novelraw Chapter 168: THE END OF THE FOUR
Chapter 168: THE END OF THE FOUR
09:30 AM. The sun rose higher, casting its light over a battlefield choked with smoke and littered with debris.
In the skies, the struggle remained fierce. On the ground, the Sudrath forces began to close in from all directions.
The final act had begun.
In the northeastern sky, Seraphina led her remaining dragons in a relentless onslaught.
Of the 250 dragons she had brought, only 127 remained airborne. The others had fallen, victims of the Air-Bombers’ steam cannons. But they did not falter. They kept moving, attacking, and flying at high velocity—for to slow down was to invite death.
Seraphina beat her wings powerfully, weaving through a hail of fire. Around her, the other dragons followed suit—diving, breathing fire, and ascending in a lethal dance amidst the clouds.
"Seraphina!" Kaelen’s voice crackled over the radio. "We’re flanking you for support!"
Twelve Sky-Hunters flew low, raining rockets upon the Air-Bombers. One by one, the dirigibles erupted, falling to the earth in a rain of fire.
Thamrin, in his cockpit, fired without pause. One Air-Bomber exploded. Two. Three. Four. But their numbers were still vast. Every time one fell, two more seemed to rise in its place.
"Kaelen, there are too many of them!" Thamrin shouted.
"Keep firing! Don’t stop!"
Seraphina heard the desperation. She knew she had to act. She had to take down their commander.
Her eyes scanned the fleet—and found him. Arctus, within his massive command dirigible, shielded by dozens of escort bombers.
"There," she hissed.
She beat her wings with renewed vigor. Her massive draconic form blurred as she tore through the enemy line.
Steam cannons roared. A dragon at her side was struck, falling with a piercing shriek. Two others managed to evade. But Seraphina pressed on.
She saw Arctus. The distance closed. A hundred meters. Fifty. Twenty.
In that heartbeat, her form shifted.
In an instant, she transformed from a massive dragon into a human. But the transformation was incomplete—her arms remained in dragon mode. Sharp, powerful, lethal claws were still fused to her limbs.
She lunged forward, propelled by sheer momentum, directly toward Arctus.
Arctus saw her. His eyes bulged. "WHAT—"
Too late.
Seraphina smashed into the dirigible’s gondola. Her draconic claws clamped around Arctus’s throat.
Both fell, dragged by momentum, out of the crumbling balloon. Seraphina didn’t care. She was focused on one thing: Arctus’s neck.
"YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN?" she hissed.
Arctus thrashed. His hands clawed at her grip. His legs kicked. But the dragon’s strength was absolute. He couldn’t breathe. His face turned red, then blue, then a sickly pale.
Several Air-Bombers tried to close in to assist, but Kaelen and the Sky-Hunters were already there, intercepting them.
"Stay back!" Kaelen roared.
Seraphina tightened her grip. She stared into Arctus’s fading eyes.
"For Roland," she whispered softly.
CRACK.
Arctus’s neck snapped.
His body went limp. His hands fell. His eyes turned hollow.
Seraphina let go. Arctus’s corpse plummeted, hitting the ruins below with a dull thud. He didn’t move again.
In the sky, Seraphina began to fall—she had no wings in her human form. But at the last second, a dragon dove and caught her, carrying her back into the fray.
The Air-Bomber fleet descended into chaos. Their commander was dead. They had lost their direction. Some began to retreat, others fought on blindly, but without coordination, they were easily picked off.
Kaelen saw the opening. "ATTACK! WIPE THEM OUT!"
To the south, Zoldrak and his dragons continued their assault.
They flew at terminal velocity—striking and vanishing. They never lingered. Every time they slowed, the Heavy Cyborgs’ cannons roared. Some dragons fell, but the rest surged forward.
"Lord Zoldrak, we’re losing too many!" a dragon cried at his side.
"I know!" Zoldrak roared back without turning. "But we cannot stop! If we stop, we die!"
They spun, dove, attacked, and ascended like a whirlwind that refused to be stilled.
Drayk, in the heart of his army, was gravely wounded. His claw was shattered from a previous dragon strike. The cannon on his shoulder was a ruin of scrap metal. Yet he stood his ground, barking orders.
"DAMN DRAGONS! FACE ME DIRECTLY!" he bellowed.
Zoldrak ignored him. He kept flying, kept striking.
The Breaker Units were nearly extinct. Of the dozens, only a handful remained. The Heavy Cyborgs had been reduced to a third of their original strength. Junk Cyborgs scattered like dust in the wind.
Zoldrak saw his chance.
He ascended high—so high he was nearly invisible from the ground. Then, he dove like a falling star, aiming directly for Drayk.
The wind howled in his ears. Fire gathered in his throat.
Drayk saw him coming. He raised his shattered claw, bracing to parry—or at least to try.
But Zoldrak did not strike with his claws.
He opened his maw.
Dragon’s Breath. A torrent of blue, incinerating flame—heat so intense it could liquefy steel—poured over Drayk.
Drayk screamed. Not a human scream, but a sound of metal warping and flesh vaporizing. His armor turned to liquid. His flesh charred. His bones crumbled.
In seconds, Drayk was nothing more than a pool of molten metal and ash.
Zoldrak pulled up, not stopping for a moment. There was no time for celebration. The enemy still lingered.
Drayk’s forces saw their commander die—melted into nothingness. But they did not flee. Cyborgs knew no fear. They continued to fire blindly, without direction or command.
Zoldrak snarled. "Destroy them all. Leave nothing."
Isafjord.
The atmosphere was different here.
