https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-614-The-Last-Aethel-Winged-Cavalry/13677444/
Chapter 613: Thunderbolt Offensive
Tewar Riverside, lush with green grass and bathed in warm sunlight, was a renowned pasture in the Northern Aether region—one of the few places where the purest, most majestic Aethel Warhorses could be raised.
A thousand-strong cavalry unit, clad in finely crafted gear and impeccably trained, was bivouacked here. The rhythmic neighs of warhorses mingled with the howling wind, creating a chaotic din.
Every cavalryman wore dazzling armor—golden and bright silver interwoven with deep red textiles—riding towering, powerful steeds, each wielding a lance measuring five to six meters in length, their banners fluttering proudly at the tips. But what truly drew the eye was the massive pair of metallic wings strapped to their backs, made of layered metal frames and feathered plumes.
—They were the Aethel Winged Cavalry, the elite vanguard of Walter’s subordinates.
Formed centuries ago, this legendary unit had earned glory by utterly annihilating the Ogres Clan and Giant Tribe of the Northern Aether Plain, bringing decades of peace to the region. Though they might seem unimpressive against the Divine Descendant Army of Fadalan, they were more than capable of raiding any kingdom across the Northern Regions.
Their iconic wings were a direct homage to the ancient military traditions of Sacred Fedran’s golden age—symbols of divine aspiration, meant to mirror the celestial offspring of angels. The cavalry believed that by bearing such wings, they could inherit the courage and strength of divine beings.
But these wings were far more than ornamentation. Designed by Fadalan mages of old, they enhanced speed and amplified the impact of their charges. In recent years, they had even been equipped with firearms, allowing them to dominate in chaotic, disorganized combat through long-range fire.
The full set of Winged Cavalry armor alone weighed over a hundred kilograms. To wear such heavy gear and move with lightning speed and precision demanded nothing less than a professional warrior. The idea of hundreds of such elite soldiers was unimaginable for any duchy in Anzeta’s past—yet the Aethel Winged Cavalry was precisely that: a fearsome army of over a thousand professionals.
It was said that when they launched a mass charge, the earth trembled, rivers overflowed, and the shriek of their wings could make even dragons shudder. Even the most valiant warrior would feel his legs grow weak in the face of their oncoming charge—doomed to meet death without mercy.
Leonie Garcia Baron, the current commander of the Winged Cavalry, stood atop his steed, his expression grave as he gazed northward.
The general looked to be in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing armor even heavier and more ornate than that of his men—radiating dignity, power, and regal presence.
It was said that Leonie had once been on the verge of becoming a Divine Offspring. But after the collapse of Sacred Fedran, that dream had been lost—leaving behind a wound that would never heal.
As a former general of Sacred Fedran’s cavalry, Leonie’s strength was undeniable. Even his warhorse was no ordinary mount—rumored to carry dragon blood, it was massive, immensely powerful, and covered in gray-white, hardened scales.
In their military formation, long lances stood like a forest of steel, and war banners bearing the crest of Sun and Wing fluttered fiercely in the wind.
Leonie rode slowly along the front lines, his sharp eyes scanning his troops. Then, he drew his horse sword and raised it high.
The silver blade gleamed under the sunlight, its intricate engravings pulsing with a soft glow. The hilt bore silver wing plumes—this was the very sword passed down from the first commander of the Aethel Winged Cavalry, forged entirely from mithril, exorbitantly expensive, and a symbol of unwavering will to victory.
Now, Leonie used it to stir the spirits of his men, to awaken the memory of their past glory and the unyielding will of Fadalan.
“Warriors!” he declared, his voice cutting through the wind. “You all know—war is coming! From the north, an evil dragon and its familiar grow restless, unsatisfied with their barren lands. They hunger for the wealth and beauty of Aethel, seeking to destroy our homeland!”
“Can we sit idly by and watch this happen?”
“No—”
The lances trembled, banners clashed in the wind, and a thunderous roar erupted from the ranks. Even the warhorses joined in, stamping their hooves in rhythmic unison.
Thud, thud, thud.
The ground trembled slightly, producing a muffled resonance—like a drumbeat. The cavalry had turned their hooves into drumsticks and the earth into a drum, beating out a war chant of defiance.
“No! We will not allow such a tragedy!”
Leonie slashed the air with a dazzling flourish of his sword, then pointed it straight at the sky. The blade caught the sunlight, as if alight with divine fire.
“Warriors! Look! The sacred sun still reigns in the heavens—eternal, unyielding. We remain the chosen people of King Amannata. We are Fadalan—noble, proud, unbroken! For centuries, only Fadalan has conquered others. Never have we been the victims. And any who dare defy our power will face annihilation!”
“Remember—so long as the sun continues its course, as decreed by the Deity, Fadalan shall endure!”
“For Fadalan!”
The formation erupted in a roar so fierce it drowned out even the thunder of hooves. Their spirit soared higher than ever, their pride rekindled. Some even began to sing an ancient lament—so powerful was their legend that even demons from the depths of hell dared not provoke them.
After years of war and chaos, the Empire-era Fadalan had been mythologized, transformed into an ideal nation in their minds—a beacon of hope, a spiritual anchor.
For these Aethel Winged Cavalry, the memory of past glory, the burning light of Fadalan’s legacy—these were the fuel that kept their hearts ablaze, their spirits unyielding, their willingness to sacrifice everything alive.
But then, the ground trembled more violently—unnaturally so. It wasn’t the hoofbeats.
Yet, lost in their fervor, the cavalry did not notice.
Leonie watched their frenzied faces, whispering, “Good. That’s right. Never forget the pride of being Fadalan. Even dragons? In the glory of Faldran Empire, King Aragon led us to slay countless beasts—White Dragons, Blue Dragons, countless others.”
