Chapter 10. The collapse of the Kingdom. Part 3.
The night had claimed the battlefield. Darkness descended upon the land like a heavy shroud, swallowing sounds, scents, and even the very air itself. Fatigue, fear, and anticipation became almost tangible—a crushing weight upon their shoulders.
"Commander, I see no movement!" one of the soldiers reported, his voice tense but steady. He peered through his night vision device into the void ahead but found no signs of life.
The commander, concealed behind the fortifications, gripped his radio tighter. His face remained composed and resolute, but a fleeting trace of exhaustion flashed in his eyes.
"Cease fire!" His voice was firm, as if the very air itself obeyed his commands. "This must be their final attack… Request an artillery strike."
The soldier gave a curt nod.
"Yes, sir!"
Long minutes of waiting followed. From the lowliest private to the highest-ranking officer, each man could hear nothing but the whisper of his own thoughts—until the oppressive silence was shattered by the thunder of artillery. The sky erupted in flashes of fire, as if ancient lightning split the heavens apart. The ground beneath them trembled, as though it, too, sought to rid itself of the merciless onslaught.
Somewhere in the distance, upon a high vantage point, General Patagene and the court mage Yamirei observed the destruction. Towering waves of fire consumed the earth, leaving nothing in their wake. Both men were shaken by the sight.
"It all ends tonight," Patagene muttered, his voice trembling. The roar of explosions filled the air, the fiery glow illuminating his face. He turned to his aides, the resolve returning to his gaze. "Gather every able-bodied soldier at the main gates! Anyone who can wield a sword and shield—everyone! Get the mana-com operators here, now!"
"Yes, sir!" An officer replied before vanishing into the shadows.
Minutes later, three men rushed to the general, carrying a bulky device that resembled an early 20th-century radio. This was a refined version of the mana-com, an expensive acquisition from the Parpaldian Empire.
"Sir, it's all set up!" one of the operators reported, placing the mana-com onto an improvised table.
Patagene seized the receiver.
"Rondo, do you hear me? The main gates have fallen. It seems the honor of protecting the king now falls upon you and your guard. We will hold them here."
A tense but resolute voice came through the receiver.
"Understood…"
On the other end of the magical transmission, Captain Rondo of the Royal Guard stood on the palace balcony. He watched the infernal glow rising over the city, listened to the distant explosions, and heard the anguished cries of the fallen. Taking a deep breath, he turned away, leaving the horrific sight behind.
"All guards, assemble at His Majesty's chambers!" His command echoed through the stone corridors.
"It will be done!" the guards responded in unison.
Marching through the marble halls, Rondo caught fleeting glimpses of terrified kitchen maids. He hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough.
"Follow me," he ordered—firm, yet not unkind. "Your strength may be needed to protect the king."
Without a second thought, the maids hurried after him, clinging to his confidence as if it were their last hope.
Meanwhile, by the fortress walls, General Patagene and Mage Yamirei stood at the forefront of the assembled defenders. Their faces bore the weight of desperate determination. Each of them understood that this night would be their last—but not one of them wavered.
"For Louria! For the king!" Patagene's voice rang out like a great bell over the gathered warriors.
The night draped the battlefield in a heavy shroud, broken only by the bursts of explosions and the vivid streaks of tracer rounds slicing through the darkness. From the fortress gates, shattered by artillery fire, the warriors of Louria poured out in force. Their armor, gleaming in the torchlight, made them look like grim specters of a bygone era, wielding maces, halberds, and glaives.
The tank platoon commander watched through his night vision optics and let out a dry chuckle. His voice carried a sharp edge of sarcasm.
"Well, shit… Where the hell are we supposed to bury you all?"
With practiced ease, he reached for the radio and calmly called in an artillery strike on the approaching mass. Then, switching channels, he issued the command to his men.
"Units, prepare for engagement."
The distant rumble of approaching fire quickly escalated into an earth-shattering barrage. Two kilometers ahead, right in the heart of the enemy ranks, the explosions tore through the mass of soldiers. Shrapnel sprayed outward in a lethal arc, mowing down row after row, yet those who survived pressed forward, oblivious to the carnage around them.
A line of mages, their robes adorned with embroidered symbols, stepped into formation. In unison, they chanted their incantations, a pale-green aura flaring up around them—a defensive spell meant to shield them from the inevitable slaughter.
"Smartasses," one of the tankers muttered as he adjusted his sight.
