novelraw Chapter 164: BLOODY NIGHT
Chapter 164: BLOODY NIGHT
The sun had long since vanished. In Northveil, a new moon rose, but it offered no light. There was only a thick, suffocating darkness, punctuated only by the flickering orange tongues of fire from the still-smoldering ruins.
To the west, thousands of feet trampled the snowy earth, closing in on Isafjord.
Night had fallen. And with the night, came blood.
23:00. Northveil.
Rianor stood at the command hill, his eyes fixed on the tactical map. Beside him, Hektor remained silent, waiting. Outside, shrouded in total darkness, the forces began to move.
Leofric’s tanks advanced with their lights extinguished. Their steel treads ground through the rubble, but the sound was swallowed by the howling night wind. Beside Leofric, Gideon monitored the data, ensuring not a single variable deviated from the plan. Numbers flickered on his crystal tablet—velocity, distance, hydraulic pressure.
"Forward barricade, one hundred meters," Gideon whispered.
Leofric nodded, his finger hovering over the radio button. "All units, standby. At the first shot, we level everything. No one advances before the mark."
Behind him, 45 tanks sat poised. Wolf-Tusks in the lead, Titan MK-1s in the rear. Their engines hummed with a low vibration, holding back a torrent of suppressed power.
In the sky, Kaelen and the Sky-Hunters flew low—as low as they dared. No lights, no radio chatter, relying solely on instinct and the faint glow of the crystal instruments in their cockpits. Below them, the ruined city lay like a dark abyss.
"Thamrin, position," Kaelen whispered into the comms.
"Over target. Ready on your word," Thamrin replied softly. His hand gripped the control stick. Through the cockpit glass, his eyes scanned the enemy barracks below. They were sleeping. They had no idea.
On the rooftops surrounding the fortress, Borch and Dom had been waiting for hours. They were shadows among shadows, their camouflage cloaks blending perfectly with the night. Their Gauss Rifles were deployed, zeroing in on the gaps in the enemy’s defenses. Dom adjusted his thermal sensors; behind the walls, he could see the red heat signatures of active cyborg sentries.
"Borch," Dom whispered. "Fifteen signatures on the eastern tower. Likely the guard rotation."
Borch didn’t answer. He simply shifted his scope, calculating windage, waiting.
Rianor raised his radio. A single word: "Launch."
The first tank fired.
CRACK-BOOM!
The outer barricade disintegrated. The explosion illuminated the night for a fleeting second. Shards of concrete whistled through the air. And in that burst of light, Rudigor saw them: dozens of tanks, hundreds of infantry, and helicopters swarming the sky.
He was stunned—not by the attack itself, but by the lack of warning. No light, no sound had preceded them. They had come through the void. His optical eye flared, trying to pierce the gloom.
"Rally the troops!" he roared. "ENGAGE THEM!"
Cyborgs began to pour from the fortress, but they were in disarray. Some had just rebooted, others fumbled for weapons in the dark. They lacked the night-vision technology of the Sudrath forces. They were blind.
And amidst their confusion, Thorne’s infantry had already breached the gaps.
"MOVE! DON’T STOP!" Thorne bellowed.
The Sudrath Spears began to bark. Cyborgs collapsed. The first took a round to the head and fell silently. The second tried to flee but was caught in the leg, stumbling before being finished off. Third, fourth, fifth—they dropped like puppets with severed strings.
Yet, the cyborgs knew no fear. They kept coming, the rear ranks stepping over the fallen.
At the command hill, Rianor received the report. "Outer sector secured. Resistance is beginning to organize."
He nodded, his finger tracing Rudigor’s defensive lines.
"Let them cluster," he murmured. "The more that emerge, the easier they are to erase."
Hektor muttered, "Rudigor must be awake by now."
"Let him be." Rianor gave a thin smile. "Let him witness the chaos. Let him rage. An angry man makes mistakes."
23:30. Isafjord.
Brakkar halted before the city walls.
Behind him, thousands of barbarians stood in a loose, jagged formation. Monsters roared among them—Basilisks, minor wyverns, and giant wolves. Their breath formed a thick mist in the freezing air. The smell of beasts mingled with the scent of iron and stale blood.
Brakkar raised his massive axe. The weapon was larger than a man, crusted with the dried blood of previous slaughters. Primal carvings adorned the handle—tales of victory and massacre.
"ISAFJORD!" he roared, his voice echoing through the valley. "TODAY, YOU FALL!"
The barbarians behind him erupted in a war cry. Thousands of voices thundered, shattering the silence of the night.
Beside him, the Monster Tamer let out a long, piercing whistle. It was a high-pitched, shrill sound intended only for the beasts. The giant Basilisk behind him surged forward, its forked tongue lashing the air. The creature was as large as a house, its scales pitch-black and its eyes glowing a malevolent red. Every step left a deep crater in the snowy ground.
"SHATTER THAT GATE!" the Monster Tamer commanded.
The Basilisk lunged.
THOOM!
The walls of Isafjord shuddered. The blue shields from the magitech spears flared, absorbing the impact. The blue light illuminated the faces of the soldiers atop the wall—tense, terrified, yet holding firm.
