Chapter 6. The Rodenius Massacre. Part 2.
Kingdom of Louria, Hark Castle.
"A message from the Eastern Fleet. They are requesting reinforcements as they are engaged in battle with an unknown iron ship," reported the manacom operator.
"Excellent. Deploy three hundred and fifty wyvern riders immediately."
"As you command, my lord!"
Moments later, Louria's wyverns began taking to the skies, one after another.
Kingdom of Louria, Hark Castle. Three hours after the battle.
Three hours had passed since the last communication from the wyvern riders, which had been abruptly cut off by a chilling sound. A heavy atmosphere hung over Louria's command room. The riders had not made contact, and the growing unease was palpable.
"Where are they?" the commander asked anxiously.
But no one had an answer. As the oppressive silence lingered, whispers began to circulate: had all three hundred and fifty riders and their wyverns been annihilated? Speculation grew that the enemy might be servants of Bahamut, the Dragon God. No one knew how to report such a catastrophic loss to His Majesty.
"Send out an order to all wyvern rider orders to retreat immediately!"
The Bridge of the Frigate "Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union Isakov."
The tension in the air was almost tangible. Screens and radars displayed hundreds of approaching objects—three hundred and fifty, to be precise. Yet, in Captain Nikitin's eyes, this was nothing more than a primitive assault, unworthy of his crew's time or effort. He remained focused, his gaze locked on the radar.
"So, the natives don't want to settle this peacefully? Very well, let it be so," Nikitin said coldly. "As soon as they're within range, take them down."
His officers responded instantly and with military precision, their voices firm: "Aye, Captain!"
Moments later, the frigate Isakov unleashed its missiles. Like deadly arrows, they streaked toward the enemy. To the Lourian forces, this was an introduction to a terrifying new weapon. The skies filled with "arrows" leaving smoky trails as they hurtled straight toward their formation. Panic rippled through the Lourian ranks, an overwhelming terror that bordered on primal fear. Commander Sharkan felt his blood run cold as he watched.
In an instant, explosions erupted among the orderly rows of wyverns, turning them into bloody shrapnel that fell into the sea like stones. Over a hundred riders vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving chaos and panic among the survivors.
Despite the devastating losses, two hundred wyvern riders regrouped, summoning the last of their courage to push forward. Ahead of them loomed an impossibly massive ship, like a steel giant waiting to crush them.
"Prepare the artillery!" Nikitin commanded, his eyes never leaving the screen.
The wyvern riders launched a desperate assault, attempting to close the distance to the ship. But suddenly, flashes of light streaked through their ranks like bolts of lightning. The losses were catastrophic. By the time they were within seven kilometers of the frigate, only fifty riders remained. Then, the A-192M artillery systems opened fire. With each thunderous shot, one or sometimes two wyverns fell from the sky.
When the remaining distance shrank to just three kilometers, only three wyverns were left. The leader of the squadron shouted into the manacom, his voice filled with desperation: "He's out of mana for his demonic sorcery! Forward! This is our enemy! Avenge our comrades!"
The wyverns aligned for a final attack, fireballs forming in their jaws, ready to unleash devastation. But before they could strike, a deafening sound, like tearing fabric, erupted. In an instant, nothing remained of the three wyverns—they had been cleaved apart, their riders utterly obliterated.
As the echoes of explosions and gunfire faded, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield.
The elite squadron of three hundred and fifty wyvern riders had been annihilated by a single ship. Lourian sailors and officers watched in stunned horror as their finest warriors were reduced to a bloody pulp. Sharkan, standing on the bridge, muttered in a trembling voice:
"This... this is not a battle. This is annihilation. They're demons. They're wiping us out."
Beyond the horizon, three more ships emerged.
Soon, all four frigates of the Russian Navy formed a combat line and began systematically obliterating Louria's fleet. They concentrated their fire on the waterlines of the ships, sinking them as effortlessly as if they were practice targets. Lourian sailors scrambled for cover, clustering in desperate attempts to survive the carnage. Bodies of their comrades lay torn apart after each "line of light," and some didn't even realize they had been struck down.
When Ka-52K and Ka-27 helicopters joined the Russian frigates, chaos erupted across the remaining Lourian ships. Those still afloat tried to flee or hide, but the helicopters hunted them down with ruthless efficiency, leaving no survivors.
Through a loudspeaker, a helicopter broadcast a chilling message: "Attention! This is Captain First Rank Nikitin! Surrender immediately! Raise your hands and come onto the deck as a sign of capitulation."