Riven sat beside Lionel, who lay in his chambers. His wounds were severe—blood-soaked bandages covered his body. But his eyes were open. He could still see.
"Lord Riven," Lionel’s voice was raspy, barely audible. "You... you saved us."
Riven shook his head. "You held the line. I only came to assist."
Lionel smiled, despite his pallor. "Without you, Isafjord would have fallen. I... I can never repay this debt."
Riven remained silent. His hands rested in his lap. There was nothing more to say.
For a moment, silence filled the room, punctuated only by the distant sounds of soldiers clearing bodies and tending to the wounded.
Then, Riven stood up. "I must return."
Lionel tried to rise, his body swaying. Two soldiers immediately stepped forward to support him.
"Lord Riven." Lionel’s voice was firm, despite his weakness. "Listen to me."
Riven turned.
"I, Lionel Andreas, Count of Isafjord, do hereby swear." His voice rose with effort. "Not as a mere subordinate. Not out of obligation. But out of a life-debt. My blood, my soldiers, my city—all belong to the House of Sudrath. All for Northreach. I swear it."
Riven stared at him for a long time. Then, he nodded.
"I will deliver your words to Duke Lucian."
The surviving Isafjord soldiers—only about 300 men—cheered. Their voices were hoarse and weary, yet full of fire. They raised their weapons in salute.
Riven’s forces, the 800 infantry he had brought, stood at attention. They were ready to return to Iron Heart.
"Back to the Maglev," Riven ordered. "We’re going home."
Before leaving, he glanced back at Lionel. "Guard your city."
Lionel nodded. "With my life."
Northveil, Command Hill.
Reports flooded in one by one.
From Kaelen: Arctus dead. Seraphina succeeded. Air-Bombers in chaos, half destroyed.
From Zoldrak: Drayk dead. His forces are holding, but disorganized.
From Thorne: Remnants of Martin’s army wiped out. Eastern sector clear.
From Leofric: Tanks down to half, but still advancing.
Rianor read every report. His face remained calm. No smile, no joy. Only focus.
Hektor exhaled a long breath at his side. "Lord Rianor... three commanders are dead. Martin, Arctus, Drayk. Only Rudigor and Varkon remain."
Rianor nodded, his eyes fixed on the map. "It’s not over yet."
He picked up the radio. "All units, listen. Rudigor is still in the north. Their forces may be depleted, but they are still dangerous."
His voice was steady and authoritative. "Leofric, advance from the west. Thorne, from the east. Zoldrak, from the south. Seraphina, you hold the sky—make sure no one escapes."
The responses came in succession. "Understood." "Ready." "Copy that."
Rianor turned to Hektor. "Borch?"
Hektor checked the pager. "Still at the eastern building. Hasn’t moved."
Rianor nodded. He opened a channel to the Ghost Squad’s private frequency.
"Borch. Varkon is your target. Long range. High difficulty."
Borch’s voice came back, flat as ever. "Understood."
No other words were needed.
In the north, Rudigor stood amidst the remnants of his army.
Of the tens of thousands—perhaps nearly a hundred thousand cyborgs—only thousands remained. Maybe three or four thousand. The rest were scrap, ash, or fragments scattered across the field.
Varkon, at his side, was calculating. His mechanical eyes whirred as they analyzed the situation.
"My Lord, the ships are still intact. We can withdraw—"
But before he could finish, objects streaked from the distance.
Not one. Not two. Four.
Garrick’s Fury Missiles. They shot across the sky from an unexpected angle, heading directly for the Iron Empire ships anchored in the rear.
Varkon turned. His eyes widened. "NO—"
BOOM!
The first explosion. One ship shattered.
BOOM!
The second explosion. Another ship was engulfed in flames.
BOOM! BOOM!
The third and fourth explosions. Two more ships sank into the icy waters.
In seconds, the four ships—their only path of retreat—were total wrecks.
Varkon stood stunned, watching the fire consume their escape. "We... we can’t retreat," he whispered.
Rudigor didn’t answer. He only stared toward the command hill. There, in the distance, behind the smoke and dust, he knew Rianor was watching.
"He calculated everything," Rudigor murmured. "From the beginning. He knew we’d try to flee. He knew exactly when to launch those missiles."
Varkon clenched his fist. "So? We die here?"
Rudigor offered a smile. Not a happy one. Not a winning one. A smile of resignation. The smile of a soldier who knew this was his final stand.
"We fight. To the death."
To the south, Zoldrak continued the attack. To the east, Thorne began his advance. To the west, Leofric’s tanks ground through the rubble. In the sky, Seraphina and the Sky-Hunters waited. All eyes were on the north, where Rudigor stood.
The siege had begun.
Rudigor looked at his remaining forces. Thousands of cyborgs—once so terrifying—were now just broken remnants. Damaged. But still standing.
He took a deep breath. "Varkon."
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Are you afraid?"
Varkon was silent. His mechanical eyes blinked. "I do not know what fear is."
Rudigor laughed—a bitter laugh, the sound of a man who had seen too many wars. "Lucky you."
At the command hill, Rianor remained standing.
Hektor reported the progress. "The encirclement is complete. Rudigor has no escape."
Rianor nodded. He reached into his pocket. His fingers touched the Snow Chrysanthemum petal—still there, still warm.
"Wait for me, Elara," he whispered. "I’m coming home."
Hektor looked at him. "After Northveil is free... I will rebuild this city. Better than before."
Rianor gave a faint smile. "We’ll build it together."
On the battlefield, Rudigor stood his ground. Still commanding. Still resisting.
But his steps were starting to falter.
The battle wasn’t over.
But victory was in sight.