novelraw Chapter 165: THE FOUR SHADOWS OF RUDIGOR
Chapter 165: THE FOUR SHADOWS OF RUDIGOR
02:30 AM. In Northveil, the smoke grew thicker. Rudigor stood atop the wreckage of a fourth tank, steam hissing violently from his armor vents. In Isafjord, the distant glare of the Maglev’s searchlights finally breached the horizon.
The night was far from over.
Three Wolf-Tusk tanks had pushed too far forward.
Gideon had already spotted them on the tactical display. The flickering icons on his tablet showed their positions—they had crossed the "Dead Line," a safety perimeter marked in red hours ago.
"Leofric," he called out softly.
Leofric turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw the three blue dots drifting beyond the red boundary.
"Idiots," he hissed. He grabbed the radio. "Tanks 7, 8, and 9! Fall back! You’ve crossed the perimeter!"
The radio crackled with a strained reply: "But Commander, Rudigor is—"
"FALL BACK! THAT’S AN ORDER!"
Too late.
Rudigor had already zeroed in on the stray tanks. His half-optical eye flared a predatory red in the gloom. He smiled—the grin of a hunter watching lost prey.
His steam hammer began to spin, the internal pressure shrieking. His steps were heavy, rapid, and deliberate.
The first tank attempted to reverse, but Rudigor was already upon them. The hammer swung down with terminal force.
CRASH!
Steel buckled. Treads snapped. The main cannon was sheared off like a twig. The tank was crushed like a discarded tin can. No one emerged from the wreck.
Panic seized the second and third tanks. They opened fire, but the shells merely glanced off Rudigor’s reinforced steam-armor. He laughed, a metallic, rasping sound, and swung his hammer again.
CRASH! CRASH!
Two more tanks were reduced to scrap.
Leofric clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. Beside him, Gideon remained clinical, recording the loss.
"Three tanks," Gideon murmured. "All lost beyond the line."
Leofric didn’t answer. He could only stare at the screen, watching three blue icons flicker and go dark.
Two days earlier. Cavalry Barracks, Iron Heart.
Leofric stood before his tank crews. A massive tactical map of Northveil was pinned behind him. Rianor stood beside him, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"This boundary," Rianor said, pointing to a stark red line on the map. "It is not to be crossed. Under any circumstances."
A crewman raised his hand. "But what if Rudigor retreats? What if we have the chance to chase him down?"
"You won’t be chasing him." Rianor’s gaze locked onto the man. "It’s a lure. Rudigor wants you to overextend. Beyond this line, you are dead."
Leofric added, his voice booming, "Listen. Lord Rianor has calculated every variable. This line isn’t a suggestion. You cross it, you own the consequences."
The crews nodded, though some still harbored a reckless spark of doubt.
Rianor saw the hesitation but said nothing more. He didn’t need to convince them; they would remember when their lives were the price of the lesson.
Back on the Battlefield.
Leofric keyed the radio. "All units, listen up. The safety perimeter is still in effect. Do not advance further."
"Copy that, Commander," the replies came in.
Gideon glanced at the display. "Rudigor is still lingering outside the line. He’s baiting us."
"Let him wait." Leofric gripped the controls. "We aren’t taking the bait."
But Rudigor wasn’t the only threat.
The fortress gates groaned open once more, and a tall, slender silhouette stepped out.
Varkon.
His optical eyes scanned the field, identifying the distant tanks, the infantry suppressed behind ruins, and the waiting Rudigor.
He marched forward. Behind him, thousands of cyborgs emerged—not in a frantic rush, but in a precise, rhythmic parade.
Varkon raised his arm. His mechanical fingers shifted, realigning into a high-caliber barrel. He fired.
A Wolf-Tusk tank in the distance erupted in a fireball. Total crew loss.
He fired again. A Titan MK-1 was rent asunder.
Leofric’s jaw set. "Gideon, count."
"Varkon has joined the fray. Division 1. Approximately fifteen thousand cyborgs."
