https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-420-The-Battle-for-Holy-City-Part-2-/13676832/
Chapter 421: King's Astonishment (4k)
Facing the dense artillery barrage from the Thrace army—its overwhelming force built on sheer numbers of cannons—Cassander’s kingdom was utterly unprepared. The losses were severe.
After all, every mage was invaluable. Unlike shells, spells couldn’t be squandered like ammunition. Each incantation required intricate weaving of magical threads and drained the mage’s very spirit.
Boom!
Boom! Boom!
The thunderous roar of artillery continued without pause. The Thrace battlefield was shrouded in smoke, the once-proud city walls now riddled with bullet holes. Shells rained down on the ranks, crushing unsuspecting Cassander soldiers into pulp—meat paste scattered across the earth. Even Titan Divine Offspring suffered grievous wounds.
“Get down! Scatter! Don’t stay in clusters!”
“Why are there so many iron balls?!”
“Where do they even get so many spellcasters?!”
“No—those aren’t spellcasters!”
Cassander’s soldiers were stunned, enraged, utterly helpless. Even the noble commanders were flustered. The Titan Divine Offspring tried to charge forward, their massive frames aiming to smash the cannons—but the sky was no safer. Angel Divine Offspring swooped down, wings flaring, unleashing explosive bursts of energy that exploded across the charging path. Shells rained from above. The Cassander Divine Descendant Army couldn’t advance even a single step into Thrace territory. Dozens fell.
And every fallen Divine Offspring was a devastating blow. These beings weren’t just warriors—they were living miracles born from the Sun God Sacrifice Ceremony, the crown jewels of the kingdom, the very backbone of its power.
“Damn it.”
Swish—
Ile slashed through the air with a single motion, cleaving dozens of incoming shells mid-flight into fragments. But the fiery shrapnel exploded outward like a storm of molten needles, sending his nearby soldiers screaming in agony.
“Tel Root! Stop them!”
“Now’s your turn!”
Ile roared, his voice a sonic wave that tore across the battlefield, echoing into the towering white city walls.
On the high battlements, within a white-walled fortress tower, a man in a deep crimson long robe stood motionless, eyes closed. A complex, intricately carved ethereal golden staff hovered in midair, rotating slowly, pulsing with shimmering light.
“Already so fast…”
“Must I step in so soon…”
The wave of sound reached him. Slowly, he opened his eyes—deep, ocean-blue irises, their pupils swirling with intricate rune arrays that spun like celestial gears.
He was Stelgen Megen—though appearing middle-aged, he was over seventy. Master of the Cassander Arcane Legion, a Legendary Spellcaster long past mere legend.
Yet now, his gaze flickered with genuine surprise.
Because this was too fast.
In this prolonged war, both sides had kept their Legendary Spellcasters hidden, rarely revealing themselves—like silent watchers in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment. They only emerged at decisive turning points, capable of altering the entire course of battle in an instant.
Why hadn’t they acted sooner?
Because spellcasting required preparation. For high-tier mages, the advantage often lay not in striking first—but in waiting. To observe, to anticipate, to counter with minimal cost and maximum effect.
But battlefields shifted in the blink of an eye. If an opportunity arose to inflict irreversible damage, seizing the initiative was no longer foolish—it was necessary.
Stelgen’s eyes glowed with quiet intensity.
As he moved, a phantom bird of pure elemental energy unfurled its invisible wings and soared into the sky. From the bird’s vantage, the battlefield unfolded before it—each shell’s arc traced across the air, a deadly spiral.
“Spell?”
“No… more like mechanical artifacts.”
“But no magical residue. Just raw natural magic reaction? Interesting.”
Yet when he looked farther, past the smoke and fire—when he saw the sea of black cannons, thousands of them gleaming under the sun, stretching across the horizon—his expression darkened.
“How many…?”
“This isn’t something Thrace could produce in weeks. They must have found an Ancient Ruin.”
Swish—
A force field sphere shot upward from Thrace’s formation, tearing through the ethereal bird like paper.
Not unexpected. Thrace’s spellcasters had finally moved.
Stelgen gripped his floating golden staff, his face hardening with focus.
“Now I understand why Ile was so desperate.”
