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Chapter 304: The Magul Incident (Part 2)
On the wagon, Misha Fear trembled from head to toe, her body shaking uncontrollably. Yet, summoning every ounce of courage, she quietly lifted the edge of the curtain, desperate to glimpse what lay beyond.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate—smoke-soaked spines of charred earth stretched across the land, and soldiers from both sides tore into one another in brutal, hand-to-hand combat. Lives flickered out like dying embers, worthless as dry grass.
Then came the moment that shattered her soul.
Old John stood frozen, trembling, a spear trembling in his hands. He had never known such slaughter. Behind him, a tide of blood-frenzied soldiers roared forward, eyes wild with rage.
"Old John—" Misha gasped, leaning forward instinctively, wanting to warn him—too late.
"Spines!" A long spear, crimson with blood, pierced through his chest. Dark red blood welled from his wound, seeping down his front.
In his final breath, Old John did not look at the man who ended him. Instead, slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward the wagon where Misha hid. With the last of his strength, he pressed a finger to his lips—silent, urgent, a command to stay hidden.
"No..." Misha choked, tears blurring her vision. She screamed silently, her voice trapped in her throat.
But she snapped back to reality—this was no time for weakness. She clamped her hand over her mouth, curling into a ball on the wagon floor, shivering as silent sobs wracked her body.
Yet Old John’s death was but a single spark in the inferno of war—so insignificant, even to the armies themselves, that it barely registered.
The battlefield’s tide had turned. Surrounded by thousands of Ironclad Cavalry, the number of standing Giant Ogre soldiers dwindled to almost none. Without a cohesive formation, their resistance was crumbling under wave after wave of merciless charges.
Even with superior gear and training, the Kingdom’s guard could not hold. Hart’s guards were all dead. Now, he stood alone, surrounded by nearly a hundred soldiers, his body drenched in blood, roaring like a beast cornered by hunters.
"Die! All of you—die!"
"You filthy, lowborn humans!"
"I am a noble of Dragon-Blooded blood! Baron of the Ashen Kingdom!"
Hart’s eyes burned red, his scales twitching across his face, white smoke curling from his body like steam from a furnace.
"Damn you, Dragon’s Claws! Attack! Avenge our fallen!" The Knight Commander roared.
From behind him, several soldiers probed forward with long spears—only to meet unyielding resistance. The blades struck his hardened scales like iron against stone.
"Hahahaha! Useless!"
"This is the strength bestowed by my King!"
He laughed maniacally, slashing open a soldier’s chest with his claws, then tearing off another’s arm with his teeth. He moved like a machine of death, a relentless slaughterer of men.
A thunderous Dragon Roar tore from his throat, shaking the very air. His body convulsed violently. Flames spat from his jaws, roaring into the sky, igniting the ground around him. Even the bravest soldiers recoiled in terror, afraid of being swallowed by the inferno.
Hart had killed over a hundred elite soldiers. The Giant Ogre warriors were all gone. Only he remained—fought on, alone, enduring.
"Kill him! Now! Avenge our brothers!" The Knight Commander bellowed, eyes blazing.
Then, from the rear, several mages in long robes raised their staves. A cold wind, unnatural and biting, swept across the field. Hart’s movements slowed. Frost crept across his face, crystallizing his skin.
In that moment, a dozen soldiers charged forward. Their spears drove into his still-warm heart in unison.
Thus ended Hart, Baron of the Ashen Kingdom and leader of the Free Trade Caravan. His death marked the final end of the battle—the complete annihilation of this mighty caravan.
At the crest of the hill, Duke Leo stood atop a towering black warhorse, his imposing frame silhouetted against the smoke-choked sky. Below him, the battlefield lay in ruins—broken, scorched, littered with corpses.
Yet his eyes betrayed no triumph. No joy.
"Lord Duke," came the urgent voice of the Knight Commander, riding in from the front lines. "All enemies are dead. Total casualties: two hundred seventy-five."
Duke Leo’s brow furrowed. "And our losses?"
The commander hesitated, then spoke. "One thousand two hundred thirty-four dead or wounded."
Duke Leo’s expression darkened. "This was merely a caravan guard—hardly even a proper army of the Ashen Kingdom. Caught off guard, surrounded—yet they inflicted such a casualty ratio. Truly... a terrifying force."
Beside him, Trelshka added, "And they’re still growing stronger. This is the best chance we’ll ever have. If we let them grow for another ten years… the consequences would be unthinkable."
Duke Leo remained calm. "It’s too late to retreat. The full-scale war between the Northern Regions and the Kingdom of Ashen is inevitable. Good and evil must be decided. And we—will be the ultimate victors."
Trelshka gazed into the sky, his eyes clouded with doubt, with uncertainty about the future. But he nodded. "Yes, Lord Duke. You will succeed."
The caravan wagons still burned fiercely. In his final order, Hart had set them ablaze—no goods would fall into enemy hands. But Bosk’s mages were already rushing to suppress the flames.
Yet no one saw—among the piles of corpses, in the thick smoke and chaos—how a small, frail girl moved slowly, silently, slipping away from the hellish battlefield.
"Old John," she whispered, hiding in the shadow of a rock. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, clenched her jaw, her eyes blazing with hatred.
In her hand, she gripped the old leather whip—retrieved at great risk from Old John’s corpse. It was all that remained of him. Everything else had been reduced to ash by Bosk’s soldiers.
"I will avenge you," she vowed.
Days later, news of Bosk Duchy’s attack on the "Free Trade Caravan" spread across the Northern Regions, sending shockwaves through every village and town. Fear gripped the people.
But soon, events spiraled beyond expectation.
The Bosk Duchy officially declared the battle the Battle of Magul, launching a massive propaganda campaign—framing it as the Beginning of Evil’s Demise.
Then, in alliance with the Duchies of Carter and Phano, Bosk issued the Stratfordburg Armor Classcord, declaring the formation of the Anti-Red Dragon Alliance across the entire Anzeta Great Wasteland. A formal declaration of war was sent to the Kingdom of Ashen.
The entire region erupted in turmoil. The atmosphere grew thick with tension.
Everyone knew—
The sky over the Anzeta Great Wasteland was about to change.
(End of Chapter)
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