The collapse of the Kingdom. Part 2.
Above Castle Hark
After some time, Su-34 fighter jets appeared over Castle Hark, circling the fortress at a safe altitude. On the castle walls, mages in blue-and-white robes rushed back and forth, scrambling to prepare the defenses.
"Everyone! Raise your staves!" Yamirei commanded. His voice was measured, but beneath it lay an unshakable resolve.
Not wanting to show hesitation, the mages started shouting over one another.
"This damned noise… I can't focus!" one of them yelled, feeling the powerful sounds shaking his very core.
Yamirei cast a sharp glance at his subordinates, his eyes gleaming with determination. He clenched his fist and bellowed:
"Stay focused! Don't let the noise throw you off!"
The mages steeled themselves, channeling their will, and began chanting in unison. With each word spoken in perfect rhythm, the mana concentrated in their staves started forming into blazing fireballs. As soon as the synchronized incantation was complete, the mages unleashed their attack spells.
But the result was disappointing. The Su-34s were moving at incredible speed, and while the fireballs were bright and deadly, they were hopelessly slow compared to the jets. Not a single one hit its mark. The pilots flew on, completely unfazed by the attack.
Stunned by the sheer speed of their enemies, the mages collapsed to their knees, helplessly watching as their spells vanished into empty air.
Kingdom of Louria. Capital City, Jin-Hark.
The war council chamber was a powder keg ready to explode. Everyone present was consumed by despair and hesitation, the weight of the recent air raid pressing down on them.
"Report! What's the situation on the ground?" Patagene's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. His gaze swept across the faces of the gathered officers, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic edge of icy fury.
"The navy's headquarters has been completely destroyed. Our coastline is under siege—hell, even fishing boats can't make it through," one officer said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His expression was a mixture of exhaustion and helplessness.
"Their iron dragons are impossibly fast, staying well beyond the reach of our fire spells," Yamirei muttered bitterly. Once one of Louria's finest mages, he now found himself facing an enemy far beyond his power to counter.
"Our royal wyvern riders… There are only a handful left, and the wyverns themselves have been wiped out," Miminel said quietly, lowering his head. His voice carried the heavy weight of grief, as if crushed under its own burden.
A suffocating silence filled the room, thick with the realization that their war—their last chance at survival—was slipping through their fingers.
"Ambassadors of the Parpaldian Empire," Maos finally spoke, bowing so deeply that his forehead nearly touched the floor. "Our kingdom stands on the brink of annihilation. I beg of you… support us." His voice trembled with desperation.
The diplomats in their dark robes showed no sympathy, no concern. Their faces were unreadable, their silence stretching on. Only the faintest murmurs passed between them, hushed whispers in a language the Lourians couldn't decipher.
Then, one of them finally spoke, his tone devoid of emotion.
"You have failed to meet our expectations. For all the resources we have invested in your king's endeavors, he has delivered nothing but defeat after defeat. We believe it is time to reconsider the value of this agreement."
A suffocating pressure filled the room, as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs. It was the moment they had all dreaded—the final thread of hope severed.
The envoys stood and wordlessly moved toward the exit. The officers could only watch as they left, too paralyzed to object, too powerless to stop them.
One of the diplomats paused just before crossing the threshold. Without turning back, he spoke in a quiet, almost indifferent voice:
"And with that, we withdraw our support. The fate of your nation is no concern of ours."
The doors shut behind them.
Patagene slammed his fist onto the table in fury. The heavy wood trembled under the impact, the sharp sound cutting through the silence like a blade. Officers and advisors flinched at the outburst.
"My lord—!" one of the advisors stammered, unsure of what else to say.
"What now?!" Patagene snapped, his glare searing through the man like a dagger.
The advisor hesitated, swallowing hard before speaking.
"The Russians… they haven't deployed ground forces. If they're still stationed in Gimu, we may have an opening to strike. I propose mobilizing the heavy cavalry for an attack."
The word attack hung in the air, sparking an immediate tension across the room.
"It's true… Our knights are unparalleled in ground combat," another officer muttered. "Even if their infantry is strong, we can defeat them. All we need is the element of surprise…"
Murmurs of agreement spread through the chamber.
Patagene clenched his fists, deep in thought. The idea of a cavalry charge as their last hope gnawed at him. But even if the royal heavy cavalry could hold the capital… how much time could they buy before the enemy crushed them in a decisive battle?
Hark Castle. Throne Room.
"Your Majesty, we have lost the port and our wyvern riders. We believe the enemy's next move will be a ground assault. Their most likely route will take them along the main road, so we propose an ambush in the city of Beales. Fighting within the city will neutralize the effectiveness of their magical weaponry in an urban environment."
General Patagene, commander of the Lourian army, delivered his report with his head bowed, dropping to one knee before the throne.
King Lourie listened intently, his brow furrowing slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.
"Very well. Arrest the viscounts and marquises who are poisoning the morale of our troops," he ordered, his voice cold and unwavering.