With a deafening screech, a shell tore through the night sky and detonated mere feet from the mages. The shockwave shattered their protective wards and sent them sprawling. One jagged piece of shrapnel buried itself in a young spellcaster's throat, piercing the fragile weave of his enchanted cloak. His eyes went wide with shock, his mouth filling with blood before he collapsed in violent convulsions. The chant of his comrades faltered, their spell unraveling mid-cast.
For a brief moment, the enemy horde hesitated. Just for a moment.
The Lourian mages scrambled to regroup, struggling to restart their incantations—only to be met with a storm of crimson tracer rounds. The .50 caliber rounds ripped through their ranks, bodies bursting apart in sprays of gore. Armor crumpled like tin foil, and the air filled with the sickening symphony of shrieking metal and dying screams.
The cover of darkness masked their losses, preventing the warriors from grasping the true extent of the devastation. Yet, even as they marched through a hurricane of lead and fire, they did not stop.
Like a silent tide rushing toward its own annihilation, they surged forward—unstoppable, unquestioning, and utterly doomed.
Meanwhile, in the Skies Over Jin-Hark
Storm clouds gathered over Jin-Hark, setting the stage for the dramatic events about to unfold. Four heavy Mi-24M helicopters flew low, their rotor blades tearing through the air, creating a deafening roar that would strike fear into anyone who heard it.
"Attention! We're approaching the target," the lead pilot spoke into his radio, his voice calm but laced with tension.
"Captain, the 1st Division has already engaged the natives," the navigator reported. "We'll have time to secure the objective."
The captain turned to his special forces squad, his sharp, focused gaze sweeping over each of them.
"Alright, comrades, listen up! We're dropping into the palace garden. Entry through the kitchen. Move methodically, stay precise. If you see any native with a weapon—eliminate them. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" the soldiers barked in unison, their voices echoing in the tight cabin.
"Good."
Minutes later, the helicopters hovered over the garden, their floodlights illuminating neatly trimmed bushes and paved walkways. At the command, the commandos operators began rappelling down. Their figures moved like shadows, landing without a sound. Quickly regrouping, they advanced toward their entry point.
A tense discussion was taking place. Behind a massive wooden door, a low voice spoke:
"I hope our soldiers can handle these devilish beasts."
"Rest assured, they will—" the second voice started but abruptly fell silent.
The door burst open, and five figures clad in pitch-black armor stormed in. Their movements were swift, precise. Suppressed gunshots thudded through the room. Seven Lourian guards collapsed to the floor, dead before they even realized what was happening.
The commandos team methodically cleared the room. One operator, armed with an AMB-17, caught movement in the corner. A quick pivot—one more guard fell without a sound.
"Finish him," the squad leader ordered. A synchronized volley of shots ensured none would get back up.
"Clear," one soldier confirmed, peering into the adjoining rooms.
The team reformed and pushed forward through the castle corridors. Their steps were near silent, the only sound the muffled voices of distant enemies breaking the eerie stillness.
On the far end of the castle, Captain Rondo, the commander of the royal guard, received an urgent alert. His voice was sharp as steel.
"Operator, send an emergency dispatch to General Patagene. Inform him the enemy has breached the palace. If he can mobilize reinforcements in time, we can trap them and wipe them out."
"Understood!" the operator sprang into action.
The commandos team reached the third floor, where intelligence indicated the throne room was located. Ascending the grand staircase, they entered a vast chamber dimly lit by scattered torches. The towering columns cast ghostly shadows, like silent sentinels standing watch.
"We're in position," the squad leader whispered into his radio. Two short clicks came in response.
As they advanced, voices suddenly broke the silence.
"Please, no! We beg you!"
Two maids stood in the center of the room, their faces pale with terror, hands trembling.
The commandos operators tensed, weapons lowered but ready.
From the shadows, a man emerged. He had long silver hair and a scar running down his left cheek. His expression was one of arrogance—almost defiance. His voice was firm.
"So this is what you are… Rossi warriors. You're here because we chose to cleanse Rodenius of the impure and the cursed. You bypassed Beales, crushed our forces—"
He never finished. A suppressed shot from the AMB-17 blew his head apart like an overripe melon. Blood and brain matter splattered across the chamber. The maids screamed in horror.
At that moment, secret doors swung open, and royal guards charged in. The commandos team pulled back toward the staircase, covering each other as they moved. One operator fired a GM-94 grenade launcher, flooding the hallway with thick, choking smoke. Another tossed an RGD-5 grenade. The explosion shook the room. When the dust settled, bodies lay scattered across the floor—some motionless, others writhing in pain.
The maids huddled in a corner, sobbing, their faces buried in their hands.
