Chapter 373| Don’t Let This Blood Be Shed In Vain

"...bring them to me alive! But slice off one of their legs first so they don’t get twitchy!"

The echoes of Reksov’s order had barely died away when the steel tread wheels of the third super-heavy Steam-Tank surged forward, crushing the remaining debris of the pillar.

Its colossal searchlights swept across the tunnel, piercing the volcanic dust and turning it into a blinding golden storm.

Without waiting for his infantry, Reksov stepped to the edge of the roof of the second crippled tank.

BAM!

His iron-clad boots slammed into the cracked marble floor. Reksov touched down barely ten meters in front of the Northreach delegation and the Stone Council. A circular cloud of chalk dust blasted outward from his landing spot.

In a single fluid motion accompanied by the hiss of hydraulic steam, his pneumatic steel arm reached behind his back, unclipping a massive double-barreled steam rifle.

CLACK-CLICK!

The mechanical red lens over his left eye whirred softly. Click-click. The device scanned its targets, measuring the threat level of every soul before him.

The corner of his heavily scarred, burn-mangled lips twisted into a sadistic smirk.

"Heh. Which of you southern rats wants to lose a leg first?"

Amidst the glare of the searchlights, a colossal shadow stepped forward.

Riven Sudrath walked with deliberate, unhurried steps. His icy gray eyes locked dead onto Reksov.

The Grand General halted two paces ahead of the line. With a rough yank, he stripped off the shredded remains of his black Wolf mantle and cast it onto the stone floor.

His dark military shirt clung tight to his skin, soaked through with sweat. The muscles across his back and shoulders coiled tight.

The crude bandages wrapped around his left arm—a souvenir from a Wyvern slash—were damp with seeping blood. Yet Riven didn’t so much as blink.

His right hand reached down, dragging the shaft of a heavy Dwarven runic spear. The spearhead scraped against the volcanic rock.

Screeech... screeech...

The friction showered reddish sparks that danced into the air.

"Our legs stand far too firm on this ground," Riven growled heavily, his voice overpowering the roar of the steam engines. "But I can guarantee you’ll be heading home without a head, Imperial hound."

Reksov’s red lens narrowed. "Interesting."

DOOOM!

Without warning, Reksov’s double-barreled rifle spat fire!

The shockwave blasted through the dense dust. Hundreds of lead pellets fanned out like a lethal net, tearing through the air.

Riven didn’t try to parry. Crouching the exact millisecond the trigger was pulled, he ducked low, twisting his giant frame with impossible agility, and darted sideways like a wolf springing clear of a trap.

The lead shot slammed into the stone wall behind him, gouging out tiny smoking craters.

Before Reksov could pump his rifle lever again, Riven had closed the distance!

WHOOSH!

The runic spear in his grip spun with a howling gust, slashing straight toward Reksov’s right knee. Its speed was born of pure killing instinct.

Reksov grunted sharply. Rather than dodging, he slung his rifle back across his shoulders and slammed his pneumatic steel arm downward.

CLANG!!

The impact between Imperial steel and ancestral Dwarven runes ignited a shockwave. The air itself seemed to fracture!

Scalding steam at hundreds of degrees blasted from the joint vents of Reksov’s mechanical arm, threatening to scorch Riven’s face.

Ignoring the blistering heat on his cheeks, Riven leaned his right shoulder into the spear shaft, driving it forward.

But Reksov smirked. His pneumatic arm hummed maniacally.

WHIRRR-TSS!

Hydraulic pressure surged through his iron limbs, forcing Riven’s spear back.

With lightning speed, Reksov threw a straight punch with his organic fist aimed squarely at Riven’s gut. Riven reacted instantly, pulling the center of his shaft across his waist to block the blow.

THUD!

Reksov’s strike landed squarely against the spear shaft. Riven was jolted backward, his boots grinding into the floor and carving shallow grooves in the stone.

Fighting through the numbness in his arms, Riven harnessed the recoil to pivot a full hundred and eighty degrees. The orange-runed spearhead swept upward in a vicious arc, aiming straight for Reksov’s jaw!

Reksov’s mechanical eye flickered red. He leaped back a single step. The spearhead sliced empty air, catching only the collar of his officer uniform and tearing it open.

The moment his feet touched the ground, Reksov hit the waist pump lever. A fiery burst of steam vented from his elbow joint, granting him extra kinetic momentum.

Reksov lunged back into the fray, swinging his pneumatic arm in a horizontal sweep powerful enough to shatter a stone pillar.

Riven didn’t retreat. He met it head-on!

CRAAASH!

