Chapter 265 – Victory

Chapter 265 – Victory

The men attacking the city of Lothlia could no longer feel the freezing coldness of the long, strange winter. The amount of warm blood that had been spilled, the adrenaline coursing through their veins, and the ongoing battle made everyone forget it was winter, thrusting them into the furnace of war and carnage. Otto's forces had pushed into Lothlia after their leader's spell brought down much of its walls... Yet, they did it just barely. The city had been smashed open at multiple points, and through sheer force, the mercenaries and conscripts had flooded in. But now, it all felt meaningless.

The thunderous crack of lightning that had been their rallying cry, the sheer terror Otto had commanded from his position aboard the Lawbringer, making them think of imminent victory, had suddenly ceased. The magical fury that had earlier dominated the skies now remained dormant, sometimes rumbling above them, but it was, no matter who looked at it, in the process of calming down. No more bolts of death came down to aid them. No more deafening screams from the sky, only from their comrades and the moans of the dying, those unfortunate bastards who did not perish instantly. The only thrumming was the relentless thump of boots against the ground as the defenders of Lothlia began pushing back out of the city, one step at a time.

The mercenaries soon began forgetting about the greed of promised riches and losing the arrogance of seasoned killers. Their loot was right before their eyes, but it remained out of reach. They found themselves isolated, broken into smaller and smaller pockets, exterminated without mercy.

"Hold the line!" barked one of the captains of the same group that, only days before, sat and laughed at the fumbling conscripts, joking about roasting them. His face was blackened with soot, his sword held aloft as he hacked at the oncoming Lothlian soldiers. His brothers—what few remained—were barely holding the narrow street against a tide of reorganized defenders led by three of those bastardly armored brutes. It didn't matter how skilled the mercenaries were or how sharp their blades were. He saw his old comrade, accompanying him for decades, surviving hell and worse, hack at one of those beasts just so his sword splintered and his head was caved in by a hammer the size of a pig. But... they were the pigs now, brought to slaughter.

He glanced over his shoulder at the disarray behind him, cursing and grimacing. What had once been a force strong enough to break through the walls of a fortified city was now a shambling, chaotic mess. They survived the magical fire, bombarding the invading troops, reaching one of the breaches, and feeling they were finally free to loot, rape and hoard the riches of the city. Yet, they simply hit a second wall made of flesh and black armor. Then, he felt spears pointed at his back when he wanted to retreat and regroup...? What was happening?!

"Useless fuckers!" He yelled when he saw the conscripts, those weak and measly scum scattering, some running for their lives, others turning on their mercenary commanders with their weapons.

"Captain, they're switching sides!" one of his men hollered, pointing with his bloodied sword after killing a Lothlian militia man.

No matter where they looked, they could see a group of conscripts throwing down their weapons and falling to their knees, raising their hands in surrender. It was indeed as those loud shouts said, ringing everywhere within the city. Nobody could tell where the voices were coming from, but those who gave up were indeed not put to the sword. Instead of being cut down, the Lothlian soldiers hesitated, then accepted the surrender, binding the prisoners and shoving them into the alleyways to deal with them later. A ripple of confusion ran through the ranks of the invaders... Surrendering meant living? Seeing their question answered by the action of the defending force, even many mercenaries began throwing in the towel.

"What the hell is this?" the captain growled, stabbing a retreating conscript through the back. He yanked his sword free, but it felt like cutting through water. The satisfaction that used to come from killing had drained out of him by then.

A loud crash echoed across the street, and the captain turned to see a blacksmith wielding a blood-soaked hammer barreling through the mercenaries in his way. The brute of a man kept swinging his chipped and cracked hammer, going left and right in his arms with reckless abandon, shattering bones, and cracking skulls. His men fell before him, their bodies crumpling like paper beneath the force of his blows.

"We're getting butchered out here!" shouted one of the mercenaries as he blocked a blow with his shield, only to be knocked back by the sheer force of the blacksmith's assault. "There's no way through! We need to fall back!"