"Clear," the squad leader reported, scanning the aftermath. The team reloaded and regrouped before the massive doors bearing the royal crest.
"Get ready. We go in on my mark," the commander ordered, his voice steady and cold as an arctic wind.
Hark Luriy the 34th, King of Louria, sat on his throne, gripping the armrests as if they could shield him from the inevitable.
Loud, rhythmic bangs echoed from the massive doors of the throne room, each impact sending a jolt through his body, as if his very soul was being torn apart. A crushing weight tightened around his throat, and his thoughts raced in a frantic spiral.
"I am the one who bound other kingdoms to my rule!" he screamed inwardly. "I am the one who crushed the gluttonous dukes and marquises under my heel! I strengthened Louria! Raised it to the pinnacle of power! King of Kings, Lord of Rodenius! I only sought to cleanse these lands of those cursed half-breeds, to forge an empire that would stand for centuries! So much effort, so much blood and gold… And now? Now it's all gone..."
Suddenly, the doors splintered like fragile glass under the blow of a hammer, then burst open with a deafening screech.
Five figures stepped into the hall. Their armor was black as a starless night, their helmets distorting their features into something monstrous—faceless creatures with four burning eyes. In their hands, they wielded strange, unnatural staffs—ugly, unfamiliar weapons that seemed to have come from another world.
One of them, who moved with the surety of command, his gestures precise and deliberate, fixed his gaze on the king and uttered a curt order:
"Bag him. Move to extraction."
His voice was cold and impassive, the tone of a judge delivering a verdict already written in stone.
Luriy shuddered. His mind desperately searched for a way out, a way to escape this fate—but his body refused to obey. Any attempts at reasoning were shattered the moment one of the invaders stepped forward and drove the butt of his weapon into the king's ribs, doubling him over like a broken marionette.
Pain. Sharp. Humiliating. Sobering.
Rough hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Cold, unyielding cuffs snapped shut around his wrists. This wasn't just a slap to his pride—it was the complete annihilation of everything he had built, everything he held dear.
"Yes, sir!" the other four barked in unison, their voices striking the air like a hammer on iron.
The sharp synchronicity made Luriy flinch. The words echoed through the empty hall, mocking his helplessness.
They lifted him effortlessly, as if he were weightless, and dragged him out of the throne room. He struggled, but it was useless. He, the king, was being hauled through his own palace like a common prisoner, prodded forward by weapons he still didn't understand—whether they were magic or something far worse.
As he was dragged through the corridors, visions of ruin flashed before his eyes.
Bodies of his royal guards littered the marble floors. Their once-glistening armor, the proud emblem of Lourian might, was now stained with blood and dirt.
Among them, he spotted his captain, Rondo. His lifeless form was slumped against a pillar, and where his head should have been, there was only a ragged stump.
Luriy's stomach twisted. A wave of nausea rose within him, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to let his weakness show. His fingers trembled, his legs barely able to support him. He was no longer a king—just a condemned man being led to slaughter.
As the first light of dawn seeped through the palace's stained-glass windows, the invaders dragged Luriy outside.
Waiting for them in the courtyard was a massive black machine—something monstrous, like an enormous insect ready to devour him whole.
He watched as its crew moved around it in sharp, practiced motions, exchanging clipped commands. The beast of steel let out a low, rumbling growl, as if impatient to take flight.
They shoved him inside.
The interior was cramped and oppressive, the walls closing in on him.
A moment later, he felt the ground vanish from beneath him. The beast shuddered, then lifted into the sky, carrying him—Louria's king, the ruler of Rodenius—away from everything he had ever known.
Through a small viewport, he watched his once-magnificent palace shrink into a tiny smudge on the horizon.
Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to cry.
Inside him churned a storm of hatred, fear, and despair.
This was the end of his reign.
But what came next?
That was a question Luriy no longer sought to answer.
Only with the first rays of the sun did the full horror of the massacre reveal itself to the surviving Lourian veterans and militia. Their eyes were frozen in terror, a dreadful mixture of shock and helplessness.
The battlefield, which had been a furious clash just hours ago, had now become a grim theater of death. Hundreds of bodies, bloodied and mutilated, lay sprawled across the ground like a vast, blackened carpet, interrupted only by shell craters and burning wreckage.
Paralyzed by the sight of their fallen comrades, the Lourians slowly began to grasp the sheer scale of their defeat. Panic took hold. Dropping their weapons, they fled toward Jin Hark—some stumbling over corpses, others screaming hysterically, while a few whispered prayers, begging the gods for salvation. Their spirits were shattered, their will to fight completely broken.