“Hummm—”
A sudden, sharp buzzing sound cut through the air, shattering his thoughts. High above, a terrifying shadow descended from the sky across the distant grasslands.
“How can it be? Less than three days have passed—how could they arrive so soon?”
Leonie snapped his head up, his expression hardening. Hundreds of wyverns spread their wings in a wedge formation, streaking toward them at incredible speed.
What unsettled him most was the sight of metallic casings along the edges of their wings—designed to slice through the air. And upon their backs, he saw humanoid figures.
Their formation was too precise—too disciplined. Nothing like the mindless, chaotic beasts he remembered.
“What in the name of the gods is that?”
“Damn it! The Ashen Empire’s attack is already here?”
“Those northern scouts were just idling around? How did they let these things reach us so fast?”
The cavalry cursed, but did not panic. To them, wyverns were dangerous—but not a true threat.
Leonie ignored the murmurs, raising his sword and bellowing, “Alert! Wyverns incoming! Hold defensive formation! Take down these damned flying lizards!”
The warhorses neighed, and the cavalry moved with practiced precision, shifting their formation swiftly. Dust billowed from their hooves.
They had faced flying foes before—White Dragons, Griffins, Devils. They knew how to fight from the sky.
The front-line cavalry, bearing great shields, surged forward, shoulder to shoulder, holding their shields high to block the wyverns’ dive attacks. The second rank thrust their lances through the gaps in the shields, ready to pierce any enemy that breached the line.
Others drew their firearms and bows, aiming skyward, preparing to turn the intruders into sieves.
In the center, Leonie watched the dragon horde. But then he noticed—something was wrong.
They were still diving from a hundred meters above, not descending to the ground. Their shadows stretched long across the earth, dark and ominous—like a death omen.
Were they just scouting?
A cold chill crept down Leonie’s spine. A terrible premonition settled in his chest.
“Sssss—”
The sharp crack of sonic booms tore through the air. Leonie’s skin crawled, his hair standing on end. His fear was confirmed instantly.
The wyverns released their grip.
In the azure sky, a cascade of black dots fell—hundreds of bombs, plummeting like raindrops, descending upon the already-alert cavalry.
No! These weren’t the weapons! The wyverns never intended to fight hand-to-hand!
Leonie’s face twisted in horror. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Retreat—now!”
“Run! Run!”
But it was too late.
Though the cavalry reacted with lightning speed, their horses could not outrun the bombs.
Boom!
An explosion tore through the air, deafening. Flames erupted skyward, ripping open the earth into jagged fragments.
Then came a chain of thunderous detonations—flames bloomed in rapid succession, tearing through the tightly packed formation. The Winged Cavalry was obliterated—shrapnel, severed limbs, and flesh fragments flew in all directions.
Smoke choked the air. Dust swirled. The world blurred under the glare of fire and haze.
“Too hot!”
“My leg—my leg!”
“I can’t hear! I can’t hear!”
Panic erupted. The warhorses screamed in terror. The cavalry writhed in agony, their once-proud demeanor shattered.
Men lost limbs. Others were torn in half. Some burned alive, screaming as fire consumed them from within.
The first wave of bombs alone claimed nearly two hundred lives.
But the wyverns were already climbing, turning with practiced ease, preparing for another pass.
Seeing his men decimated, Leonie’s eyes burned with fury. His soot-streaked face twisted into a monstrous snarl.
“Damned monsters! You will pay with your lives!”
He spurred his horse forward, charging toward the dragon horde. His eyes were bloodshot. Without hesitation, he yanked a lance from the ground and heaved it behind his head, pouring every ounce of rage into the throw—like a weapon of divine wrath.
“Sssss—”
The lance tore through the air, soaring nearly a hundred meters, a comet streaking across the sky.
“Scream!”
A sharp cry echoed from above. One of the two-headed wyvern riders was pierced clean through, plummeting from the sky in a spiral of smoke and fire.
Leonie glared at the falling beast, teeth clenched. “Never. Ever. Cross a Fadalan.”
The battlefield was descending into chaos. Under the constant threat from above, the cavalry scattered, unable to regroup, fleeing in wild, disorganized circles.
Then—Leonie froze.
He felt it.
The ground was trembling—unnaturally, deeply. But they weren’t charging.
His blood ran cold.
The tremor wasn’t from their hooves.
It grew stronger. Pebbles on the ground began to vibrate, then boil. The sound became heavier, more oppressive.
Leonie spun around, eyes wide—his face drained of color.
“King Aragon… help us…”
From beyond the horizon, through the thick smoke, came a line of iron beasts—massive, relentless, rolling forward like living mountains. Rivers behind them trembled. The very earth seemed to buckle under their weight.
Even seasoned veterans of war could only stare in disbelief.
“Gods above…!”
“By Amanata! Can they fly?!”
“This is over a hundred kilometers from Cattapa! How did they get here so fast?!”
They thought they were witnessing a miracle of war—unaware that this was the result of a coordinated advance by tank clusters and “aircraft,” striking with terrifying speed and precision.
Leonie whispered, voice trembling, “When the Winged Cavalry charges, the earth trembles… rivers flood… the shriek of their wings can make dragons tremble.”
These words, once a source of pride—words that once filled him with glory—now echoed with horrifying irony.
Because now… they were true.
Not for them.
But for them.
In the past, he would have charged without hesitation, fueled by the might of the Holy Faldran Empire.
Now… he hesitated.
Without the empire’s support… could they truly defeat the Empire of Ashen? Could they hold Northern Aether?
The man who had once stood firm in his Fadalanist beliefs now felt lost, adrift.
His lips trembled. His grip on the horse sword shook. Sweat dripped from his palm.
“Can we… really win this war?”
—
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(End of Chapter)
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