But the vibration rattled their very bones.
Lionel, standing on the rampart, shouted, "HOLD! DO NOT LET THE SHIELDS FADE!"
Nine hundred soldiers poured every ounce of their mana into the defense. Their spears glowed brilliantly in the darkness. Behind them, the city of Isafjord slept, unaware that this was the longest night in their history.
The Basilisk struck again. And again.
THOOM! THOOM!
The wall began to crack. Thin, hairline fractures at first, but enough to make Lionel’s heart sink. He ran along the battlements, inspecting the damage.
"Here! Reinforce this section!" he barked at the nearby soldiers.
In Iron Heart, Arvid was in his laboratory when his crystal pager buzzed. He read the message once. Twice. His face drained of color.
He sprinted to Lucian’s chambers, bursting in without knocking—an act he never committed.
"My Lord!" Arvid gasped, his messy hair even more disheveled than usual. "An emergency dispatch from Isafjord!"
Lucian read the message. His eyes narrowed, his hand crushing the parchment.
"Barbarians... thousands... monsters..." he whispered. He looked at Arvid. "Call Riven. Now. Tell him to ready the fastest units. Use the Maglev."
Arvid bolted out, nearly taking the door off its hinges.
Lucian gazed out the window toward the west. Outside, a light snow began to fall. "Hold on, Lionel. Help is coming."
00:00. Northveil.
The cyborgs surged from the fortress like a flood.
The iron gates swung wide, and from within, tens of thousands of machines inundated the courtyard. They didn’t run or scream; they simply advanced with a heavy, rhythmic gait that shook the earth. Mechanical feet crunched on the debris, creating an eerie, metallic grinding sound.
Leofric watched through the reinforced glass of his tank. His hands were sweating on the controls.
"Gideon... how many?"
Gideon stared at the tactical screen, numbers jumping before his eyes. "Fifteen thousand from the north. Ten thousand from the south." His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tremor. "They... they’re everywhere, Leofric."
Leofric didn’t respond. He keyed the radio.
"Lord Rianor, there are too many. we need support now!"
At the command hill, Rianor analyzed the movement. His fingers danced across the table, calculating probabilities.
"Kaelen." His voice was flat. "Descend. Support Leofric."
"Understood."
In the sky, twelve Sky-Hunters dived like hawks. Rockets shrieked from their pylons, raining down on the cyborg clusters. Successive explosions carved small craters into the earth. Cyborgs were torn apart—limbs flying, heads shattered, torsos pulverized.
But there were still too many.
Those in the rear simply stepped over their mangled comrades and kept moving.
"Borch," Rianor said. "Their commander. Kill him."
On the roof, Borch shifted his scope slowly. He wasn’t looking for an ordinary cyborg, but something different. One carrying a radio. One gesturing. One that spoke louder than the rest.
Dom found him first. A cyborg with a command rig on its back, shouting orders. It was flanked by ten elite guards.
Dom tapped his mic twice. Target acquired.
Borch adjusted his scope. His breath was slow. His finger on the trigger. He waited for the wind. He waited for his heartbeat to slow.
BANG.
The cyborg fell. Its command rig shattered. The others stopped, confused, searching for a leader that no longer existed. They spun in place, waiting for orders that would never come.
But Rudigor would not stand by.
From within the fortress, the main doors groaned open. These were no ordinary doors—a meter of solid steel. And from the darkness, a titan stepped out.
Rudigor.
His Commander’s Steam Armor—thick iron plates with hissing steam valves—made him look like a giant from a nightmare. In his hand, a massive steam hammer, larger than a human torso. Every step left a crater, and steam hissed from the vents of his armor.
He stepped onto the battlefield, his half-human, half-optical eye glowing a fierce red.
A Wolf-Tusk tank was too slow to maneuver. Rudigor swung his hammer.
CRASH!
The hammer connected. The tank folded like a tin can. Armor buckled, treads snapped, and the main cannon was sheared off. The crew... none survived.
Leofric saw it. His jaw tightened. Behind him, Gideon remained silent, recording the data.
"Rudigor..." Leofric hissed.
At the command hill, Rianor’s pager buzzed. Message from Leofric: "Rudigor has joined the fray. One tank destroyed. Crew lost."
Rianor read the message. His face remained a mask, but for a split second, his fist clenched.
"So, you’ve come out at last," he murmured. "Good."
He turned to Hektor. "Ready the dragons. But wait for my command. It’s not time yet."
Hektor nodded, though hesitant. "When?"
"When he thinks he’s won." Rianor returned to the map. "Let him crush a few more tanks. Let him grow confident."
00:30. Isafjord.
Half an hour into the battle, Isafjord’s walls were showing signs of fatigue.
The Basilisk continued its assault. Every strike widened the cracks. Hairline fractures became fissures, creeping upward. The soldiers on the wall were running out of mana—their blue shields flickered, dying out. Some collapsed from exhaustion; others fell from the ramparts in a daze.
Lionel ran along the wall, rallying his troops. His arm was already bloodied from a wyvern strike, but he didn’t stop.