This was no battle; it was a massacre. Of Louria's fleet of four thousand ships, only a handful remained. Sharkan, realizing the futility of further resistance, screamed:
"Surrender! Everyone who's still alive, surrender! They're wiping us out!"
It was over. Those who surrendered were transported to the Russian Federation and assigned to labor camps and construction projects under strict control. Louria's fate had been sealed.
An observer from the Parpaldian Empire, Warhal, watched the slaughter with trembling hands. Later, he was captured by a Russian inspection team and brought aboard one of their ships for interrogation. Warhal tried to explain that he was only there to observe primitive tactics and technologies. Nevertheless, he was taken into custody, handed over to the FSB, and faced imprisonment, where he had ample time to reflect on the overwhelming power of the Russian Navy.
Year 0001 of the New World Calendar, April 30th. Assembly of the Council of Lotuses.
Breweye, an officer of the Second Fleet of the Principality of Qua-Toyne, stood at the center of the grand hall, his figure nearly lost amidst the monumental beauty of the Council Garden. Every leaf and petal glistened in the gentle morning light, but the hearts of the warriors and strategists gathered there were shrouded in a somber unease.
"My report is concluded," he said, bowing his head to signal the end of his account. He had shared everything: the clash with Louria's fleet, the terrifying might of the Russian Navy—an almost mythical force that had appeared as if from legend and annihilated a four-thousand-strong armada and three hundred wyverns in what felt like an instant.
As his words trailed off, murmurs of alarm and disbelief rippled through the council. One of the elders, an aged man with snow-white hair and a face worn thin by years of responsibility, could no longer contain his emotions.
"This is unthinkable!" he nearly shouted, his voice wavering between an exclamation and a whisper. "Six ships against four thousand vessels? And they sank every one? And three hundred and fifty elite wyvern riders destroyed by a single ship?! With no casualties? How can anyone believe such a thing?" His voice trembled, and his eyes darted around the room, searching for reassurance or even a glimmer of understanding.
A heavy silence fell over the hall, blanketing it like a suffocating fog. Breweye, staring ahead with weary eyes, spoke carefully:
"There were losses, of course. But not in personnel. Instead..." He paused, choosing his words deliberately. "...there were complaints—quote, 'Those bastards scratched up our paint and burned through a fair bit of our ammo.' End quote."
The hall came alive again, filled with exchanged glances and puzzled expressions. The council members seemed to grapple with the sheer absurdity of what they were hearing. One of the heads, a woman with a face etched with worry, frowned and spoke softly, her tone tinged with skepticism:
"This sounds like something out of a legend or a fairy tale. I don't mean to accuse you of lying, Breweye, but your words seem... implausible."
Several other leaders nodded in agreement, their cautious expressions revealing their struggle to process his report. It was as if each of Breweye's statements carried an enigma too vast to fully comprehend. Doubt crept into their hearts, clouding their ability to accept his account as reality.
Elder Kanata, resolute and sharp-eyed, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Even so," he began, "the Russian Federation has not deceived us. They have kept their promise to defend our independence. The fact remains that not only did they hold the enemy at Gima, but they also prevented Louria from harming our citizens. Louria will be nursing its wounds for a long time. Their fleet is gone, and that buys us time—time to reflect and prepare. What news do we have from the Military Order?" His tone was authoritative, though a subtle trace of concern lingered beneath it.
"At present," Breweye replied, "Louria is focusing its efforts on fortifying Gima. They're building defensive structures both within and around the city to prepare for another potential ground offensive. We're unable to breach their fortifications."
Kanata nodded slowly, as though weighing every word, absorbing the gravity of the situation. He raised his hand, calling for silence, and after a brief pause, he declared:
"In that case, this Council is adjourned. We will do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of the principality. You are dismissed."
Breweye's account hung in the air like the tolling of a heavy bell, filling the minds and hearts of those present with the uneasy realization of a fragile boundary between myth and reality. Yet, there was no longer any doubt—Russia, their ally, had proven to be a force of unimaginable power, both awe-inspiring and terrifying in its might.
The Kingdom of Louria, Hark Castle.
King Louria, the thirty-fourth ruler of his proud yet now terror-stricken kingdom, tossed and turned restlessly on his bed. His nightclothes clung to his sweat-drenched body, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed sleepless nights spent in agonizing contemplation.
The naval battle at Rodenius had been a catastrophe from which the kingdom seemed unlikely to recover. Louria's fleet, along with its elite wyvern squadrons sent to reinforce the battle, had been obliterated as if they had never existed. Every time the king tried to make sense of what had happened, he was seized by an overwhelming dread and utter confusion. Reports over the manacom were abruptly cut off mid-sentence, and through the crackling static, he could only hear terrified screams and incoherent, panicked sobbing—the voices of soldiers witnessing a death they could neither comprehend nor escape.