“But to think they’d rely on such crude machinery to defeat Cassander… this is nothing short of a foolish fantasy.”
His eyes flashed.
With a ripple in space, he vanished from the tower—reappearing instantly above the city wall, high in the open sky.
Holding aloft his Ethereal Gold Staff, its hollow, intricate carvings blazing with light, he began weaving magic. The air trembled. A complex spellcraft model formed in the heavens—a vast, shimmering barrier of pure force, rising like a wall of light, swallowing half the sky.
It sealed off everything—shells, fire, energy blasts—deflecting them all.
Then, the space around the shells warped. Invisible hands seized them, bending their trajectories. Some even reversed course—ripping back into Thrace’s own lines.
“Stop! They’re coming back!”
“Cease the barrage! The enemy’s spellcaster has struck!”
Chaos erupted in the Thrace camp. Their assault halted mid-swing. Only the Angel Divine Offspring continued their relentless assault from above, trying to break the shield from the air.
This was the true might of a Legendary Mage—a single act that turned the tide. The spell was a fusion of Greater Force Wall and Force Field Deflection, a masterpiece of magical engineering.
Though not a Nine-Ring Spell, its scale and complexity taxed the mind as brutally as any ultimate incantation.
No physical force—no matter how deadly—could breach it. Not even a shell.
“Long live Cassander Kingdom!”
“Stelgen Megen, the master!”
“Only the Arcane Legion’s elite can stand against such power!”
From the towering white walls of Teotihuacan, cheers erupted. Soldiers, once terrified, now felt safe beneath the unbreakable shield. Hope surged through their veins.
But the man standing atop the wall, the very embodiment of that shield, showed no joy. His grip on the staff tightened. His expression was grim, almost haunted.
“Jagoss Hester,” he murmured.
The name of the Legendary Spellcaster of Thrace—his old comrade from their days at the Holy Faedran Academy. Once bound by friendship, once sworn to the same cause, now enemies on the battlefield, forced to fight each other under the blood-stained banner of war.
Stelgen knew. He knew Jagoss would strike.
Whooosh—
A spine-chilling scream tore through the air. From the horizon, glowing green meteors plummeted toward the force field wall.
“Meteor Burst?”
“No… that’s a Dissolution Spell!”
The force field was strong—capable of resisting most attacks, even reaching into the Astral Plane. But Dissolution Spells could unravel it.
This was the true battle of minds. Only those who understood the strengths, weaknesses, and interactions of their own and their enemy’s spells could truly win.
The “falling stars” slammed into the barrier. At the moment of contact, the invisible wall cracked—splitting into fissures, then crumbling apart.
Then, like fire from the heavens, a new wave of crimson meteors fell—real Meteor Bursts, not illusions.
Stelgen had no time to rebuild. Casting Time Stop was too costly. To him, meteor showers weren’t fatal—there were countless ways to dodge.
But to mortal soldiers? They were annihilation.
Boom!
The meteors detonated on impact—on the ground, on the city walls—unleashing explosions of fire that swallowed everything in a wave of flame. Thousands of Cassander soldiers died in an instant, their lives extinguished in a blaze of light.
Mortal lives, in this war, were as worthless as grass.
“Fire! Everywhere—fire!”
“It burns! Oh god, it burns!”
“Don’t come near me!”
“Help! I’m on fire!”
Flames danced across the walls. The soldiers who had just begun to rally were reduced to screaming husks, consumed by magic’s fury.
“Jagoss, stop!”
“Cease fighting for rebels!”
Stelgen clenched his teeth. He raised his staff once more. The tip of the Ethereal Gold Staff warped space.
[Siphon Magic]
The intense heat from the meteor blasts was drawn into the air—sucked into the twisted space around him, stored like energy in a reservoir.
He stepped forward.
And unleashed it.
A massive beam of light erupted from the staff, slicing through the sky, lancing toward the enemy lines.
[Solar Flame Burst]
Boom!
The ground cracked open, blackened by fire. A column of flame erupted, swallowing hundreds of mortals whole, turning them to ash in seconds.
“Arcane Legion! Support Master Stelgen!”
Simultaneously, both sides unleashed their arcane might. Spines of light flared. Blazing heat. Crackling lightning. Hailstones frozen in midair. Elemental forces clashed across the battlefield in a storm of destruction.