The two monsters clashed at dead center. An explosion of stone shrapnel and thermal steam blew away the remaining mist. They leaned into each other, locked in a contest of raw brute strength.

The veins on Riven’s neck bulged violently, while Reksov’s steel casing groaned under the strain of the General’s destructive power. The battle froze in a lethal deadlock.

While the two titans tore into each other, a far more massive threat was rolling down the left flank.

The third super-heavy Steam-Tank surged forward, pulverizing the remnants of the stone barricades. Its two-meter-tall steel treads crushed everything in their path without mercy.

Behind the steel behemoth, a wave of black-plated infantry surged inside like a swarm of ants.

"DON’T LET THAT ACCURSED PIECE OF IRON DESTROY OUR HOME!"

The Dwarven King’s roar drowned out the thunder of cannons. His stocky frame stood at the absolute front, challenging the steel titan head-on.

Reddish-gold runes across his skin and shoulders blazed intensely, radiating a wave of scorching heat. His ancient steel armor rattled in sync with his heavy breathing.

Behind him, dozens of bodyguards raised runic axes and shields, bellowing a war cry that rattled the stalactites above.

The Dwarven King stomped the ground. His muscles launched his stocky body high into the air, soaring straight toward the barrel of the Steam-Tank.

The white-runed warhammer in his grip was raised high, gathering a swirling vortex of primordial mana from the depths of the earth.

"GO BACK TO HELL!"

BOOOOM!

The giant hammer struck dead center on the tank’s right tread joint. An explosion of white energy tore through the fifteen-centimeter-thick steel plating. Bolts as thick as a man’s arm flew off like stray bullets!

The thick steel tread snapped instantly, unraveling onto the floor with a horrifying metallic clatter.

Losing traction on its right side, the colossal Steam-Tank roared, lurching violently to the left until its hull slammed into the tunnel wall. The tremor shook loose stalactites from overhead.

The Dwarven soldiers erupted into thunderous cheers.

But the cheering died instantly.

KRRR-CLACK!

The muzzle of the main cannon atop the tank’s hull—large enough to swallow a grown man whole—began to swivel slowly. It aimed straight at the Dwarven King, who had only just touched down.

Deep inside the barrel, a glowing crimson light began to condense.

From a narrow alcove sheltered by debris, Rianor observed the movement of the cannon with narrowed eyes.

He raised his left arm. The neon-blue pings of his Arcanotech Bracer scanned the colossal Steam-Tank’s hull. Lines of numbers and holographic schematics flickered rapidly behind his spectacles.

"Its main cannon is consolidating secondary steam pressure," Rianor murmured rapidly, his tone as flat as ice. "Thirty seconds until discharge. If it fires at this range, there will be nothing left of the Dwarven King—or us."

Yara knelt beside him. Her gray apron was torn in several places, her leather gloves stained with grease and dried blood.

Yet her brown eyes stared intently at the holographic projection. Surrounded by this killing machine, the young mechanic’s fear suddenly evaporated, replaced by cold calculation.

"Do we blow its ammunition from the inside?" Yara suggested quickly. "Give me some Dwarven heat-stone powder and I can—"

"There is no time to assemble a detonator," Rianor cut her off with absolute finality. His index finger slid the projection toward the underbelly of the tank hull.

"Look at this sector. The secondary compressor’s exhaust vent is open ten degrees to cool the cannon barrel. This isn’t about blowing it up. It’s about cooking its combustion core beyond the melting point of steel."

Rianor unclipped a portable thermal regulator module from his belt.

He attached it to a thick copper conductor wire and handed it over to Yara.

"Inject this conductor energy directly into its vent gap," Rianor instructed, locking eyes with her. "This device will trigger a localized overheat. The main cannon valve will melt and lock the pressure inside."

Yara swallowed hard, looking at the distance between their hiding spot and the underside of the violently vibrating tank.

"H-How much time do I have to heat it?"

"One minute. Before that cannon fires."

Yara didn’t argue. She bit her lip hard, slung the cable over her shoulder, and slithered low like a lizard through the thick dust—creeping straight beneath the belly of the steel behemoth.

Rianor stepped out of the alcove, resting his fingers on his Bracer, ready to unleash a thermal shockwave if any enemy infantry picked up on his mechanic’s movement.

On the other side of the tunnel, near the mouth of the eastern passage leading to the civilian quarter, the situation was spiraling out of control.

Captain Thorne yanked his twin daggers from an Imperial soldier’s neck. His dark blue uniform was caked in white dust, giving him the look of a wraith. He kicked the falling corpse aside and glanced through a gap in the rubble.