"As you command, Your Majesty," Patagene replied, rising to his feet and exiting the chamber.
Left alone, King Lourie's gaze lingered on the empty space ahead of him. He watched the general's retreating figure disappear beyond the doors, then exhaled heavily. Dark thoughts crept back into his mind, a suffocating wave of despair closing in around him.
His memories drifted back to that monstrous being—the thing that had torn a wyvern apart midair as it soared above the castle. He couldn't erase the image from his mind—the deafening roar, the nightmarish form of the creature. The shock had nearly sent him to his knees in terror.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the horror of that moment seized him once again.
The Next Morning.
The Wastelands Near the Lourian Royal Capital – Jin Hark.
A column of armored vehicles—seven T-72B tanks and three Koalitsiya-SV self-propelled artillery systems—rumbled across the endless, desolate landscape. Their crews moved with deliberate caution, maneuvering along a route carefully mapped out through aerial reconnaissance. They had approached so close to Jin Hark that, at this range, they could practically take a shot at the fortress with a handgun.
"Hey, we're right up to their damn doorstep, and they still haven't noticed us," the gunner muttered, tension thick in his voice as he turned to the driver, who had also popped out of the hatch to scan the surroundings.
"Yeah… If we were back home, we'd never be able to roll up this close in open ground like this. No cover, nothing. We'd have been blown to hell by now," the driver mused, eyes fixed on the vast, open expanse ahead. "But here? Wide-open fields. No eyes in the sky. We can actually pull this off…"
Meanwhile, inside the fortress of Jin Hark, all seemed quiet at one of the northern watchtowers. One of the sentries stirred awake, rubbing his eyes.
"Ugh… Sorry, I dozed off. Time for the shift change," he yawned, stretching.
"Hold on… I see something," the other guard replied, his eye still pressed to the spyglass.
"What is it?" the first sentry asked, trusting his partner's sharp vision.
"That's… siege weaponry!" the second sentry gasped, his face draining of color. "Get in touch with the Order of the Guardian Knights now! Use the mana-com!"
"The Seventeenth Watchtower, north side! Enemy siege weapons spotted!" the second sentry relayed into the mana-communicator, his voice trembling.
But it was already too late.
A deafening roar thundered across the wastelands as the Koalitsiya-SV artillery opened fire. The first volley struck the fortress walls, sending chunks of stone and debris flying.
BOOM! BOOM! The explosions shattered the early morning stillness, their concussive force shaking the ground.
"What the hell is happening?!" General Patagene roared as he stormed onto his balcony. His eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the destruction. "An ambush?! How did they bypass Beales?! They were supposed to be bogged down in battle!"
He spun around and disappeared into his chambers, quickly donning his armor before making for the war council.
"General Patagene!" A soldier snapped to attention as he entered the command center. "We're under siege! Enemy siege weapons to the north!"
"Send out four hundred armored cavalry," Patagene ordered, his voice razor-sharp. "Speed is our advantage. Don't let them bring their magic weapons to bear. But if the enemy force doesn't break—retreat. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The officer saluted before running off to relay the orders.
Moments later, the gates of Jin Hark swung open. A tide of steel and fury surged forth—the kingdom's heavy cavalry galloped across the battlefield, kicking up dust in their charge toward the enemy armor.
"For Louria! For the King!" their commander bellowed as he led the charge.
The response was immediate.
A hail of 12.7mm rounds from the NSVT heavy machine guns tore through the cavalry's ranks. The sheer force of the bullets didn't just pierce—they ripped through men and horses alike, sending bodies flying.
At a distance of two kilometers, these rounds didn't just punch neat holes—they obliterated limbs, sending shattered bones and flesh spraying in every direction.
One rider was "lucky." A ricocheting round only shattered his arm, sending him tumbling from his horse.
"Fall back! Fall back!" the cavalry commander screamed, his voice raw with panic as he desperately tried to rally the survivors.
Not all of them made it back. Some bled out before sunrise, unable to even mount their horses. Others were left stunned, wandering the battlefield in shock, struggling to comprehend how they had survived the massacre.
With blood seeping through his armor, the cavalry commander staggered before General Patagene, his face pale.
"Red and green streaks—cutting through our ranks… We can't hold…"
Patagene clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He lowered his gaze.
"What do you advise?" he asked his war council, eyes locked onto the battlefield map.
"We need a diversion using heavy infantry," one of his advisors suggested. "Once they engage, our light cavalry can flank them for a surprise attack."
The tank crews watched as Louria's knights approached—hulking figures in full plate armor, their shields massive enough to dwarf a man. These weren't just soldiers—they were monsters on the battlefield.
But the tank gunners were ready.
The machine guns roared once more, spitting out death. Bullets ripped through the charging knights, knocking them down like ragdolls.
"What the hell?!" one of the tank commanders cursed as he saw rounds bouncing off a knight's shield, leaving barely a dent.