Leofric remained silent as Varkon’s relentless fire forced the line back. The tanks were beginning to buckle under the pressure.
At the command hill, Rianor’s pager buzzed. Hektor read the update aloud.
"Varkon is on the field. Two more tanks destroyed."
Rianor simply nodded, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the table.
"Let it be," he murmured.
Hektor waited. One minute. Two. "Rianor, they need—"
"Let it be." Rianor’s voice was like ice. "This is only the beginning."
On the field, Varkon pressed his advantage. The tanks were retreating. Thorne’s infantry were being pushed to their limits.
Yet, they didn’t break. They retreated in a choreographed rhythm—step by step. The front line would fall back as the rear rank stepped forward to provide cover. It was fluid. Like a tide.
Rudigor halted, his eyes narrowing.
Two days earlier. Command Hill, Iron Heart.
Rianor stood before his commanders. Leofric, Thorne, Kaelen, Borch—all were present.
"The strategy is simple," Rianor explained. "We don’t need to kill them quickly. We only need to exhaust them."
Thorne frowned. "How so?"
"Advance. Retreat. Advance. Retreat." Rianor drew a series of oscillating lines on the map. "We cycle our units constantly. The front line rotates to the back; the fresh rear moves to the front. They will never know our true numbers."
Leofric nodded. "Like waves."
"Exactly. Like the tide." Rianor looked at them. "They will think we are an endless sea. They will grow frustrated. And a frustrated soldier is a soldier who makes mistakes."
Back on the Battlefield.
Varkon was indeed growing frustrated.
Every time he eliminated a target, another took its place. Every time he advanced, the Sudrath forces drifted back—but never too far. When he eased off, they surged forward again.
"This is madness," he spat. "Do they have no end?"
Rudigor remained silent, feeling the same creeping exhaustion. For every tank destroyed, another appeared. For every cyborg that fell, a fresh soldier took their place.
"What is their true strength?" Varkon demanded.
Rudigor shook his head. "I don’t know."
In reality, the Sudrath forces remained the same. They were merely cycling. But in the eyes of the Iron Empire, they looked like an invincible, inexhaustible legion.
03:30 AM. Varkon was flagging. Rudigor too. They retreated a few paces to catch their breath.
But the Sudrath forces didn’t retreat. They held their ground, waiting.
Varkon glanced at Rudigor. "This isn’t normal. It’s as if... they know exactly what they’re doing."
Rudigor didn’t answer. He gazed toward the command hill. Somewhere in that darkness, he knew someone was pulling the strings.
"Rianor Sudrath," he hissed.
And at that moment, from the eastern sector—a place long silent and nearly forgotten—a new figure lunged into the fray.
Martin.
With his steam-armor hissing and a massive hammer in hand, he burst from behind the ruins. Behind him surged thousands of fresh cyborgs, and among them, the Crawler-Cyborgs—metallic arachnids that scaled walls with terrifying speed.
"MARTIN!" Rudigor roared. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"
Martin didn’t waste breath on words. He drove straight for the eastern sector—where Thorne was holding the line.
Thorne’s eyes widened. "RETREAT! FALL BACK NOW!"
But the Crawler-Cyborgs were too fast. They scrambled over rubble, scaled rooftops, and bypassed defenses. Several were already behind the Sudrath lines.
Thorne’s unit spiraled into chaos.
At the command hill, Rianor’s pager buzzed. Hektor read it quickly.
"Martin has surfaced. Eastern sector. Crawler-Cyborgs have flanked Thorne."
Rianor was silent, his eyes darting across the map. "As expected," he murmured.
Hektor grew frantic. "Should we send reinforcements?"
"No. Not yet."
Hektor was about to protest, but Rianor had already picked up another radio. "Borch."
On a distant high-rise, Borch received the call. He tapped his mic once—Ready.
"Martin in the east. Crawlers on the roofs. Clear them out."
Borch tapped twice—Understood.