“For Thrace Kingdom!”
“For Cassander!”
“Kill the rebels! Reclaim the Holy City! Restore the Glory of Faedran!”
“Guard the Holy City! Rebuild Faedran!”
“We are the true heirs! Only Otis, our king, can restore the past glory!”
“Honor the Sun God Amanatara! Punish the Cassander rebels!”
Titan Divine Offspring and Angel Divine Offspring fought on land and sky, their battle cries echoing through the wilderness—blood and fire, endless slaughter.
Thrace’s mortal troops kept reloading, their cannons booming again and again, reducing tower after tower to rubble—unfazed by the Sun Sacred Emblems painted on the walls, sacred to their faith.
Spellcasters and Divine Descendants fought without mercy, carving their names into a battlefield already soaked in blood for countless wars. Mortal lives here were nothing—disposable, fleeting.
This was the Faedran Military System. Built on divine favor, it created a brutal divide between elite and common—where only the Divine Offspring and spellcasters mattered. Mortals were merely tools.
Now, with Thrace’s cannons in play, Cassander’s soldiers were even more expendable. They faced not only spells and divine combat—but the rain of iron from above.
In this war, tens of thousands died in a single battle. Sometimes more. With Divine Offspring, Legendary Mages, and cannons all on the field, it was a true meat grinder.
The battle raged for two days and two nights.
The earth was torn apart. The city walls of the Holy City were embedded with shells. The wasteland was carved down several feet. The soil itself had turned red with blood.
At last, after a staggering cost—thousands of corpses left before the walls—Cassander’s superior strength held. They still stood. They still guarded the “City of Solar Radiance”, Teotihuacan.
But there was no victory.
Both kingdoms paid dearly—tens of thousands dead, dozens of noble Divine Offspring lost.
In the heart of Teotihuacan—Sunlight Imperial Palace.
The ruins of once-great halls and broken statues stood silent. Yet even in decay, the carvings and walls whispered of a past grandeur, of ultimate luxury.
This was where Sun Emperor Aragon I once lived. Through countless expansions, he built a palace complex so magnificent, even celestial beings had marveled.
But war had come. Fire had consumed it. The palace changed hands many times, reduced to rubble.
Yet the Hadrian Palace, the main hall, had been rebuilt—restored with gold and glory, bearing a faint echo of its former splendor.
And here, within its heart, sat the King of Cassander, the self-proclaimed heir of Faedran—Otis Aragon.
Deep in the palace, upon a vast, golden throne carved with celestial motifs, sat a man clad in ornate, heavy armor, holding a Golden Scepter—the symbol of supreme authority.
He stood nearly two meters tall, even seated. His face and form were sculpted like a god’s—perfect, flawless, skin like marble. Behind him, a halo of solar aura pulsed. His eyes bore the image of the sun within their pupils—the mark of Divine Blood flowing from the Supreme Heaven.
This was Otis Aragon.
Son of Aragon I. Over 110 years old. Repeatedly blessed by the Sun God Amanatara, granted power rivaling the heavens. He was known as “The Man Most Like the Sun Emperor.”
Now, he sat upon the throne of his father, the Golden Scepter in hand, listening as his subjects reported from below.
“…That’s all, Your Majesty.”
Stelgen raised his staff. A magical image bloomed in the air—showing the hollow metal tubes that fired iron balls, the short rods that shot bullets.
“These profane artifacts can wound even the noble Divine Offspring. They’re causing serious trouble.”
“Sacred Faedran’s military has no such relics. So I suspect they were salvaged from an Ancient Ruin.”
“Hmm…”
Suddenly, Navin Bessalious, standing among the courtiers, gasped.
Otis turned.
“Navin. What is it?”
Navin stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“Your Majesty, I’ve seen these before—in the Empire of Ashen, in the Great Wasteland! These are almost certainly their primary military arsenal!”
Otis leaned forward slightly. His golden eyes narrowed. A flicker—barely visible—passed through them.
“You mean… the Empire of Ashen?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Though the design and structure differ slightly, these weapons are clearly derived from the same origin.”
Navin spoke with absolute certainty.
(End of Chapter)
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