commanders might assume the monsters were savage and ignorant of tactics and therefore feel no cause for concern.
Rhod Albert never thought that way.
Never underestimate any enemy.
That iron rule had been forged by the Dire Wolf General with the blood of comrades and foes alike.
A Molten Iron Tribe that warranted Count Mills mobilizing the family’s own resources to subdue them could never be a pushover; they demanded the highest vigilance.
“Sienna.”
Rhod turned his head slightly. His low voice filtered through the helmet’s slits: “Deploy the alchemical heavy cannons immediately. Target the forward hill—saturation bombardment, cover the approach!”
The alchemist Sienna was one of the two senior casters traveling with the force.
The other was the ward-caster Sanchez—about fifty years old, solemn-faced—who strode behind Rhod alongside the alchemists.
Alchemists need no introduction; the alchemical sciences were a bold, defining influence in planet Bernardo’s civilization.
Ward-casters specialized in protection magic.
Their spellcraft centered on obstruction, banishment, and shielding.
Some critics might call their techniques passive—only avoiding or rejecting, lacking in offense—but every true ward-caster believed that countering negative effects, sealing lethal weaknesses, and driving out malign influences were indispensable and honorable missions.
“As ordered, General.”
The alchemist acknowledged and used a carried communication device to transmit commands to the artillery crews behind them.
Heavy alchemical cannon bases were quickly and firmly set into the earth. One by one, their dark muzzles engraved with energy circuits rose and coldly adjusted, aiming at that ominous hill.
Before they could fully complete the firing sequence—
Roar! Roar! Roar!
Three deafening dragon roars tore through the sky.
The iron dragon Sorog, red dragon Samantha, and White Dragon Trixie ripped through the cloud layer and circled above. Their roars were a torrent, and dragon might poured down as if a dam had burst—like a violent storm sweeping the land.
Dragon might was not merely an intangible impression.
It had a clearer, truer name: overpowering presence!
It was a bona fide spell-like capability, one of the core skills that strengthened with a dragon’s age and power—akin to dragon breath itself.
The forces below stirred with visible unease.
Even these battle-hardened iron troops were affected by the dragon might.
In their shaken perception, the silhouettes of those three dragons seemed to swell without bound, towering like indomitable, world-shaking mountains that drained courage and left despair in their wake.
At the same time—
Rumble!
The earth began to tremble!
The centaur warriors’ heavy hooves smashed stones along their path; giant wolves dug deep gouges into the hard ground with their claws. They burst from the hill in a reckless charge, followed by hulking, muscular ogres like mini-giants, and an even larger tide of gnolls, kobolds, and lizardfolk—swarming monstrous infantry.
Among them three massive beastly figures stood out clearly.
The monstrous horde poured forward like a black tide of death toward the human line that had been unsettled by dragon might.
Then—
Ward-caster Sanchez raised his staff inset with a large yellow crystal. His hurried incantation reached its final cadence.
“In the name of order—protect!”
The last resounding syllable left his lips as he slammed the staff downward.
A protective anti-dragon radiance.
An invisible yet vast light burst outward from the staff, spreading in all directions.
This spell had a powerful targeted effect against dragon abilities, especially dragon might; it could greatly blunt the shuddering weight of dragon presence from dragons below true adult levels.
The unseen light washed over the soldiers. Those whose hearts had been seized by fear, whose hands and feet had gone cold, immediately regained clarity and resolve. Morale that had begun to waver steadied.
“Fire! Open fire now! Free targeting!”
At this point the two sides had yet to lock blades; it was the perfect moment for their alchemical heavy cannons to unleash devastating long-range firepower. They could not allow the charging monsters to reorganize.
The ready muzzles of several alchemical giant cannons spat out bleach-white energy beams and heavy shells packed with alchemical explosives. With ear-piercing screams they cut through the night.
They traced lethal arcs through the air, aiming straight at the surging masses under the hill, intent on shredding and shattering the charge with a rain of steel and flame before contact.
But to the humans’ astonishment—
Almost at the same time, equally fierce and precise alchemical cannon fire erupted from the ominous hill itself.
Human shells and those fired by the monsters crossed, intercepted, and collided midair, detonating in dazzling, thunderous fireworks that lit the battlefield like midday.
Not every shell achieved a perfect interception.
Several human rounds slipped through the tangled fire and slammed into the rushing monster tide below the hill, detonating in geysers of gore and scattered limbs. Conversely, some shells from the hill shrieked through the sky and slammed into human ranks, overturning soldiers who could not evade and blowing apart the base of an alchemical golem, causing brief chaos and anguished cries.
Only then did the human commanders realize the Molten Iron Tribe also possessed surprisingly large and potent alchemical weapons.
Beyond the heavy cannons spitting flames, there were steel golems even larger and bulkier than ogres, their ponderous steps shaking the ground and engines roaring like thunder—mobile fortresses that surged with the monstrous swarm.
This utterly unforeseen scene sent a chill through the Dire Wolf General Rhod—he could scarcely believe it.
But there was no time to question where those weapons and constructs had come from.
Since both sides had powerful long-range firepower, staying put and trading volleys would only cause needless casualties.
When two forces meet on a narrow road, the brave prevail.
Only a charge—only close-quarters, hand-to-hand combat—would decide the victor.
“For the glory of the Albert family!”
Rhod dragged the great sword from his back. The blade pointed at the ravenous tide of monsters as he unleashed a thunderous battle roar: “All troops, advance! Crush them! Leave none alive!”
The order fell like a spark into a vat of boiling oil, igniting the entire battlefield.
Roar—thrum!
Upon receiving the signal, each alchemical golem belonging to the Albert family engines roared to full power. Massive metal bodies exploded forward with terrifying speed, a tide of steel pressing onward!
Armored human warriors moved like cold light made flesh—graceful, relentless—following the advancing iron line and charging into the face of the approaching deathwave.
Neither side showed an inch of retreat.
Under the dazzling lattice of artillery light, the flood of steel and flesh—accompanied by thunderous cries and feral roars—collided with brutal finality.