novelraw Chapter 163: THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM
Chapter 163: THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM
10:00 AM. The sun climbed over Northveil, but it offered no warmth. There was only smoke, blood, and the distant groans of the wounded trapped amidst the ruins.
At the command hill, Rianor stood before the map. His eyes—the same eyes that usually calculated formulas and probabilities—were now fixed on the red clusters to the north. Rudigor had retreated to his final bastion, yet he still commanded tens of thousands of troops.
Hektor entered, a crystal pager in his hand. His face was taut, masking a simmering panic. "Report from all units."
"Read it," Rianor commanded.
Hektor took a breath. "Tanks: ammunition sufficient for one major engagement. Helicopters: fuel remaining for a single mission. Infantry: 23 wounded, 7 dead. Ghost Squad: sniper ammunition running low, but they can hold. Dragons: returned to the clouds, a few minor injuries."
Rianor remained silent, his gaze unmoving from the map.
Hektor waited, then finally asked, "Do we strike now?"
Rianor shook his head. "No."
Hektor was taken aback. "But—"
"We have enough ammunition for one strike," Rianor interrupted, his voice flat. "But ’enough’ does not guarantee victory. The probability of success if we attack now... 60%. Perhaps less."
Hektor swallowed hard. "60%? That’s..."
"That’s a coin toss." Rianor finally turned, his eyes sharp. "I don’t play dice, Hektor. I want victory. Not a possibility."
He pointed to the map. "Rudigor is in the northern fortress. His army still numbers in the tens of thousands. They have a fortified position. If we strike now, we might win—but at a staggering cost. Or we lose."
"So?"
"We wait for nightfall." Rianor sighed. "Let the troops rest. Reorganize the ammunition. Refuel the helicopters. We strike when they sleep, when their vision is compromised. We will exploit the darkness."
Hektor nodded, though hesitation lingered in his eyes. "And Rudigor?"
"Let him wait. Let him think we are afraid." Rianor gave a thin smile. "He will grow complacent. And then..." He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
In the Northveil market, the atmosphere was different.
There were no gunshots. No explosions. Only the wind whispering through the ruins and the occasional moan of a wounded soldier.
Thamrin sat atop a pile of rubble, his back against a knee-high wall. His eyes were vacant, staring at the sky. Around him, the Sky-Hunter pilots performed final checks on their crafts. Some repaired damaged panels; others just sat in silence.
Kaelen approached, sitting beside him without a word. For a long moment, they simply sat there, enjoying the strange, heavy silence.
"Kaelen," Thamrin’s voice was hoarse.
"Yeah?"
"I’m tired." It wasn’t physical fatigue. Thamrin stared at his hands—the same hands that had gunned down dozens of cyborgs today. "Not my body. But... in here." He pointed to his chest.
Kaelen remained quiet before speaking. "Rest. We move out tonight."
Thamrin turned to him. "Are you sure we can win?"
Kaelen smiled—a very thin, almost invisible curve of the lips. "Lord Rianor doesn’t miscalculate. If he’s delaying the attack, there’s a reason for it."
Thamrin nodded, though the doubt didn’t entirely vanish.
Near the lined-up tanks, Gideon sat beside a damaged Wolf-Tusk. His crystal tablet was lit, displaying numbers he didn’t want to see.
Leofric appeared from behind the tank, carrying two cups of water. "Drink."
Gideon took it, but his eyes remained on the tablet. "Our ammunition is enough for one major assault. After that..."
"After that, we’re just iron corpses," Leofric finished. He sat beside Gideon, gazing at his broken tanks. Three units. The crews had survived, but the machines were no longer fit for combat.
"Are you afraid?" Gideon asked suddenly.
Leofric looked at him, then chuckled—a small, soft sound, unlike his usual booming laugh. "I’m the commander, Gideon. I don’t have the right to be afraid."
"That wasn’t an answer."
Leofric fell silent. Then, he whispered, "I’m afraid of losing my men. Tanks can be replaced. Lives cannot."
Gideon didn’t reply, but his fist clenched.
In another corner of the market, Thorne sat among the wounded. He was bandaging the leg of a young man—barely nineteen—whose leg had been pierced by a cyborg’s bullet.
"Steady," Thorne murmured. "We’ll evacuate you soon."
The boy nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Captain... I’m scared."
Thorne looked at him. Then, he smiled—a warm, rare expression on his weathered face. "Fear is natural, son. I’m scared too. But we don’t run. That’s what makes us different from them."
He pointed toward the distant mechanical corpses of the cyborgs. "They feel no fear. But they also have no heart. You have a heart. That makes you stronger."
The wind blew, carrying the scent of smoke and burnt metal. But amidst it all, there was a small spark of warmth.
03:00 PM.
In the Black Forest, the sun could barely penetrate the dense canopy of giant pines. There were only shadows and the strange sounds of the deep woods—roars, hisses, and the occasional snap of a branch.
A messenger walked alone through the forest. His black cloak almost blended into the shadows. He showed no fear—or at least, he didn’t let it show.
Up ahead, a barbarian camp came into view. These weren’t ordinary tents. Giant beast hides were stretched between trees, creating primitive but sturdy shelters. Campfires burned at various points, and around them sat the barbarian warriors—demihumans with bulging muscles and hungry gazes.
They stared at the messenger with suspicion. Several already had their hands on their weapons.
The messenger ignored them. He walked past, heading toward the center of the camp.
There, atop a throne made from the bones of monsters, sat their leader.
Brakkar, Leader of the Barbarian Tribes.