The captain wanted to scream, to demand they hold, but the truth was in front of him. Their line was breaking; no matter how many commands he shouted, he wasn't a mage to change the course of a battle by words alone. Men were fleeing, and those who stayed were only doing so out of desperation, not conviction.

Behind him, another roar erupted from the crowd, but it wasn't one of rage or victory this time. It was fear.

"The conscripts are betraying us!" another of his soldiers bellowed as more and more in their backlines turned against them. The captain, feeling his head spinning as he continuously turned back and forth between the front and backlines, could feel his heart sinking as he watched it all unfold. Conscripts, spurred on by the promise of mercy, were no longer fighting the Lothlians—they were turning their weapons on their own.

A group of them, wielding spears and simple swords, rushed toward a band of mercenaries caught between the walls of a crumbling building. The mercenaries, already exhausted and bleeding, didn't even have time to react as they were overwhelmed, stabbed in the back by the very men who had fought beside them just hours earlier.

"Take a force with you, break out! Head to the downed ship!"

"It will be done. Capture or kill?" He asked back while moving forward, collecting his brothers to cut through the fleeing enemy.

"Capture the ship, kill the mages."

"I'm coming along!" another voice interfered, belonging to Yuri. Her Princess was already further away, one arm missing, the other wielding a bent spear, yet marching through the open field, killing the fleeing enemy.

"Are you sure?" Pion asked, a bit uncertain as she had taken multiple lightning strikes already, and her machine was in dire need of repair.

"I am." She replied, her breathing uneven, but her voice was still filled with energy. "That ship is a trophy that my hubby would gush over!"

...

....

......

When Otto came to his senses, his disciples were already nothing but smoking corpses as their bodies detonated, leaving holes atop the Lawbringer's deck. He wasn't faring better either, lying there on his back, coughing up blood every time he tried drawing breath. He was dying... and he knew it. He wanted to make the last sacrifice, make sure the ship wouldn't fall into enemy hands and blow it all up, but to his horror, most of his magic was gone. He was not only blown away, but he couldn't access it. Whatever happened when Merlin took the formation away, it caused his own body to be thrown into disarray.

He could do nothing, only watch the spinning sky turn fainter and fainter as his vision failed. He could not breathe, everything was burning in his body, everything hurt... He was thrust into flames and pain, the kind only the soul could experience, yet he couldn't scream, only gurgle. Finally, after thinking it would go on forever, the Lawbringer landed. Hitting the ground, his body was thrown up into the air, off the bow of the ship, right into the cloud of snow, dirt, and debris that its crash blasted away. Otto's body disappeared into the carnage just so it could be mangled into a meat paste as he rolled under the crashing ship, ensuring his demise.

It was finally over, and he welcomed the sweet release of death... Unlike Pascal.

The 'Eternal Emperor' was within Ishillia, drawing up plans for the spring as this winter threw everything into disarray. At least he could keep Cerna under pressure, knowing Otto could use it to break into the Frontier and end this laughable rebellion before the snow melted. He was in the midst of reading through the reports of the army he was constructing, already numbering 100,000 souls, when everything went dark.

When he came to be, he was lying on the floor of his library in a pool of blood, still flowing from his mouth. It took him great effort to sit up, cough, and look at the crimson liquid seeping through his fingers.

"Impossible..."

Yet it wasn't. He knew that he just lost someone who wasn't supposed to die. That is why he gave him a ship! He would have ample defenses to escape and regroup even if he lost the army. He... He couldn't have died.... But Pascal couldn't deny it. Not with the backlash he felt searing his body with pain even right then and there. He lost one of his puppets, one of his extra lives. He lost a sacrifice that should have been there to give him decades or even centuries of life when every other option ran dry.

"MIRIAAAAAAAN!"

No matter how hard he shouted, it was just so his throat would be cleared of blood, coughing it up all over himself.