"HOLD! YOU CAN DO THIS! REMEMBER YOUR FAMILIES BEHIND THESE WALLS!"
A young soldier began to cry, his hands trembling around his spear. "My Lord, we can’t hold much longer! Our mana is gone!"
Lionel grabbed his shoulder, locking eyes with him. "Listen to me, son. You don’t have to hold forever. You only need to hold until help arrives. One more hour. Perhaps less."
The boy nodded, though his conviction was fraying.
Below, Brakkar watched the crumbling wall. He gave a predatory grin.
"Monster Tamer, release the wyverns."
The Monster Tamer let out a different, higher-pitched whistle. Fire Wyverns—winged beasts the size of houses—soared forward. Their wings created gale-force winds. Fire pooled in their throats.
Lionel saw it. He screamed, "SHIELDS! MAXIMUM SHIELDS!"
Fire erupted from the wyverns’ maws, slamming into the cracked wall.
KRA-BOOM!
Massive stones tumbled. Several soldiers were crushed, their screams swallowed by the thunder. Dust billowed everywhere, obscuring all vision.
As the dust settled, a five-meter gap had been torn open.
The barbarians began to cheer. They surged forward, ready to breach. The first to reach the gap—a werewolf with a massive axe—roared in triumph.
But in that gap, Lionel stood alone.
He raised his spear. A blue shield flared—weak, flickering, nearly dead—but it was there. Five hundred soldiers stood behind him, forming a wall in the breach, spears leveled. Five hundred against thousands.
"THEY SHALL NOT PASS!" Lionel roared. "NOT WHILE I STILL BREATHE!"
The first werewolf lunged. The axe swung down. Three spears met it. The blue shield held the first blow, but it was on the brink of collapse. The second spear pierced the beast’s gut. It fell.
But a third came. A fourth. A fifth. A tenth.
The battle in the breach was brutal. Every time a barbarian fell, two more took their place. Isafjord’s soldiers began to drop. One took an axe to the skull, falling without a sound. Another was struck by an arrow in the neck, coughing blood before collapsing.
Blood was everywhere—on the stones, in the snow, on the faces of those still standing.
Lionel held the front line. His shoulder was mangled from an axe strike, but he kept swinging. Kept thrusting. Kept screaming.
"HOLD! THEY SHALL NOT PASS!"
But their numbers dwindled. 500 became 450. 450 became 400. 400 became 350.
Every time a soldier fell, Lionel felt something break inside him. But he couldn’t stop.
And suddenly, from the distance, came a thunderous sound.
Not the roar of a beast. The roar of iron on rails—the Maglev Train. The sound grew closer, louder, tearing through the silence of the night.
Everyone stopped. The barbarians turned, confused. Brakkar frowned, trying to find the source. His sharp eyes scanned the dark distance, but he could see nothing.
Lionel smiled. A wide, bloody grin. The smile of a man who was about to die but knew he wouldn’t die alone.
"He’s here," he whispered. Then louder, "THEY ARE HERE! REINFORCEMENTS HAVE ARRIVED!"
The remaining 350 soldiers cheered. Their voices were hoarse and exhausted, but filled with hope. Those who had almost fallen rose again.
Brakkar looked toward the sound. He didn’t know what a Maglev was. But he knew one thing—something massive was approaching, and it was coming fast. He could feel it in the vibration of the earth.
"Ignore it!" he roared. "KEEP MOVING! CRUSH THEM BEFORE—"
But it was too late.
01:30. Northveil.
The battle still raged. Rudigor had destroyed three tanks—two Wolf-Tusks and one Titan MK-1. Leofric had lost control over half of the western sector. The cyborgs were pressing hard.
But Rianor was still calm. Still waiting.
"Lord Rianor," Hektor approached, his voice laced with anxiety. "Three tanks are gone. Leofric is overwhelmed. When do the dragons descend?"
Rianor stared at the map. Rudigor was too strong, too fast. But he was also too focused on the tanks and infantry. He had forgotten the sky. He had forgotten that above the clouds, 500 dragons were waiting.
"Soon," Rianor murmured. "Let him taste victory first."
He pointed to a spot on the map. "Look. Rudigor has advanced too far. He has left his fortress. If we attack now, he can retreat. But if we wait..."
Hektor understood. "Until he cannot retreat."
Rianor nodded. "Until he is trapped."
02:00. Isafjord.
The Maglev drew closer. The sound was deafening now—the screech of iron on rails, the hiss of steam, the roar of the engines.
Brakkar began to panic. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew it wasn’t good news.
"QUICKLY! DESTROY THEM! NOW!"
The barbarians lunged with renewed ferocity. But Isafjord’s soldiers fought with the desperation of the saved. They knew help was seconds away.
Lionel could no longer raise his spear. His arm was numb. But he still stood. Still in the front. Still screaming.
"HOLD! THEY ARE ALMOST HERE!"
And from the darkness, the Maglev’s searchlights cut through the gloom. The massive train surged forward, leaving a trail of light. Inside, Riven stood at the door, his fist clenched.
"Prepare yourselves," he murmured. "We will show them the meaning of wrath."