"New wave from the northwest!" Thorne shouted. His sharp eyes caught a line of black steel shields creeping out from behind the smoke. "They’re trying to flank the barricade!"

Beside him, Selene stood tall, her blue robes whipping in the thermal wind.

The Water Arcanum Master closed her pale blue eyes. She raised her hands, drawing in the thermal steam from the air and the residual moisture from ruptured pipes.

Ssssshhh!

In an instant, a white frost mist condensed out of thin air, rolling forward to seal off the eastern passage. The ambient temperature in the sector plummeted drastically.

Panicked shouts and the heavy clatter of falling gear echoed out as the leading Imperial infantry lost their footing on Selene’s ice floor.

"Hold formation!" a young Iron Empire officer barked from behind the lines. "Throw steam grenades! Kill their line of sight!"

Three small cylindrical canisters arced through the frost mist.

"FALL BACK!" Roland roared.

The young diplomat lunged forward. His dark blue coat billowed as he kicked a heavy wooden table over to bridge the gap in the barricade.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Three high-pressure steam explosions detonated simultaneously! The stone barricade on the right flank shattered to splinters. The shockwave showered razor-sharp volcanic rock through the air like a volley of arrows.

Roland was blasted backward, slamming hard against the tunnel wall. A deafening ringing filled his ears. His vision blurred for a few horrifying seconds.

As the dust cleared, Roland’s gray eyes widened.

An elderly Dwarven warrior who had been guarding the spot beside him now lay face down. A chunk of marble weighing dozens of kilograms rested on his back, crushing his steel armor and spine in a single instant. Thick, dark red blood pooled over his battleaxe.

Roland forced himself to crawl forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He grabbed the old warrior’s shoulder, straining to shove the rock off, but his strength wasn’t enough.

The Dwarf coughed, blood spurting from his lips beneath his grizzled gray beard. His faded red eyes locked onto Roland, his hand clutching tightly at the sleeve of the diplomat’s coat.

"The eastern... passage..." the old warrior rasped, a sickening gurgle in his breath. "Don’t let... those hounds through... our children... are in there..."

Roland held his breath.

The old warrior’s grip slowly slackened, his hand falling limp to the floor. His breathing ceased, but his eyes remained open, staring toward the passage where their families were sheltered.

The Dwarf’s blood stained Roland’s hands. The coppery reek mixed with sulfur pierced his senses.

For a single second, time stood still for the prince of Northreach. He saw death not as mere numbers on a treaty draft, but as a living reality. This was the cost of failed diplomacy.

Roland bowed his head for a brief moment. His jaw clenched tight.

Roland staggered to his feet. He snatched up a fallen enemy steam rifle lying nearby.

CLACK!

"DON’T GIVE AN INCH!" Roland roared, his voice cracking above the thunder of battle.

He pointed at the old warrior’s corpse. "Don’t let this blood be shed in vain! Hold the eastern breach! Shoot anything that comes through that mist!"

Roland opened fire wildly—not out of skill, but because there was no other choice.

At his rallying cry, the surviving Dwarven troops and the Northreach delegation rallied into a tight formation. Thorne spun his daggers, ready to receive the enemy. Selene pushed her mana to its limits, reinforcing the wall of ice.

Behind the barricade, Lieur curled into a ball covering his head, struggling not to pass out from the roaring detonations.

In the middle of the tunnel, the engine of the third super-heavy Steam-Tank shrieked with ear-splitting violence.

Beneath its underbelly, Yara crawled closer to the exhaust valve, enduring scorching heat that blistered the skin on her arms. The back of her hand was raw and red from steam burns, yet she didn’t stop working. Above her, the main cannon continued to condense its crimson energy toward the Dwarven King.

Meanwhile, the ringing clash of steel echoed through the dead zone. Riven and Reksov had traded dozens of blows, both breathing heavily.

Reksov leaped back a few paces, wiping blood from his temple where Riven’s spear had grazed him. His pneumatic arm emitted a series of rapid clack-clack-clacks, signaling an emergency purge cycle. Yet his sadistic smirk remained undimmed.

Before him, Riven stood as unyielding as a mountain cliff. The tip of his spear was dripping with oil and blood, splattering slowly onto the stone floor.

Smoke, dust, and gunpowder steam mingled, shrouding the West Gap.

Roland swept his eyes across the hellish crater. Deep beneath the bleeding earth, the boundaries between the Empire, Northreach, and the Dwarves had dissolved completely. Banners no longer mattered. Political alliances and enmities meant nothing.

All that remained was a band of living souls, fighting like demons just to ensure they survived to see tomorrow.