The most recent reports were maddeningly filled with fantastical accounts, so unbelievable that the king thought surely they must be lies, deliberate attempts to frighten or mislead him. The most absurd and chilling of these accounts were mentions of something described as a "light arrow." This mysterious projectile, glowing like a star, relentlessly pursued the wyverns, leaving them no chance of escape. No matter how the riders maneuvered to evade it, the beam followed them unerringly until it struck its target. The king shuddered at the thought, his breath catching as he imagined the kind of magical sorcery or artifacts that could produce such a weapon.
"Magical weaponry," he muttered to himself, as though seeking solace in the idea that there could be a rational explanation for what had happened. But even these words brought no peace.
Some speculated that the Russian Federation had employed an ancient and powerful artifact, possibly a relic of a long-lost empire shrouded in legend. How else could one explain the swift and inescapable annihilation of their ships? Whispers spoke of demonic sorcery, of magic capable of tearing apart a vessel before its crew even realized what was happening. Not even Louria's mages could fathom how much mana would be required to produce such a weapon, and their conjectures only deepened the prevailing fear and despair.
The king's thoughts raced, preventing him from finding any rest. Louria had been a proud and powerful nation, with a fleet that struck fear into all of Rodenius. But now... now they had faced a power beyond comprehension, a force that defied the very boundaries of human imagination.
"Who have we provoked?" The question tore through his mind, each repetition carving deeper into his psyche, turning every passing moment into torment. He was haunted by the possibility that he had brought an irreversible and terrifying doom upon Louria.
That night brought no relief for the king. With every dawn, his fear and despair only grew stronger.
The Parpaldian Empire, Capital City of Esthirant.
In a dimly lit room where the outlines of heavy wooden furniture were barely visible, a warm orange glow emanated from a spirit of light encased in a glass sphere. The magical source cast a soft illumination on the sharp features of a man clad in an ornate dark robe, his face partially veiled in shadow. This man, the senior advisor to the Emperor of Parpaldia, listened intently to the report delivered by the figure standing before him.
"Russian Federation?" The words rolled off his tongue slowly, as though he were savoring the unfamiliar name. "This name means nothing to me."
"It's a nation located on a continent called Russia," the messenger replied, his voice tinged with hesitation, as though fully aware that even the smallest misstep could cost him dearly.
The advisor narrowed his eyes without breaking his gaze.
"And what exactly are you trying to tell me?" His voice was low and measured but carried a menacing undertone.
The messenger cleared his throat and averted his eyes.
"Our observer… has gone missing. Based on circumstantial evidence, it's likely that these Russians were responsible. Though we have limited information," he ventured cautiously, "rumors suggest that it was the Russian fleet that helped the Principality of Qua-Toyne secure victory in their recent battle."
The advisor's expression darkened, irritation flickering across his face.
"This is not merely unfortunate," he said slowly, his words dripping like venom from his lips, "this is disastrous. We've invested substantial resources and effort into cultivating those barbarians, expecting them to serve as useful pawns. And now it seems they've proven incapable of holding their ground against a band of outsiders. Do you have any intelligence on what these Russians possess?"
The messenger, summoning what little confidence he could muster, replied, "We know very little, Your Excellency. These so-called barbarians appear to have mastered some form of cannon-based weaponry. I can think of no other explanation for the destruction of Louria's fleet of four thousand ships."
The advisor's eyes narrowed further, his gaze sharp with cruel interest.
"Cannons, you say? Primitive firearms… And yet you expect me to believe that the Kingdom of Louria will not falter once it begins its land offensive?"
The messenger nodded, striving to project certainty despite the beads of sweat forming on his brow.
"Yes, Your Excellency. On land, Louria holds undeniable superiority. With their massive population and vast army, it is unlikely they will lose to these 'barbarians,' who've only just managed to craft a few rudimentary weapons."
The advisor gave a curt nod, his expression thoughtful, before fixing the messenger with a piercing stare.
"Very well. Prepare a new observer and compile a report that I can present to His Imperial Majesty. He must be assured that we have this situation under control."
With deliberate slowness, the advisor raised his index finger toward the ceiling, as though preparing to utter an ancient incantation.
"You may leave," he added dismissively, without sparing the messenger a final glance.
"Yes, Your Excellency," the messenger replied with a deep bow before hastily exiting, leaving the advisor alone with his thoughts and the flickering light from the glass sphere.