Brakkar was no ordinary man. Standing nearly 2.5 meters tall, his body was a map of bulging muscles that looked like carved stone. His long, matted hair was tied back. His face was a tapestry of scars—from monster claws, enemy blades, and the harsh life of the Black Forest. His eyes were small but sharp, like a wolf stalking its prey.
Beside him stood a bald man covered in strange tattoos. He wasn’t as massive as Brakkar, but there was something in his eyes that made one’s skin crawl. Behind him, a giant Basilisk flicked its tongue, ready to strike at any moment.
This was the Monster Tamer. No one knew his real name. What was clear was that he could control the most savage of beasts.
The messenger stopped before them. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Northreach is in chaos."
Brakkar narrowed his eyes. "Prove it."
The messenger remained unfazed. "Their forces are in the north, battling the Iron Empire. Hundreds of thousands of cyborgs. Rianor Sudrath himself is leading them. Iron Heart is empty."
A barbarian behind Brakkar laughed. "Empty? You think we’re fools?"
The messenger glanced at him, then back to Brakkar. "I don’t need you to believe me. I am only providing information. Use it as you wish."
Brakkar was silent. His eyes appraised the messenger from head to toe, searching for a lie, searching for weakness.
"What’s in it for you?" he finally asked.
"We have our own business with Northreach." The messenger gave a thin smile. "You take Isafjord. That is enough."
The Monster Tamer spoke. His voice was raspy, like stones grinding together. "Isafjord... the city in the northwest. Its walls are thick."
"But its garrison is small." The messenger looked at the Tamer. "You have monsters. You can shatter those walls."
Brakkar looked at the Monster Tamer. The Tamer nodded slowly.
"When?" Brakkar asked.
"Immediately. Move before they realize."
Brakkar stood up. His height was even more imposing against the campfire. He looked at the messenger one last time.
"If you are lying, I will find you and rip out your heart."
The messenger remained composed. "I am not lying."
Brakkar growled, then roared to the entire camp, "PREPARE YOURSELVES! WE MARCH FOR ISAFJORD!"
Thousands of barbarians began to move. Monsters rose from their slumber. The Black Forest trembled.
06:00 PM. The sun began to sink below the western horizon.
In Isafjord, Count Lionel Andreas stood atop the highest watchtower. He was in his mid-forties—neither young nor old. His body was still fit, but the creases on his face spoke of many sleepless nights. His hair was silvering at the temples, but his eyes remained keen.
The sea breeze brought the scent of salt, but also something else—the smell of wild beasts, of iron, of blood not yet spilled.
A soldier ran up to the tower, breathless. "My Lord! From the north! The scouts report thousands... thousands of barbarians moving south!"
Lionel turned. Panic flared in his eyes for a fleeting second, but he immediately quelled it. A Count could not show panic before his men.
"How many?"
"Countless, My Lord. They are like... a sea. And they bring monsters. Basilisks, minor wyverns, giant wolves."
Lionel gripped his magitech spear. The weapon was cold, but he knew the power stored within. Behind him, nine hundred soldiers began moving toward the walls. Their spears were raised, and blue energy shields began to flicker to life one by one.
"Contact Iron Heart," Lionel said firmly. "Use long-range communications. Tell Duke Lucian: Isafjord is under attack by thousands of barbarians and monsters. We will hold, but we cannot hold for long. Request immediate reinforcements."
The soldier nodded and sprinted away.
Lionel stared toward the north. Dust began to billow on the horizon. Shadows were coming into view. He knew the odds were slim. Nine hundred soldiers against thousands of barbarians and beasts. But he was a Count. He would not run.
He activated his spear. A blue energy shield flared before him.
"SOLDIERS OF ISAFJORD!" he roared, his voice echoing along the walls. "THEY ARE COMING! THEY THINK WE ARE WEAK! THEY THINK WE WILL RUN! BUT THEY ARE WRONG!"
He raised his spear high.
"WE WILL SHOW THEM THAT EVERY INCH OF NORTHREACH SOIL IS A BATTLEFIELD! WE WILL SHOW THEM THAT OUR MAGITECH SPEARS ARE SHARPER THAN THEIR CLAWS! AND WE WILL SHOW THEM THAT WE WILL NOT YIELD UNTIL REINFORCEMENTS ARRIVE!"
Nine hundred soldiers cheered. Blue shields glowed along the wall in the gathering dusk.
In the distance, the dust drew closer.
07:00 PM. The sun had completely vanished.
In Northveil, Rianor still stood before the map. Hektor was beside him, reporting the final preparations.
"The troops are ready. They move in two hours."
Rianor nodded. His eyes were still on the map—on that red dot in the north where Rudigor hid.
He didn’t know that in the west, another storm was brewing. He didn’t know that in the Black Forest, thousands of barbarians were charging toward Isafjord. He only knew one thing: tonight, Rudigor would die.
But in his heart, for a brief moment, something felt off. A premonition? Perhaps. Or perhaps just exhaustion.
He touched his pocket. The Snow Chrysanthemum petal was still there. Warm.
"Soon," he whispered. "I’m coming home soon."
In the north, Rudigor waited in his fortress. His army was ready. He smiled.
In the Black Forest, thousands of barbarians kept running. Brakkar in the lead, the Monster Tamer beside him, and a sea of monsters behind them.
In Isafjord, Lionel stood atop the wall. Nine hundred soldiers at his back. Blue shields glowing in the darkness. In the distance, the dust drew closer, and within that dust, thousands of red eyes began to glow.
Night had fallen.
And with the night, came war.