One knight remained standing—his shield absorbing the barrage. He pressed forward, step by step, undeterred.
"That thing's bad news," the tank commander muttered. "We need to recover that shield and send it back for research."
But before they could act, the flanking cavalry force came into view.
"Enemy movement on the flanks!" a crewman shouted.
The tank commander didn't hesitate.
"Hold the line! Don't let them encircle us!"
The armored units repositioned, forming a defensive formation as the enemy cavalry surged in.
Aboard the frigate Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union Isakov.
"Captain, sir," an officer reported. "First Division has requested close air support."
"Understood. Get in touch with Priboy. Have them deploy a Ka-52 squadron."
Minutes later, the distinct rotor sounds of four Ka-52 attack helicopters filled the air. The gunships swept over the battlefield, their 2A42 autocannons and GSh-23 cannons spitting hellfire, tearing through the enemy cavalry with merciless precision.
The tide of battle shifted. The knights faltered, their formations breaking under the overwhelming firepower.
The tanks advanced.
Victory was near.
"Berkut-01, mission accomplished. Returning to base. Over."
"Copy that. Head back."
The night was dark and silent. The sky was covered with thick clouds, and only a faint glow of the stars barely pierced through the darkness. Aside from the ragged breaths of the wounded, there was no sound. The silence was almost tangible, pressing down on the soul, making everyone feel the weight of the encroaching despair.
The survivors were still moving, but it felt more like the final twitches of dying bodies rather than signs of life. Their wounds throbbed, and their minds focused solely on survival. With every breath, the injured lost more of their strength, their chests rising and falling with labored, painful gasps.
"Hmph, their louse only flies at night. Good thing it can't during the day. That means the darkness has finally swallowed the land. These devil spawns will tremble now," Calcio whispered, his words dripping with an eerie confidence. He spoke as if everything had been preordained, like a chess game where he already knew the outcome.
He stood with clenched fists, staring into the void. His figure blended seamlessly with the night's gloom, becoming one with the soulless abyss, where there was no fear, no weakness. Everything around him felt like a nightmare, and yet he and his squad were ready for this trial.
General Patadjin had given his approval for the night raid. Under the cover of darkness, they were to infiltrate enemy positions—silent and unseen, like predators on the prowl. Everything was set. Their movements were calculated, almost imperceptible. Even their breathing was shallow, suppressed, so as not to betray their presence.
The squad advanced, slow but steady, creeping closer to enemy lines. The dirt beneath their hands felt alive, heavy and thick, as if laden with fate itself. One of the soldiers raised his night vision monocular, whispering cautiously:
"It's eerily quiet over there. Not even campfires. It's like they're not there."
Calcio frowned slightly, listening to the unnerving silence. Something felt off. He tightened his grip on his weapon, bracing for the worst.
"That's unsettling. Stay sharp. They won the battle, yet there's no drunken victory cheers. That means either they know something we don't, or they're planning their next move." His voice was cold and sharp, like a blade of ice.
The soldiers nodded. The tension was suffocating. They pressed forward, each step merging into the night itself. As they neared the enemy camp, now only a few dozen meters away, the pressure reached its peak.
And then, the stillness was shattered.
A sudden eruption of shouting tore through the enemy lines. Signal flares rocketed into the sky, streaking upward like jagged bolts of lightning.
"Commander, enemy forces have breached the hundred-meter mark!" a soldier whispered urgently, his night vision scope locked onto the movement.
"Understood. Is the flare ready?" the commander asked calmly, despite the tension gripping his voice. He took his position behind the mounted machine gun, adjusting his aim as if he had predicted this very moment.
"Yes, sir!" came the response.
"Signal the team. It's time. Light 'em up."
The squad moved like clockwork, synchronized in perfect unison. Within moments, the sky erupted in artificial daylight. Illuminating rounds burst into life, hanging in the air like newborn stars, casting an unrelenting glare across the battlefield. The darkness was gone. Everything was exposed. The enemy could see them now—just as they could see the enemy.
"OPEN FIRE!" the commander roared, and in an instant, the night exploded with gunfire. Machine guns and rifles unleashed a relentless storm of bullets, their deafening roar cutting through the stillness like a thousand howling wolves.
"Shit! We're wide open!" Calcio shouted just as a bullet punched into his chest.
The impact knocked him backward, pain searing through his ribs like a hot iron. He gasped, struggling to process the agony. The air felt thin, distant.
His body screamed in protest. He couldn't move. Adrenaline, fear, and fury raged inside him, but there was no time to think. His survival instincts kicked in, forcing him to push himself up despite the broken ribs, despite the unbearable pain.
But just as he took a step back, another round tore through his back.
The force stole the breath from his lungs, a gurgled cry escaping as his mouth filled with blood. His limbs turned to lead, his body collapsing, cold and heavy as death itself.
Darkness swallowed him. The pain was unbearable, yet fleeting. His last thoughts were lost to the void.
The night raid on the positions of the Russian Armed Forces had ended in utter disaster.