Chapter 373: The Last Hero
Baron Jacob did not sit idly by. With the dexterity of a Warrior and his powerful peripheral vision, he weaved through the barrage of artillery fire, dodging shell after shell. But he knew—this was not the end.
Baron Jacob lifted his gaze toward the horizon, eyes narrowing as if piercing through the thick gunsmoke. Months of brutal trench warfare, paid for in the blood of tens of thousands, had given him a grim understanding of the Ashen Army’s "Three Strikes" tactic: first, the cannons rained fire; then, the Two-Headed Dragons swept the skies; finally, infantry and cavalry closed in on the ground.
“Roar—!”
A long, guttural dragon cry echoed across the sky.
Dark, chaotic silhouettes emerged on the distant edge of the clouds—like a storm gathering, rolling toward Fayor City with relentless force.
“Two-Headed Dragons! Watch the sky!” Baron Jacob roared.
But before the soldiers could scramble from their fortifications, Wyverns dove straight into the city walls.
Shadows flared wildly. Intense heat from fire seared the stone ramparts. Soldiers caught in the blaze writhed in agony, screaming as they burned to ash—then fell, charred corpses littering the battlements.
Yet this was only the first wave. After passing over the city, the dragons ascended again with practiced precision, executing tight maneuvers to prepare for another attack.
“Break formation! Scatter!” Baron Jacob bellowed.
These remaining three thousand soldiers were his last hope—his most loyal, the heart of the Northern Union Kingdom. He had endured countless such assaults, each one leaving his ranks decimated. But despite it all, he remained helpless.
No matter how skilled he was, no matter how far he had risen in rank, Jacob Rosa was still bound by the limits of his time, his upbringing, and the era he was born into. Even among the elite commanders of the Northern Regions, he was a master—yet faced with this era-spanning, combined land-and-air assault, he had no answer. He could only devise methods to minimize losses: fortify defenses, disperse troops. But there was no strategy to counterattack.
And just these few rounds of artillery barrages and dragon sweeps had already cost him five hundred more lives.
Fury burned in Baron Jacob’s chest, unspent and unyielding. He raised a hand.
“Give me a powerful bow.”
A soldier immediately handed him a massive black giant bow, over two meters long. Jacob nocked an arrow with practiced ease. His muscles bulged, veins standing out like ropes beneath his skin. With sheer, iron-willed strength—something even a beast could not easily pull—he drew the bowstring taut.
“Monsters of the Kingdom of Ashen!”
“For my soldiers—your graves!”
A piercing, spine-chilling shriek split the air.
Zwoosh—
The arrow, razor-sharp and barbed, pierced through a Two-Headed Dragon mid-flight—impaling not only the beast, but the knight riding it. The dragon thrashed weakly, wings flailing, then plummeted into the wilderness below. Its fall disrupted the formation behind it, sending several more dragons into chaotic tumbling midair.
Baron Jacob roared, “Monsters! You will never defeat Scandia!”
“Bring them down!”
“Lord Baron!”
But the Wyverns were too many. Though the soldiers fired back with arrows, not everyone could match Jacob’s strength. Only a few dragons fell. Most arrows lost their power halfway through the sky, crumbling into useless fragments. Meanwhile, the dragons’ fire rained down like death itself—burning the archers before they could even aim.
This was a battle of unequal odds.
Another wave of diving attacks. The city walls now blazed with fire. Corpses lay strewn across the ramparts like fallen leaves.
Dolo, watching from afar, glanced at his wristwatch. His expression remained cold.
“Inform the close-combat units. Begin preparations for the assault.”
“Yes, Marshal.”
The Great Goblin commander snapped a crisp salute.
Snowflakes drifted down, landing softly on the blood-soaked battlements, adding to the grim, silent atmosphere.
The walls were silent. Lifeless.
Baron Jacob stared at the advancing mass of the Kingdom of Ashen’s army—like a wall of steel marching forward. His gaze hardened, his resolve sharpening.
“Even if I die… I will die on a battlefield worthy of honor!”
“Mount up!”
“Everyone—follow me beyond the city walls!”
Boom.
The city gate groaned open, slowly creaking wide.
Jacob Rosa raised his tattered banner high, riding a white stallion at the forefront. Behind him, five hundred knights charged forward in grim formation. He sought not survival—but glory. He wanted to die in a noble charge, to become part of the lamented epic of the Northern Regions, a legend carved in valor and loyalty, forever linked to the name Jacob Rosa.
Clatter… clatter… clatter…
The sound of hooves echoed across the battlefield.
Against the overwhelming tide of the enemy army, this force of less than five hundred cavalry seemed like a single drop falling into the ocean—fragile, insignificant.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rifle fire erupted in waves. Knights fell one after another, their bodies collapsing like cut wheat. Only Jacob remained—his body shielded by rare battle armor, charging forward as if nothing could stop him.
Soon, he stood alone—unyielding, defiant, in the midst of the battlefield.
“That’s the enemy commander!”
“Kill him—he’ll make us nobles!”
The soldiers of the Kingdom of Ashen screamed in ecstasy, charging forward with knives and rifles.
“Damn it, that boss has Purple Equipment!”
“Let’s go! Take him down!”
“Don’t you dare Seize that gear!”
Players screamed with frenzied excitement, hurling spells, hidden blades, even trash—anything they could grab—toward the lone figure.
Baron Jacob laughed, a cold, savage grin splitting his face.
“You cannot defeat me!”
“You will never break a true Scandian!”
“Perhaps I die today. But my spirit will linger here—forever. I will become… your greatest nightmare.”
“Come on… come—”
His voice cut off.
His eyes dulled. A red glow flickered in their depths. In front of all, Baron Jacob—once the last hero of the Northern Regions—slid from his horse. Then, he raised his hands. He even began removing his armor—without resistance.
He surrendered?
“Don’t care about anything—Seize the gear!”
Players surged forward, clawing at each other, desperate not to lose the prize.
Bang!
A sharp gunshot rang out.
A hole appeared in Jacob’s forehead.
His face twisted in agony. Everyone turned—only to see a thin, pale human, holding a smoking steel rifle. His hands trembled. A symbol of Peasant Laborer marked his neck.
Then—more gunfire. More spells. A storm of destruction descended upon the fallen baron.
His once-strong body was torn apart, riddled with wounds. Slowly, he collapsed backward, lifeless.
And the players—like wild dogs over a feast—swarmed the corpse, scrambling to claim the rare relic.
“Damn it, let a Non-Player Character Seize the loot?!”
“Again, that Home guy?”
“Unbelievable luck.”
“Wait—grab the gear before it’s gone!”
The last hero of the Northern Regions was dead.
A ripple in space unfolded. An Ogre Magus stepped forward, staff in hand, expressionless. He appeared beside the Military Record Keeper.
“Lord Lanpu?!”
“W-What is it, my lord?!”
The Record Keeper stammered, his pen nearly slipping from his trembling fingers.
“Record my words.”
“Year 1786 of the Third Era. The remnants of the Northern Union Kingdom, under the command of Jacob Rosa, surrendered. But during the surrender, he was beaten to death by enraged Peasant Laborers.”
“Yes, my lord!”
“I will write every word exactly as you say. Every sentence—absolute truth.”
Jacob Rosa had made one fatal mistake.
History is always written by the victors.
Not by the fallen.
(End of Chapter)
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