He turned to Dom. "Martin. Crawlers. East."
Dom nodded. They adjusted their scopes, hunting for high-value targets.
On the rooftops of the eastern sector, the Ghost Squad began to move.
First shot. A Crawler plummeted from a wall, twitching on the ground.
Second shot. Martin’s field commander—a cyborg with a command rig—collapsed instantly.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Crawlers began to rain from the walls. Officers began to drop.
Martin saw the carnage. He let out a primal snarl. "SNIPERS! FIND THEM! KILL THE SNIPERS!"
But the Ghost Squad had already vanished, relocating before the muzzle flash had even faded.
04:00 AM. Martin held his ground, but his forces were disorganized. Varkon and Rudigor pushed forward again, but the incoming fire was relentless.
In the sky, Air-Bombers—massive dirigibles carrying heavy ordnance—began their descent.
Kaelen spotted them. "Thamrin! High altitude! Intercept!"
The Sky-Hunters climbed, engaging the bombers. The battle for the heavens had begun.
In Isafjord.
Riven and his vanguard finally reached the ramparts.
They sprinted up the stone stairs, lungs burning, legs heavy as lead, but they didn’t falter.
Aboard the battlements, Lionel was still standing. Swaying, bloodied, but standing.
Riven clapped a hand on Lionel’s shoulder. No words were needed. Then, he stepped to the front line, facing the thousands of barbarians below.
"FIRE!" he roared.
A storm of lead erupted.
The barbarians—relying on raw strength without shields or armor—were cut down like dry wheat. The first were struck in the chest, falling silently. The next took rounds to the head. Dozens fell in seconds.
Brakkar’s fury boiled over. "SUMMON THE BEASTS!" he roared at the Monster Tamer.
The Tamer whistled—a shrill, ear-splitting note.
From the woods, the skies, and the crags, monsters emerged. Wyverns as large as houses dived from the clouds. Basilisks—monstrous lizards with lethal gazes—crawled from the shadows. Giant Wolves with glowing red eyes charged from the darkness.
Brakkar laughed. He remained in the rear, watching. "KILL THEM ALL!"
The beasts lunged.
But Riven didn’t flinch. He raised a specialized weapon—not a standard Sudrath Spear, but an explosive launcher.
BOOM!
A wyvern spiraled down, its wing shredded.
BOOM!
A Basilisk was blasted back, its underbelly torn open.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Monsters fell, but more surged forward. Riven’s men kept firing. Barbarians died in droves. Beasts perished by the dozen.
But the sheer weight of numbers was staggering.
Brakkar smiled. "You are strong, human. But how long can you hold?"
Riven might have heard him, or perhaps he just knew. He had to act.
And in that moment, Brakkar leapt.
It was a monstrous jump. His massive frame soared through the air, his giant axe raised, aiming straight for Riven.
Riven reflexively raised his mechanical axe.
CLANG!
A titanic collision. Sparks flew. Riven was forced back a step, but he held his ground.
His men moved to intervene. "COMMANDER!"
"STAY BACK!" Riven roared. "This one is mine! Protect the line!"
Brakkar landed a few meters away, appraising his opponent—the steady posture, the sharp eyes, the humming mechanical axe.
"You have courage," Brakkar said. "To face me alone."
Riven didn’t answer. He simply settled into a combat stance.
Brakkar laughed. "I am BRAKKAR! AND YOU WILL DIE BY MY HAND!"
Riven gave a thin, dangerous smile. "Riven Sudrath. Remember that name before you perish."
The two locked eyes. Behind them, the war raged on, but for a heartbeat, the world seemed to stand still.
05:00 AM. Dawn was still a distant dream.
In Northveil, the three commanders of the Iron Empire were still locked in combat. The Ghost Squad was still hunting. The Sky-Hunters were still flying.
In Isafjord, Riven and Brakkar stood poised, a breath away from a duel to the death.
Rianor, on his command hill, remained calm. Still waiting.
The night was long. And more blood was destined to stain the snow.