Every breath was a struggle, thick with the sickly-sweet stench of fresh flesh, mingled with the gut-wrenching aroma of blood, excrement, and burning gunpowder. This cocktail of battlefield scents, so reminiscent of the most brutal conflicts of the 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries, had a sobering effect on those still conscious enough to comprehend their reality.
Against the backdrop of this unspeakable human tragedy, the modern war machines of the Russian Federation loomed like statues. Their black silhouettes stood both monumental and terrifying. Tanks and howitzers, which had rained iron death upon the enemy throughout the night, now remained motionless—like giant predators, satisfied after a feast. Their barrels, no longer spewing destruction, remained fixed in the direction of the retreating forces.
"Cease fire," came the firm voice of the tank platoon commander through the internal comms. His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority—one that left no room for hesitation.
In response, the artillery mechanisms fell silent. The thunderous cannonade that had shaken the earth for hours finally came to a halt.
Even from two thousand meters away, the moans and whimpers of the wounded reached the ears of the soldiers. The sound—both muffled and piercing—stood in stark contrast to the sudden quiet, a chilling reminder that the consequences of battle extended far beyond victory or defeat. These were the sounds of pain, loss, and agony—the harsh, inescapable reality of war, one that no amount of firepower could ever silence.
The Russian soldiers standing at their positions watched as the Lourian forces retreated in disarray.
The platoon commander scanned the horizon, his gaze lingering on the remnants of the enemy army, now vanishing into the distance. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of it all settle in his chest.
"Check the vehicles. Prepare a report," he ordered curtly, breaking the silence over the radio.
The battle—one that had become a bloody lesson for Louria—had ended in the Russian Federation's favor.
But on this battlefield, where two eras had clashed—medieval and modern—there was no place for celebration.
Upon returning to the capital, the Lourian forces carried with them not only defeat but also an overwhelming sense of despair. The city streets were filled with bitterness and hopelessness, as if life itself had abandoned these lands. The people's patience had run dry, and soon, their anger erupted into bloody riots. War-weary citizens demanded an end to their suffering. Yet the city guards, forced to suppress the uprisings, suffered just as much—hating themselves for spilling blood in the name of a dying regime.
The central roads of the capital were littered with the bodies of executed rebels, while the instigators hung from lampposts like grim ornaments. Every step through these streets felt like walking through the ruins of a once-great kingdom—now reduced to nothing but a miserable shadow of its former self.
When Russian forces entered the city, they were met with a horrifying sight. The once-glorious capital had become a chaotic wasteland of destruction and suffering. An eerie silence filled the air, broken only by the faint moans of the few survivors, amplifying the overwhelming sense of emptiness.
The remnants of Louria's elite—Royal Court Mage Yamirei, General Patagene, and Chancellor of Foreign Affairs Maos—scrambled to take control of what little remained of the government. Desperate to avoid total annihilation, they hastily prepared the terms of surrender. Meanwhile, the kingdom's vassal houses, sensing newfound freedom in the absence of their autocrat, began loudly proclaiming their independence.
Once allies, the feudal lords had now become bitter rivals, tearing the kingdom apart like starving predators fighting over a fresh kill. Amid this chaos, the Russian military, to everyone's surprise, transformed from conquerors into peacekeepers. They began mediating disputes between the marquises and dukes, brokering deals that were highly favorable to the Russian Federation.
For vast sums of money, the Russians granted the feudal lords their independence—but with strict conditions attached. As a result, Louria was fragmented into five separate states, each operating under the quiet but firm influence of a new geopolitical power.
The Russian Federation enforced total demilitarization of the region, banning any significant standing armies and allowing only internal security forces to maintain order. Geological surveys were soon underway in the liberated lands, alongside negotiations for the establishment of military bases with long-term leases stretching for thousands of years.
Economic integration followed just as swiftly. Russian entrepreneurs set up light industry enterprises, providing jobs for the local population. The Lourian monarchy was formally abolished—a move that sparked fresh unrest, which was swiftly crushed by FSB operatives.
The captured Lourian sailors and officers, taken as prisoners after the Battle of Rodenius, were eventually repatriated and allowed to rebuild their lives. However, among them were those who longed for revenge. Such ambitions were dealt with swiftly—often harshly and without compromise.
News of Louria's downfall spread rapidly across all civilizations beyond the so-called Civilized Lands, even reaching the Parpaldian Empire. The event triggered widespread discussions among the nations of the Third Civilized Region. Some saw it as an opportunity to strengthen their own positions—others as a clear sign that a new power had entered the game.